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.
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.
posted by Taigu at 6:39 AM
3 Comments:
"Reed in the hands of Rumi
Bell of Nyojo
This one breath
Blows everywhere."
Exquisite. How can everything not be interrelated? Really nice, Pierre.
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
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.
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