Tag Archives: zen

*Birdle Burble

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I went out of my mind and then came to my senses

By meeting a magpie who mixed up his tenses,

Who muddled distinctions of nouns and of verbs,

And insisted that logic is bad for the birds.

With a poo-wee cluck and a chit, chit-chit;

The grammar and meaning don’t matter a bit.

 

The stars in their courses have no destination;

The train of events will arrive at no station;

The inmost and ultimate Self of us all

Is dancing on nothing and having a ball.

So with chat for chit and with tat for tit,

This will be that, and that will be It!

 

 

*The poem above is taken from Alan Watt’s “Nonsense”.

**Painting “Magpies” by Archibald Thorburn, 1905.

 

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* I prefer dongulation

laughing-hotei

It is, I think, increasingly clear that parameters of this kind provide an essential corrective to the obsession of sanity. More and more, one feels that free and dominant methods are loud, tough, and frequent. Obviously, closed corners must be very carefully under-rated; otherwise, popular notions of frame and texture will show that the entire system is purely academic, and that the particular point of convergent energies is that they are finally globular.
Cows are, naturally, free of dust. But stops are most difficult to try. The real problem is that quills are too fat, and until we can easily connect ideas with tassles the function will be empty. Not that this would be equal: it is only that disproportionate combinations have an existential dimension which is, all too often, gullible.
On the whole, I prefer dongulation. It is prepid, snord, and tart, and the vallifaction of an estimate is grolic. Churdles and mards will always require fronicks, and lapsy daddles are usually bequeathed to the snorder kind of lumpens. Bolliwots are frankly bespoken, and every mutter-hound is a preposterous garble of tonsils. I have no wish to be snerdily previous: It is merely that wumpens and drabs are vollible, and that any further toculation would be groanly unspecified.

 

*Quotation above are taken from Alan Watt’s “Nonsense”

**Painting “Laughing Hotei” by Kogan Genge

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I hear the sounds of one hand clapping

left-hand-with-the-index-finger

I hear the sounds of one hand clapping
and point my finger to the moon.
My life in part I spend napping,
hoping not to wake up too soon.

I see this world through the windows
of my dark and blurred eyes.
What lies outside, who really knows?
Who can pretend to be so wise?

I listen to how people speak
about the current world affairs.
Have they found what they seek
and got an answer to their prayers?

I touch the sky with my fingertips
and breathe the universe in me.
With this life I’ve come to grips
as far as I can tell and see.

I catch my shadows in the nearby park
and try to get lost in the trees.
I dare to fail and miss my mark.
Thus to live in peace and ease.

*Painting “Left hand with the index finger” by Vasily Polenov, 1885.

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The voice inside me meditates

meditating-frog1

The voice inside me meditates.
No feelings, no thoughts, no images and wishes.
Only stillness, silence, few deep breaths,
The voice inside me meditates.

The voice inside me meditates.
No stillness, no silence, no deep breaths.
Only feelings, thoughts, images and wishes,
The voice inside me meditates.

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There is no God

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There is no God and I believe in him.
There is no God and I kneel down before him.
There is no God and I am his image and likeness.
There is no God and my body is his holy temple.
There is no God and the Bible is his word.
There is no God and he blesses the poor and the hungry.
There is no God and he answers my prayers.
There is no God and he forgives my sins.
There is no God and Jesus is his only begotten son.
There is no God and Paul is his chosen apostle.
There is no God and Muhammad is his last prophet.
There is no God and Mary is his mother.
There is no God and Heaven is his throne.
There is no God and Earth is his footstool.
There is no God and Jews are his chosen people.
There is no God and his Kingdom is within me.
There is no God and his Mercy shines upon me.
There is no God and his Love is unlimited.
There is no God and he is the Conqueror of life and death.
There is no God and he is the Master of the universe.
There is no God and he is the Ocean of transcendental bliss.
There is no God and he is all powerful.
There is no God and he is all knowing.
There is no God and he is present everywhere.
There is no God and he is my Lord
There is no God and he is my Provider.
There is no God and he is my Judge.
There is no God and he is my Friend.
There is no God and he is my Salvation.
There is no God and he is my Strength.
There is no God and he is my Joy.
There is no God and he is my Refuge.
There is no God and he is my Life.
There is no God and he is my Everything.

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Probably the best post I have written so far

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The small bell rings softly

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Rigidigong. Rigidigong. Gong. Gong. The small bell rings softly. I enter into the smoky incense filled room where the forty and something-year old Swiss German Zen master sits motionless in a full Lotus posture. His body is covered in the fine robes of an eminent authority. He wears a black kimono, most likely imported from Japan than bought at some local cheap martial arts shop. He appears to be in a deep meditative state. His eyes are closed. His face – relaxed and peaceful. A few yellowish candles burn next to the small Buddha statuette behind his vertical torso. On his right I notice the small ritual bell. It vibrates no more. A wooden stick about two and a half feet long lies to his left. Old Japanese books, which, thanks be to God, had been translated and interpreted into colonial English tongue, mention that the wooden stick in the Japanese Zen monasteries was designed purely for the purpose of beating the crap out of insolent students who ask too much questions and stick their nose into business which is not theirs. If a student’s mind could not be silenced with a koan like “what is the sound of one hand clapping?” or “why is my leg like the leg of a donkey?”, he was to be beaten with a wooden stick and thus forcibly humbled to dust, tears and blood. But in our sanitized Western world of human rights and Geneva conventions, the sole manifest purpose of the wooden stick has been limited to the symbolic realm. Western Zen was a vaccinated spirituality and an emancipated religion, in which the wooden stick was never used as an instrument of torture or punishment. It was only a symbol. A symbol of the spiritual authority of the teacher. But in the sacred halls of meditation, where enlightenment was usually attained, sometimes the wooden stick came in handy to straighten out the crooked spines of enthusiastic practitioners. At other times the stick was used as a gentle corrective tool to keep spiritual seekers awake when they fell asleep during the intensive, prolonged meditative sessions.

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