I am thinking about a dear friend of mine who has held a serious mediation practice for over 40 years. One day she decided that she needed to escape the idea of a formal practice and instead found a place to sit in the forest. She brought a chair and her coffee. Every season— and ours are distinct and dramatically different in temperatures — has sat with her — has found her sitting drinking her coffee. Fox, deer, and all kinds of birds have come unsuspecting within a few feet of her. She loves it there.
I love seeing her in my mind there. Who among us living in nature actually sit in it —every morning with out missing a day in silence for hours. How does the forest live in us, if not to speak through the sounds of its creatures, its clouds, rocks, winds and trees — and silences between them.
As I write this the family of crows are coming to visit my compost, the window catches their shadows and the trees beyond — the naked trees of November become a different obstacle course for their flight..an easier one I would imagine. Or maybe not. Maybe they fly faster though the leafless branches but the branches themselves, because they are no longer clothed in leaves — become invisible in certain light therefore dangerous — something that cautions the speed of their flight.
I return to thinking of my friend and the image of Su Tung P’O comes to mind in his boat. Su Tung P’o was a Chinese poet from the 11th century AD. He worked for the
government twice during his life and both times was exiled — once to prison, the other to a remote island. He was a river traveling expert, drank wine with his friends, and knew the Yangtze like the back of his hand. All the while writing poems.
So I go to his writings and hold the book quietly in my hands before opening it. I often do this – I like divining for a poem — I like to think the book is listening to me….and it — like water to a Well Witcher — is speaking to my hands — the pages where the diviners rod quivers — says yes — ‘this is water for your thoughts’ — from deep below the earth – hundreds of feet deep — your prayers for the right words come streaming.
And the page falls open where a photograph of my husband who died 22 months ago — my most favorite photograph of him — one that I don’t remember ever having a copy of; (did it replicate itself for me for this very moment?). The other one in a frame by my bed, somehow with a stain on his nose that I have morned many times and wondered if I can get the stain out. But the copy sits quietly on the page — his eyes on the week of our marriage vows 30 years ago — not one stain on the photograph. Honestly the sexiest man in the world to me then and now — wild and soft eyes watching me from the folds of the book. He too was friend of Su Tung P’O. Underneath the photograph the very poem that speaks.
On a boat awake at night (1096)
Faint wind rustles reeds and cattails;
I open the hatch, expecting rain — moon floods the lake.
Boatman and water birds dream the same dream;
A big fish splashes off like a frightened fox.
It’s late — men and creatures forget each other
While my shadow and I amuse ourselves alone.
Dark tides creep over the flats — I pity the cold mud- worms;
The setting moon, caught in a willow, lights a dangling spider.
Life passes swiftly, hedged by sorrow;
How long before you’ve lost it — a scene like this?
Cocks crow, bells ring, a hundred birds scatter;
Drums pound from the bow, shout answers shout
