Tigers and Strawberries

Horyuji Temple, Japan, Buddha Jataka

A man traveling across a field encountered a tiger. He fled, the tiger after him. Coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine and swung himself down over the edge. The tiger sniffed at him from above. Trembling, the man looked down to where, far below, another tiger was waiting to eat him. Only the vine sustained him. Two mice, one white and one black, little by little started to gnaw away at the vine. The man saw a luscious strawberry near him. Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other. How sweet it tasted!

 

This morning, the image above came to mind. East Asian Art history grad school was years and years ago, but this image returns often, and with it, the story that Dr. Glen Webb told. His version was somewhat  similar to the one above, but was related as one tale in the many past lives of the Buddha (Jataka). 

Dream?: In meditation, my heart knew for the first time, the meaning of this Jataka: the tiger is going to devour me whether from above or below. The beautiful and scary tiger, my death—will come sooner or later. 

The tiger and the strawberry (of life) are one. And they can be both sweet and/or sour. May I grasp at life ever so lightly and enjoy it on my way to the inevitable. 

This story with its apparent lesson, may not seem to be much of a realization... But it felt like one. 

How sweet it tasted!

***.  ***

Dream?: I'm in Venice, lost and wandering, exhausted in the illogical, cobbled streets in search of lodging. Every view is exquisite, there is amazing art, new friends, wonderful food. A sense of anxiety comes and goes. 

***   ***

Dream?: Cleaning and organizing a friend's room, I am filled with unexplainable sense of joy and enjoyment. Don't want to wake up. I awake and return to the dream several times. 

***   ***

tigers! strawberries! love!

The Jātakas (meaning "Birth Story", "related to a birth") are a voluminous body of literature native to India which mainly concern the previous births of Gautama Buddha in both human and animal form.

Vessantara Jataka, Sanchi

In these stories, the future Buddha may appear as a king, an outcast, a deva, an animal—but, in whatever form, he exhibits some virtue that the tale thereby inculcates. The Jātaka genre is based on the idea that the Buddha was able to recollect all his past lives and thus could use these memories to tell a story and illustrate his teachings.

(from Wikipedia)

break like a branch in the wind; make art like Knausgaard in his room: waves and particles

Koan is a riddle with no solution

used to provoke reflection on the inadequacy of logical reasoning, 

and to lead to enlightenment.

Years ago in a dance class at University of Washington - our teacher instructed us to "just walk across the room," in front of the class, which I did—and failed totally—according to her.

Until recently, I always wondered why. 

An impossible task for my (or any) conditioned mind, the assignment was a koan of movement. Over the years it became a recurring and unresolved memory. Now however, I recall it with a smile as I read the prose of Norwegian author Karl Ove Knausgaard, who "walks across the room" with his art —effortlessly and unselfconsciously. Unlike my mannered movements that day, Knausgaard's direct, unadorned writing lacks the mask of trying to make "good" art. 

He just makes art. 

And writes like a Zen master. 

There is a saying or a meme that goes "Dance like no one is watching." Well, Knausgaard writes like no one is watching. In fact, he has said, while writing the first two volumes of "My Struggle" he didn't believe anyone would read it. It must have liberated him to find and express his truth. Truth for me, has always been the domain of poetry, music, and visual art because it is oblique, non-verbal. The finger writing about the moon can never be the moon. But Knausgaard gets so close! His work flows with a natural, intuitive structure. As he focuses on the mundane in all its wonder and triviality, boring detail becomes somehow revelatory and universal: moon to Moon.

Believe Knausgaard's and all our—artistic/spiritual energies come from a place of quiet or MU as Zen might call it, free of internal and external judgements. Apparently it was an awareness I lacked when walking across the room that day and in living life. Since then, the freedom of slowly dropping baggage (judging and the inherent violence of grasping) in art/life has been balanced with comical—blips of fretting and trying. Let go and let go and let go...

For the heart, life is simple: it beats as long as it can. Then it stops. Sooner or later this pounding action will cease of it's own accord, and the blood will begin to run towards the body's lowest point where it will collect in a small pool, visible from the outside as a dark soft patch on every whitening skin, as the temperature sinks, the limbs stiffen and the intestines drain.     

—Knaaugaard, first sentences of  My Struggle Book One

 And death, which I have always regarded as the greatest dimension in life, dark, compelling, was no more than a pipe that springs a leak, a branch that cracks in the wind, a jacket that slips off a clothes hanger and falls to the floor.

           —Knausgaard, final sentence of My Struggle Book One

You don't know what air is, yet you breathe. You don't know what sleep is, yet you sleep. You don't know what night is, yet you lie in it. You don't know what a heart is, yet your heart beats steadily, day and night, day and night, day and night.

           —Knausgaard, first sentence of Spring

Note to Bronwyn: when you were near death, you had a realization that you would be 

dancing with the waves and particles. 

May we all be so lucky and wise to transition with such grace and wisdom. 

May we all dance in boundless waves and particles of love, walk across the room, write, make art, bake bread, cry, laugh, dance, chop wood, carry water....and break like a branch in the wind.

And I miss you.

 

perfect imperfection—dunking the duck & the funk

Today, as I sat (supposedly) in meditation, in a chair not a cushion —with one knee folded traditionally and one "wounded knee" outstretched —the imperfections, disappointments in (my) and all life popped up like ducks in a shooting gallery. 

Try your luck! Dunk the duck!

Quacks:  will recent hiking fall prevent me from ever sitting in full lotus again? Is my yoga practice moving toward more first series adaptations? Will I ever recover the "difficult" ones from second series again? What about running? What about aging? What about love? And everything else? 

more: unconscious and conscious shoulds quack what I ought to/"must" do or accomplish daily ingrained quack efforts to please prove (my) "goodness" quack MY goodness!! quack MY yoga practice quack how to fill or fix quack the needs and woes of others quack and so on quack and on and on...

definitely 

infinitely

deafening

try your luck they said 

my trying luck 

was running out 

then it stopped

 

and that old/new magic

happened

again and always 

all things are beautifully fine

no need to try

so hard 

or at all

ALL IS WELL 

so well someone 

allowed everything 

to be as it is

exhale

My goodness! What just happened?

Goodness! 

Boundless love to the infinite, mundane, everything between, and to those helpful ducks!

post script:  It's been over 2 years! Thought post in 2020 was going to turn out to be the last. However, this putting word energy into the ether is grounding - (for me). 

And the above post may be a partial summary of COVID experience.

LIFE IS GOOD 

(even when it's not!)

boundlessness

from November 2020. Hail to the Mask!

This entry was started in November 2020 without comment other than quote below. 

The only comment I would add today - is that I enjoyed (and still enjoy) 

the anonymity of wearing a mask.

 I shall begin another post 

today.