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Zen Sense

 


This begins a series of posts to share the zen sense in our lives.

Share yours and  favorites. 


1.
From ancient Chinese poet Stonehouse (1300)
trans. Red Pine
These lines from ancient poet Stonehouse echo my own thoughts:

 the leaves in the stream move without a plan

the clouds in the valley drift without design

I close my eyes and everything is fineI 

 open them again because I love mountains

- Stonehouse.#52
(My love is for clouds.)


2.
Apple zen







Poem by poet Stonehouse trans. Red Pine

Two Zen Hermit Poets: Stonehouse & Ryokan
 500 years apart




Peace is This Moment Without Judgment  --Dorothy Hunt
​
Do you think peace requires an end to war?
Or tigers eating only vegetables?
Does peace require an absence from
your boss, your spouse, yourself?...
Do you think peace will come some other place than here?
Some other time than Now?
In some other heart than yours? 
​
Peace is this moment without judgment.
That is all. This moment in the Heart-space
where everything that is is welcome.

Peace is this moment without thinking
that it should be some other way,
that you should feel some other thing,
that your life should unfold according to your plans. 
​
Peace is this moment without judgment,
this moment in the heart-space where
everything that is is welcome.




When you learn to enjoy waiting,you never have to wait to enjoy.

Who says a zen poem can't be sensual?
From "Stilling the Passion" by Tao Yaunming 

(trans. Red Pine from Choosing to Be Simple. Copper Canyon Press)                       

 [Finding her playing the zither outside, Tao writes...]         

I was the collar of her shirt

inhaling the scent of her silken hair 

sadly when she disrobed at bedtime

I lamented the length of fall nights.

I was the belt of her skirt

wrapped around her lithesome body

but I sighed at the changing seasons 

 lamented the length of fall nights.

I was the belt of her skirt

wrapped around her lithesome body

but I sighed at the changing seasons 
when she changed her clothes too.
I was the oil in her hair 
as she leaned and brushed her dark locks
but I winced when she washed it
then rinsed and dried it in the sun.
I was the mascara on her brows 
following the idle movements of her eyes
but sadly makeup needs refreshing
and it’s smeared when it’s reapplied.
I was the woven grass in her mat 
pressing against her body in fall
then replaced by something much thicker
and not seeing her until the next year. 
I was the silk in her slippers 
touching her pale feet as she walked ...


Popular posts from our other blog

Mary Oliver's "River Clarion" poem


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Mary Oliver challenges us to sense deeply into the mystery. Mary Oliver’s   “At the River Clarion” I don’t know who God is exactly. But I’ll tell you this. I was sitting in the river named Clarion, on a water splashed stone and all afternoon I listened to the voices of the river talking. Whenever the water struck a stone it had something to say, and the water itself, and even the mosses trailing under the water. And slowly, very slowly, it became clear to me what they were saying. Said the river I am part of holiness. And I too, said the stone. And I too, whispered the moss beneath the water. I’d been to the river before, a few times. Don’t blame the river that nothing happened quickly. You don’t hear such voices in an hour or a day. You don’t hear them at all if self-hood  has stuffed your ears. And it’s difficult to hear anything anyway, through all the traffic, the ambition. 2. If God exists he isn’t just butter and good luck. He’s also th




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