Month: May 2003

Why is it that when I read the original commentators like Bodhidharma or Hui-neng or Dogen or even the poets I understand Buddhism, but when I read modern Western commentators (Steven Batchelor comes to mind), I don’t. The question is rhetorical, of course. There is more Nietzsche and Sartre in the Westerners than Buddha. They seem to write in a late forties-early fifties fog, an imperialist nausea. They are not interested in the perennial, or in whatever smacks of spirituality, being in permanent revolt against culture.

Detachment as a spiritual or philosophical state is dependent upon one’s station, what could be called an “existential context.” The ancient Chinese recluse, typically the educated official renouncing the court, was every bit attached to wife and children, with whom he entered reclusion on some distant and obscure village farm. What about the warning of the desert father about getting too attached to one’s hermit hut? Or is detachment limited only to mystics, more, to sadhus?

Emily Dickinson, the reclusive American poet, wrote that “no verse in the Bible has frightened me so much from a child as ‘from them that hath not shall be taken even that he hath.'” Is there recourse, then, even for one who is completely “detached”?

The bears returned from “the north” yesterday. They spent a while, the three cubs climbing a pine tree to an enormous height (50, 60 feet?), while mother fed blissfully. They headed south again, perhaps past their old place. We are happy to see them.

I’ve been reading a lot of Thomas Merton lately, and came across his poem “Elegy for the Monastery Barn.” I guess I was attracted to the fire event, so recent in our own experience. It’s an early poem for Merton, reflecting a certain sang-froid, seeing the barn as a vain woman adorning herself for 50 years only to perish. “Who knew her solitude?/who heard the peace downstairs/while flames ran whispering among the rafters?” And the last line is strange: ” … the brilliant walls are holy/In their first-last hour’s joy.” Perhaps the liberation of death and the consciousness of that moment is a first yet last hour’s joy. I am immediately reminded not of burning barns but of Hindu cremation. But the poem is a human projection, after all, on a poor, inanimate object, contrived but useful, and therefore deserving of pity. Just as, perhaps, we are poor, animate objects, contrived by God but useful to him, and therefore deserving pity…

I looked up the little Zen poem about the burned barn and the moon. It is by Masahide: “Barn’s burned / now I can see the moon.” Well, forest’s burned, now I can see … what? The vanity of ambition and the impermanence of material things. Wouldn’t make much as a poem, but one must reach for the ultimate sense of events. How many years for a forest to come about, how short a moment for nature to take it back, despite our pleas that she has created something beautiful and that she should leave it. Kai, the destroyer …

About two weeks ago, a family of black bears appeared, perhaps winter residents of the woodland behind us. Mother and three cubs. I wrote something about them on May 11. They would come daily for food, water, and frolic, even at midday on the day of the fire. So you can imagine our distress when the fire broke out very near their presumed den, and spread quickly in that back woodlot. Knowing that cubs climb trees in danger, and that between fire and firefighters the bears would be in a panic, and perhaps trapped there … A firefighter claimed to have seen the bears up a tree. We didn’t know what to think. After a few hours, the fire was out but the blackened 30 acres were rather grim, as were our hopes that the bears had survived. We steeled ourselves for the sad loss, frustrated further by our being unable to verify what we didn’t want to learn. A day, then another, passed. No bears.

Then they were back! The mother and three cubs! They spent the afternoon in the front yard, all captured in photos. It was as if to confirm to us: “We’re alright!” When they left, it was to head not south, where their old habitat had been, but north. Perhaps we will not see them again. Their range is enormous, scores of miles. But we were gifted with their presence and are forever grateful!

It has been a week now since a harrowing fire on and around the property devastated 30 acres of woodland. A lightning strike at about 4 in the afternoon was the cause. The house and most immediate environs was spared (we are on about 3 acres) but about half of the property, all woodland of pine and native trees, a beautiful slough, and thick wilderness habitat, were consumed. To make matters worse, firefighters these days assume that houses are the only property to save, ignoring the fact that beautiful woodland is not only owned by somebody and therefore also property, but it is not just so much expendable thatch. Instead it was allowed to burn. At least there is a 30 foot buffer to the back of the property and the other two sides were spared, but the horizon of blackened pine and red-brown needles (as if a grotesque autumnal scene) remains.

I hope to post pictures, when I have a chance. The next entry up is about the bears …

Not yet a full moon but the brightness of night is wonderfully evocative. At midnight, the dark house glows in the moon’s silver light, and outside the shadows dim and the outlines of trees and shrubs sharpen a little. Pointing to the moon we see the source of light and no longer need the finger, goes the proverb. And seeing with the moon we no longer need the flashlight to take out the dog at 1 a.m.

Over several days now, both parent black bears (mother and father) and their three cubs are visiting repeatedly — just when the bird feeders and sources of water are quite full (and, er, maintained). The cubs fit the stereotypes: one frisky, one imitative, one (the thinnest) clinging timorously to its parent. When the parent is busy eating, all the cubs roam (they are clearly nursing yet). Several times they have scrambled up pine trees to amazing heights, until the parent turned for a safety check and ordered them to descend. In another instance, the frisky cub managed to wedge himself into a bucket of water, looking photogenic. We have lots of pictures, and I hope to post them soon.

Such sights are rare today as habitat encroachment and plain chance diminish our expectation of seeing nature as it is or was. It is a gift, as much as any birdsong or sunrise.

One of the starker decrees of culture is expressed in the biblical Leviticus 13: 46, concerning anyone with leprosy: “He shall live alone; his dwelling shall be outside the camp.” Whether this was literal concerning sufferers of Hanson’s Disease, or is taken metaphorically to represent sin, cultures have always seen “living alone, outside the camp” to be the worse fate anyone can suffer. Enforced solitude is society’s tool for dealing with a criminal, dissenter, the diseased, or those it simply treats as different. Hence the potential solitary — who is already a solitary in his heart — must realize that, from society’s point of view, he/she is entering the company of outcasts.