The other night, I was lying in bed before sleeping. The house was still, my wife asleep beside me, my dog snoring softly in her bed across the room. Amid this deep quiet, I began to try to feel all of the sensations that were rising to my mind from each of the senses. And it was chaos — it’s said that the human mind receives something like 11 billion bits of information per second.
Yet we cling to the notion that what we filter down from this (something like 50 bits of information per second) and construct as “reality”, is indeed somehow real, correct, reliable. Even at the level of the conscious mind (let alone what must be brewing beneath consciousness in the billions of bits of incoming information that are automatically filtered out) our thoughts are perpetual and overwhelming — 50 bits of information per second reaching the conscious mind; that conscious mind triggering 50 or more thoughts per second in response; and each of those thoughts in turn reverberating in more thoughts…
Exhausting
Then look back over a life of more than sixty years, and consider how this storm of thoughts has swirled and multiplied, perpetually fighting within itself to be “heard” — the never ending struggle of the habitual mind.
And to what end? Nothing much. Nothing very much at all…
A Joyful Circle – the Final Lineage Poem. And so we come full circle in this series of Lineage Poems. Like medieval astronomers who took the earth to be the center of all things, so does our ego create the illusion that this individual life is the central point of reference in the infinite sweep of time and generations. Past, future, and at the fulcrum, this single life. And I suppose it couldn’t be any other way, however flawed this cosmology of self.
As I write this, I’ve been down for two weeks struggling to recover from pneumonia. It’s honestly been a frightening time. In an earlier post, I mentioned that my only brother died a short time ago, of lung disease as it happens (https://oldbonesnewsnow.com/2022/03/19/sunrise-and-sunset-the-wheel-of-life/.) So losing the ability to breathe triggered both fearful memories and simple animal fear. Just today, it finally feels like my breathing is softening, and the air is beginning to flow.
And also just today, our next grandchild has begun the long, messy, painful, risky and extraordinary process of pushing into this world.
A joyful circle. I wouldn’t have missed a minute of it
And I pray that I will have many, many, more to experience
Little boy, I weep with joy at the prospect of meeting you!
Two closing poems to bring this home, the first from several years ago
old man
in the wild untended fields of my heart
sits an old man. the day is late but warm
and the low-angled light spreads like butter
over the tall grass. his beard is white
gone beyond gray, and his hair, long and thin
shifts with the wind. he wears a multicolored vest
stitched with threads of silver
and his boney white feet
sit bare upon the land
his hands, held still on his long legs, bear the scars
of a lifetime of choices -- he sits beyond judgment
beyond expectation -- he’s been waiting
for a very, very long time
he breathes as I breathe
his blue eyes are clouded now
from having witnessed a life
while in the distance the witches’ voices
rise in round to the beating sound of his heart
he has always known this song
has always known all
of the songs
we are each of us sorcerers
all singers of one single
deathless song
with Sara atop Kilimanjaro, October 2020
And a final word written very recently
only that
they say it’s our habits, habitual tendencies
that are reincarnated, like a wind
blowing through a window left open
in a newly constructed house. and this
makes sense to me – I haven’t suffered enough trauma
in this one life to be as confused as I seem to be
so I must have swept these old wounds
into the womb with me, an intangible blanket
of familiar mistakes to keep this newborn warm
now, as I stare down this narrowing hall
I pray to whatever powers there be
to allow me to direct more precisely
the next go-round
when the last breezes blow
and this basket of bones finally fails
may only one thing pass into the next life--
may I carry forward only
the tender warmth of my fingers
as they touch the cheeks
of those I have loved most in this world
that
and only that
May these words be of benefit to all sentient beings
“All these years of practice, same shitty old mind”
It’s said that Samsara, the endless cycle of birth, old age, sickness and death, is subtle, grinding and pervasive. And so it is. Recently, I had the “opportunity” to look directly at my own root klesha, that of anger (kleshas are the habitual behaviors that keep us stuck in Samsara, lifetime after lifetime –https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kleshas_(Buddhism).) On a recent trip with my wife and dear friends, I got triggered and without thinking acted out of irritation and anger. In addition to directly harming someone most dear to me, I could instantly feel whatever merit I may have accumulated in years of meditation practice completely drain away.
In the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, “merit” is said to be accumulated through practice and is essential as fuel for further practice on the path to awakening (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merit_(Buddhism)
It’s also said that a single act of anger can destroy lifetimes of merit. And so it felt.
Actions cannot be undone, only addressed by subsequent action. We practice, we stumble, we get up again and resolve to do better. Perhaps, with grace, to soften the karma of this earlier action. And so it goes,
around and around and around…
Two poems then, the haiku above and the poem below, speaking to the experience of action and remorse – may they be of benefit
Jeff
———————————
Karma
anger, rising like a flame,
brief yellow, white hot
and she’s hurt
this girl you’ve always loved
completely. thoughtless,
you’ve burned her to white bone.
actions refuse to be undone.
whatever merit you’ve gathered
turns to dust, blows away
on the icy winds of hell.
dedicate whatever days remain
to her.
breathe only love and loving kindness.
you will fail
but at least you will try.
prostate and purify
collect mantra like dreams
offer incense, the tendrils of smoke
rising into heaven. your hair
