Resurrection
For most of this week I’ve been
working on a poem intended for submission to the Austin Zen Center's ongoing Just This blog journal – the most recent topic being ‘crossing the stream’. Of
course, crossing the stream is an oft-used Buddhist metaphor, one encompassing
some kind of difficult movement from a place of unaware existence to one of
awakening. Within this metaphor the Buddha’s teachings are frequently thought
of as a raft that may be used for safe passage from one side to the other. At
first I thought this poem wouldn’t nest very well with my previous post. Upon
reflection, however, I see that they make a perfect pair. I’ll talk about why
further on, but for now let me just introduce my submission:
Crossing the Stream
I set out to cross the stream once
long ago.
Or maybe it was yesterday.
Funny, time can be like that.
I remember gazing at the other side
–
The grassy lowlands beckoning,
The cool green forest foothills
Rising gently into snowcapped glory…
I remember wondering of the sights
up there –
Above the clouds,
Beyond all worldly cares.
Oh, how I longed to tread that path
unseen!
Sloping toward sunlit transcendence...
But first I had to cross that
stream.
I found a raft of four logs lashed
together,
Hidden in the reeds there, half
submerged.
And though the vessel’s simple
nature had me wondering,
That I could see the other side left
me assured.
And so I poled my humble raft into deep
waters
With thoughts already soaring high
above.
And it was clear that I’d gone way too
far to turn back
By the time I felt the current’s
tug.
Down, down, down the river took me
Till I’d have gladly kissed the
ground on either side,
Past sleeping beachside towns and
sweeping bayous,
And out into the ocean deep and
wide.
Then just as my raft’s lashings were
unraveling
And I was wondering what worse fate
I could have met
The wind and waves began to rise up
And the sun began to set.
There was a time I thought myself much
stronger
With ample will and strength in
store,
But down, down, down those waters
pulled me
Till I could fight their power no
more.
And as I sank into the blackness
I could think of nothing but that
shore
From which I’d gazed up at those snowfields
Feeling in need of something more.
And so I died to all I’d once been.
I died as well to all my dreams.
And as I settled on the ocean floor,
I died to every separate thing.
For one last breath I viewed
existence,
For one last cold and watery sigh –
Upon the bottom of the ocean
Immersed within a star-filled sky…
There was a time when crossing to
the other side
Still seemed as real as each new
breath,
Way back when sun and moon, and
stream and tide
Were as distinct as life and death,
Before that death to all illusion
There upon the ocean floor,
Before realizing that just this
moment
Is the long sought after other
shore.
It seems obvious to me now that the
reason this poem nests with my previous post relates to the way that we usually
think about ‘the other side’, i.e., in a dualistic way, in an ‘I lack something
now but with practice I will attain something’ sort of way. Please don’t take
this as a criticism of the crossing the stream metaphor. We just have to receive
it as it is – as a conceptualization of a process (practice) that allows us to transcend conceptualization.
The poem above reflects my own
experience of the practice of Buddhism, one that I don’t think is
qualitatively different than any other spiritual practitioner’s experience – regardless the tradition. We begin
practicing with the idea that there is something to be attained: wisdom, acceptance,
awakening, enlightenment, peace, nirvana, etc. (to use the usual Buddhist terms related to "destination"). In other words, we think we know where we’re going. We think we can see the other shore. However,
I suspect that every sincere spiritual practitioner will be able to report that
their practice has taken them to “a place” that was wholly unimagined and unanticipated
at the outset. Thus, in the first stanza, the practitioner gazes up at the imagined
beauty of the place that he imagines he will be someday. This brings up an
interesting reality: even our most pure motivation to begin a spiritual
practice rises up out of the soil of delusion.
Of course, I’m borrowing the metaphor
of the raft being the Buddha’s teaching. There are even four logs – one for
each Noble Truth…, get it (wink). Seriously, we don’t invent our own spiritual
practice – we don’t build our own raft – we borrow, find, and appropriate the
practices of all the men and women who have ever practiced before us. As such,
gratitude is a very good thing for us to nurture.
By the end of the second stanza the
practitioner can already see that the journey is going to be quite different
than expected. By giving ourselves over wholeheartedly to practice we are
giving ourselves over to a current that we cannot predict or control. We are
giving ourselves over to something larger than ourselves. Ironically, as the small self meets the Large Self the practitioner might come
to wish that he or she could just forget the whole affair! This is not the journey
that was bargained for! Ah, but it's too late now. The small self has already been irrevocably
changed.
At this point it might feel as
though the teachings have failed us. They can’t save us! In fact, they fall
apart just as we need them the most! They take us out into existential
desolation and abandon us when we least expect it. At this point we need to
realize that we’re beginning to experience the death of the ego – the small self. This is the realm of
existential crisis – the coming face to face with true emptiness. Now, from my
last post you might think that the experience of emptiness would be one of
those Easter egg-like treasures that land in our laps as a result of our
practice. Well, it depends on your point of view, I suppose; but I think our
first glimpses of emptiness have the potential to bring on the greatest storms
of our existence. Oh, if it could just be the way it was! If we could just step
back in time and remain safe and sound in our unawareness!
The practitioner experiences the
death of the small self. He or she sinks to the bottom of the ocean – the ground
of being, if you will. At that point, death is experienced as a great birth.
What is being born, though, is the realization of the oneness of all things,
the realization that what had been viewed as the self is but a part of a grand
and glorious tapestry (as it is often described), a tapestry that is ultimately
seamless.
And where does that leave us? Just
this breath – just this manifestation of the grand and glorious mystery of existence
– we die and are reborn. And that is why I want to hit the publish button on
this post over the course of this Easter weekend. Is this not the Buddhist
version of the crucifixion and resurrection? This weekend, Christians all over
the world will be remembering the crucifixion and resurrection of their Savior,
their Christ. I suspect that more than a few of them, however, will recognize
this process of death and rebirth taking place in “their very own” lives.
Happy Easter, everyone!
Image Credits
Cropped and filtered version of a U.S. Navy
photo by
Mass Communication Specialist 1st Class
Shane Tuck:
Copyright 2012 by Maku Mark Frank
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