Regarded from one side, an entire range;
from another, a single peak.
Far, near, high, low all its parts
different from the others.
If the true face of Mt Lu
cannot be known,
It is because the one looking at it,
is standing in its midst.
Fir, bamboo, and pure shadow merge;
I move unnoticed where my thoughts incline.
Chill springs up before the rain.
Silence ends; a monk suddenly returns.
Bug tracks bore into obscure holes;
Moss roots join broken ridgepoles.
My reflections turn to a hidden place, deep,
Then, it's time to find my way down
From the top of the peak,
Step by step.
In this quiet valley one hears nothing
But the gentle sighing of the pines,
In the recesses of the mountains
There is no crying of birds.
When one opens the door,
One sees the snow-covered mountains
Clearly delineated.
The singing of the golden brook
Permeates the forest.
I started thinking of impossible cliffs at dawn
and by evening was settled on a mountaintop,
scarcely a peak high enough to face this hut
looking out on mountains veined with streams,
forests stretching away beyond its open gate,
a tumble of talus boulders ending at the stairs.
The Master does her job
and then stops.
She understands that the universe
is forever out of control,
and that trying to dominate events
goes against the current of the Tao.
Because she believes in herself,
she doesn't try to convince others.
Because she is content with herself,
she doesn't need others' approval.
Because she accepts herself,
the whole world accepts her.
Tao Te Ching, chapter 30, Stephen Mitchell translation
"A desire not to butt into other people's business is at least eighty percent of all human 'wisdom'...and the other twenty percent isn't very important. " --Robert Heinlein as Jubal Hershaw, "Stranger in a Strange Land
Suddenly, sun. Over my shoulder
in the middle of gray November
what I hoped to do comes back,
asking.
Across the street the fiery trees
hold onto their leaves,
red and gold in the final months
of this unfinished year,
they offer blazing riddles.
In the frozen fields of my life
there are no shortcuts to spring,
but stories of great birds in migration
carrying small ones on their backs,
predators flying next to warblers
they would, in a different season, eat.
Stunned by the astonishing mix in this uneasy world
that plunges in a single day from despair
to hope and back again, I commend my life
to Ruskin’s most difficult duty of delight,
and to that most beautiful form of courage,
to be happy.
~
Mind now a twin to stark late autumn trees
while eyes delight in the flowering of spring.
I inhabit the constant and wait out the end,
content to dwell at ease in all change and loss,
in this regret there's no kindred spirit here
to climb this ladder of azure clouds with me.
Incense terraces and
kingfisher-green ridgelines
tower into sky.
Misty trees and ten thousand homes
fill the river's sunlit water.
The monks live nearby,
but they would
be such strangers by now,
I sit all stillness, listening
to a faint bell record those lost years.
...
26 Sep '19 16:06
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