Stitching nothing to nothing....
If you had The Answer, what in heaven's name would you do with it?
Who knows what impetus compels it, this nudging desire to
see my name included on some spiritual list, some rivulet of contenders, some ladder of progression? In Buddhism, there is a lot made
of the links and lineage that lead, often with a lot of fictional bridges
thrown in, from one rung to the next, one teacher to the next, one student to
the next, one monastery to the next. In the Buddhist biz, the phrase is bandied
about: "leading all the way back to Shakyamuni Buddha."
But as I look back at those who prodded and helped me along the
way, not one of them that I count as honored teachers ever laid claim to a rung
or created a rung for some successor to stand on ... sort of.
My Zen teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa Roshi, never, to the best of
my knowledge, acknowledged a successor, never dubbed him or her as
"roshi" or "old teacher." Perhaps Kyudo did and I just
don't know, but I find myself blessed in the light of the thought that he never
anointed anyone ... and that that is the proper way of a proper Buddhist
spiritual adventure.
I am not mentioning this with any other intent than to chew
my cud and offer one possibility. It is not as a means of suggesting what might
be "right" or "correct" or some other silly
"improvement." It's just a possibility among many and may be entirely
off-base.
Other helpers I hold close when remembering intimate matters
include Dokai Fukui, a Zen monk who, as one observer put it, "would have
been made a roshi except that his health was so poor." Slave labor in a
Chinese concentration camp during World War II will do that to a man, I
imagine. I corresponded with him for years and he was kind.
Or Jack Gallahue, a former Jesuit priest I knew in his
subsequent capacity as a shrink. No doubt he sent many into the world who might
bless his name and assistance, but I doubt if he would have cozied up to any
sort of ladder-like progression.
Or John Blofeld, a man I never met, but who corresponded
with me from his home base in Thailand
for a number of years. As an author of books about Buddhism, I could hardly
imagine he would correspond with a nobody like me ... sometimes playful,
sometimes stern, sometimes just thoughtful on the letter's hand-written page.
Did he have a long ladder of ducklings trailing out behind him? Maybe so, but I
can't imagine he made much of it in the way that Buddhism can anoint its
schools and ladders.
Yes, yes -- I can hear the murmuring Greek chorus of those
who might say "everyone is the teacher" or "everything is the
teacher." Go ahead and murmur. I am looking for a home in a way that no
good Zen Buddhist might approve. Where is my ladder? What is the sense and
direction of it all? What rung will I be satisfied in grasping ... a 'grasping'
Zen Buddhist-- how about them apples?
Or shall we intone the word "meaning?" Poor old
threadbare "meaning." No, I don't want anything that comic-booky. Or "answers." Lord love a duck, hasn't that bullshit been around the block often enough to be set aside ... gently, of course, but set aside for sure?
As my lineage that fits no lineage archetype (and hence, I suppose, becomes some sort of archetype) I am pleased
in my mentors for what they withheld. No institution. No stamp of approval. No
narrow shelf from which to fall.
Stand up, boy! Stand up and turn as you please. Live, die,
sneeze, laugh, cry and wash the fucking dishes. It's your mess: You clean it
up. You live with it or die with it -- it's your business, no matter how lovely
the temple grounds.
Tough training, that.
But, in the end, what else could possibly be true?
The object of spiritual adventure, where once I adventured,
is to see it dwindle and wisp-away. There is no other shore. Buddhism or Zen
deserves to be let alone. Let it work out its own destiny. It needs no help and
trying to help will only hinder. Is this true for anyone else? I have no clue.
It's just a possibility...
Stitching nothing to nothing is lighter than cotton candy --
tasty and devoid and ... oh relax and let the daisies bloom.
For some reason, the tattered, third-grade doggerel crosses my mind:
PS. I have to take a bit back. In a wordless couple of seconds between us, I have to count Trungpa Rinpoche among my best teachers. But he was a Tibetan and, in the words of the poet, I don't/didn't-do Tibetan and don't know whether he had 'descendants' or not.Hubba, hubba!Ding, ding!Baby, you've gotEverything!
I am reminded of a Medieval (Kabbalah?) tale where a young fool glibly explained the nature and meaning of life by making things up. Being a fool, he soon believe me his fantasies were truth.
ReplyDeleteMany years and trials later he had become very bitter and unhappy. He did not know why.
One day he was stuck with a crazy person who was hallucinating. The lunatic raved and raved about things only he could see. Eventually the townspeople rescue the old man. The old man realized that his fantasies about the nature and meaning of life turned out to be nothing but .... fantasies.
(Note: I think the point was supposed to be to check in with one’s elders and not to develop logical, rational scientific reasoning. But I still liked the story.)