Who Knows Why?

A stranger came to my door today and didn’t make a sound.

At least, I didn’t hear him. When I finally took notice, it was too late.

His small frame had already begun to stiffen.

A fly buzzed near as if it knew. There wasn’t a mark on him,

not a feather appeared broken or damaged.

Yesterday he may have been one of those lovely creatures

soaring overhead with purpose, braving wind, heat and rain

and all manner of danger on the ground.

Today, for whatever reason, he had taken his last flight,

which ended on my doorstep. A small thing, some might say.

Who will even know he is gone? But I know, and I honor his passing,

small, beautiful, sentient being who chose my doorstep for who knows why?

On the River

In the early morning three small boats lay anchored in the shadow of the New Hope-Lambertville Bridge. Shad are migrating upriver from their saltwater habitat to spawn, and in a few weeks Lambertville will hold its annual Shad Festival.

In the distance the plaintiff voice of a coxswain can be heard calling out instructions to rowers in their scull. As they reach my vantage point, I clearly see their paddles moving in and out of the water in unison. They are the essence of teamwork; there are no stars on a crew team.

For its part, the river doesn’t think about where it’s going – it just flows. Its movement and purpose are organic. It doesn’t struggle against itself, as we humans are prone to doing. Maybe that is one of the things that saps our energy and our vision. Instead, we ought to become partners with the river and with life, feeling the energy and grace, no longer struggling against ourselves.

I remember being on this river years ago, some miles north of here in the mountains, with my son Chris. It was during the tumultuous teenage years when we always seemed to be at odds. I thought canoeing together would give us a chance to share time and the river with each other, feel the river’s quiet strength and, while it didn’t think about it at the time, stop struggling against ourselves.

There is a point where the Delaware flows through the Water Gap. The mountains rise sharply from the banks on both sides of the river. It is a place of primordial majesty and peace, my son and I and the kestrels soaring overhead the only interlopers.

As we entered the Gap, Chris took his paddle out of the water, turned and said, “Stop paddling Dad.” I lifted my paddle from the water and for several minutes we let the river carry us where it may.

That day, nature in her infinite grace held my son and I in the palm of her hand. For several minutes, all of the turmoil and contention that existed between us dissipated in the mountain air. Chris and I had given ourselves over to the river. We were one with it, and the peace that enfolded us was a blessing put in motion by a simple action – removing our paddles from the water.

Years later I realized that all of the contention and turmoil notwithstanding, my son had displayed wisdom and a sense of the Universe. He knew intuitively that there was a moment when we could give ourselves over to the river, become one with it, and experience the Divine. I’m glad I listened when he said, “Stop paddling Dad.”

 

Many Paths, One Destination

We met in a darkened room in the early morning long before the first streaks of light appeared in the eastern sky. It was the time of day reserved for new visitors to the Mountains and Rivers Monastery in Mount Tremper, N.Y. for a private interview with the roshi. We sat in silence for several minutes. Finally he spoke in a voice that was barely audible. “Why are you here?”

His question was more direct than I expected. After a moment I responded, but my words seemed almost superficial as I heard myself speak them. “I’m seeking the path to enlightenment.” The roshi answered, “There are many paths to enlightenment. Thomas Merton followed one path. Walt Whitman followed another through his poetry. For me, Zen Buddhism is a good way. But there are many paths.”

The roshi didn’t announce when our interview had come to an end. I sensed it, and   thanking him I bowed and left the room. That morning during meditation, as dawn was breaking, the faint sound of birds chirping gently intruded on the silence in the zendo. For a moment I reveled in the sound, then, let it go.

But before I could resume my meditation, I heard a woman’s voice sobbing softly. I couldn’t tell whether her sobs were of joy or sadness. My first impulse was to go to her. But I realized how presumptuous that would be; she may have been totally and completely in the moment, fully present. Who was I to presume otherwise? With that, I fell back into a deep meditation.

I left Mount Tremper with more questions than answers. That was how my first experience of the Zen Buddhist monastery began. I returned several times, taking away something different each visit. Most important, I learned that self-discovery is a never-ending process that begins with that first uncertain step on the journey inward.

My visits to Mountains and Rivers monastery now seem to have been in another lifetime. Then, six or seven years ago, I found my way to the Pine Wind Zen Center in Shamong, N.J. and experienced a wonderful sense of coming home after being away for a very long time. It was very different from Mountains and Rivers in some ways, yet much the same in others. The abbot, Seijaku Roshi, boils Zen Buddhism down to its essentials so that it is comprehensible to the Western mindset and applicable to everyday life situations.

But, peel away the outward trappings and the environment at Pine Wind – one of peaceful introspection, tolerance and compassion for all sentient beings – was the same I’d experienced at Mountains and Rivers.  It is a gift to be among others, however briefly, whose focus is on being fully present and aware of the Buddha nature in all of us.  But being fully present is not as simple as it sounds.

Once, on a train ride from New York City to Philadelphia, I struck up a conversation with the man sitting next to me. He’d recently returned from a trip to the Himalayas and had a portfolio of photographs that he’d taken on his trek. I asked to see them, and he showed me images he’d taken of the people and the land. Technically they were very good. But something was missing that I couldn’t put my finger on.

I remarked that his time in the Himalayas must have been an incredibly spiritual experience. He looked wistful as he said, “I thought it would be.” There was an awkward silence as he put his photographs away. I tried to think of something to say to fill the space, but the only Zen one finds at the mountaintop is the Zen one brings with them. “Perhaps you’ll make another trip,” I suggested. He didn’t answer.