Sunday, February 12, 2006

Self

Selflessness. All is impermanent, all is without a self. Mountains being mountains, rivers being rivers.

What does it mean? Does it mean there is a big void, empty core veiled by this ( emotions-thinking-body)? that is what I used to think. Mountains are not mountains anymore, rivers not being rivers.

There is nothing you cannot call " self". This whole thing when doing itself displays the universal self in every aspect of yourself: thoughts, emotion and body and beyond. Mountains are mountains again, rivers are rivers again. You cannot put your paws on it, grasp it, it will go through your fingers. The answer to the question "what is it?" cannot be verbal, and is not an answer. It is the formless form of your body-mind sitting when you wake up. it is a question asked with every fibre of this bodymind of yours. It is given through space and as such it is traceless, nameless. Master Tendo Nyojo's poem of the wind bell manifests it all. It is the very essence of the Maka Hannya Haramita. Moved by space and space only, and the whole thing in the four directions will resonate.

On a wooden kotsu ( a stick for teachers) I asked a Japanese friend to write the following poem:

"The blue mountains are of themselves blue mountains,

The white clouds are of themselves the white clouds"

In this allowing ("of themselves") IT happens. Allowing the form of blue mountains and the play of clouds is IT. And this of course, I very seldom allow.Self? Others? Let's not even bother.

Wish, allow, have the clear intention of letting it ring and ring you.

Reed in the hands of Rumi

Bell of Nyojo

This one breath

Blows everywhere.

5 Comments:

Blogger Michael said...

"Reed in the hands of Rumi

Bell of Nyojo

This one breath

Blows everywhere."

Exquisite. How can everything not be interrelated? Really nice, Pierre.

9:00 AM  
Blogger Pierre Turlur said...

Thank you. Michael. The very beauty is in your eyes.

Here are a few words written today in the style of Jelaluddin Rumi:

"Today
In the blooming garden of Konya
A dirty child runs after a big yellow ball
Called
Sun

At midnight
The crescent moon
Is
My beloved eyebrow

A blind and old man
Counts his camels
And dreams of gold
That he will never see

What the reed says is this:

Lovers are empty handed
Lost, lunatic-like
Open jars overflowing
Merging their souls beyond measure

The rose and the mirror
The mask and the soul
Dropped in the dust
Do come back
In everything, as everything
Today

Wake up! Wake up!

The rose is the true name of my beloved
The mirror his true face
Rose in rose
Sun in Moon
Casts no shadow
Over the sky-like sea

Lovers don’t part, lovers don’t meet
They only dance"

Buddha bless

Pierre

10:42 AM  
Blogger Michael Tait said...

Trusting life and death to this, irons that fetter mountains fall away.

Employing the self as it is found to realize all things. All Buddhas, all Gods and all dharmas open the gate for mountains walking.

Forge the boiling heart, unruly flesh, spinning mind, dreams of the past, visions of the future and all the gorgeous palaces of imagination into the dharma eye seal.

Turning the seal, transcending emptiness, verifying what is before, within and without as crests and troughs of the boundless ocean. Limpid pool, cloudless sky, dynamic repose manifests the original fusion of all separateness.

Near and far appear at once, totality unfolds without grasping, consciousness liberated roams in pleasure at its facility.

The great journey settles at the point it set out, wide-eyed, at home in the immanent universe.

7:53 AM  
Blogger Pierre Turlur said...

Floating weed,

Shoho-jisso, All Dharmas are real form. Thank you for reminding us that nothing is excluded in this. Only us, men of little faith and shallow practice, resist the endless simplicity of accepting and using the self.

12:52 PM  
Blogger Michael Tait said...

Using and resisting the simplicity of accepting the endless self. Our ordinary human lives manifest the true dharma.

Your poem after Rumi reminded me of one of Blake's Songs of Experience:

'He who binds to himself a joy,
Does the winged life destroy.
He who kisses the joy as it flies
lives in eternity's sunrise.'

I love to read your words that speak of devotion in its truest sense Pierre. This pure faith is very beautiful to me.

1:54 PM  

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