A dear friend said she was sure I did not miss the goose poop that used to be scattered over the yard where I lived for over two years as a host at a B & B style inn. I replied, "No... but I miss them." Brian is on the porch late in the evening, sun slowly setting, and he is there with geese adults, geese moms and dads, and geese babies in the yard. I enjoyed seeing the little ones grow, little by little, until they could wave wings and lift off the ground. At the season to fly, I was sad to see the geese go. I missed them.
After the reply to my friend, I realized I did not just miss them; I miss what they gave me, the time we shared, all of it - but not the poop. Gifts. Some moments never end. They are moments we share. And you do not have to go anywhere else or have some out-of-this-world experience. It can be you and what is there before you, with you... when you have eyes to see. Otherwise, we miss the gift. And the gift is always somewhere near, waiting.
Ryokan -
To kindle a fire, the autumn winds have piled a few dead leaves
*Sam Hamill; J. P.Seaton, Trans. The Poetry of Zen.
* * *
When Buddhists say "emptiness," they do not mean a mere void. The Buddha taught nothing is separate. Accordingly, we live relying on a myriad of causes and conditions and beings.
Ryokan, autumn winds, a piled few dead leaves. The poet sees how it all fits for his or someone's warmth. No wind, no leaves. Leaves, fire, and warmth. And a man sitting.
Seeing this way, we see the gift. Seeing this way, we live gratefully. One may say, "Thank you, God," or "Thank you, autumn wind and pile of dead leaves." The first is not what Ryokan would say, for to him, we need to keep gratitude grounded here, in the matter (in matter), not the abstract, ethereal, or elevated. Gospel of John, "The Word became flesh (meat, matter)."
So, emptiness is good news; emptiness means boundless. Your life extends in all directions; life extends to you from all directions. Emptiness relieves us of our sense of being apart, an island to ourselves trying to connect with other being apart islands. We rely on each other. We belong already, for belonging is our inescapable nature. There is no other way. We all bring gifts. We all bring ourselves.
* * *
I have often joked with people about my birth. What if my mom and dad chose to watch "The Johnny Carson Show" that night back in 1960 rather than make love? Yes, indeed, what if? No sperm entered the ovum, and no baby Brian was born. And I was not even planned; my parents had enough children for the time, they decided. But I am here. Ha! Ha!
Amazing! Incredible... this mind-body-spirit - me, you, everyone - is here following generations after generations for eons of man and woman, entangled bodies, ova, and sperms. And people would like to see a miracle or deny miracles can happen? See the person before you. Or look in the mirror.
We are born dependent beings, and we cannot escape that, regardless of how we think of ourselves as self-made persons or independent. The generosity of Life makes every life form possible and a gift to this present world. Yes, you, too. Every chess piece placed strategically on the chessboard.
Ryokan could see this, not just hold it as a grand idea. Do you? A person, a fire, warmth, a wind, and dry leaves. Why ask, is there a God? Why seek refuge in abstractions and ontologies? You do not have to send the mind anywhere to give thanks, you do not even have to say a prayer or a word. You can be it, embody it, anywhere. With Ryokan, by the fire, your heart can beam with appreciation, your eyes glisten with gratefulness. You can say, out loud, as loud as you wish, or as quietly as you want to, "Thank You," and have no idea who or what is or is not listening - but you are, which is important, possibly most important.
