The search
for happiness is not
about looking at life through
rose-colored glasses or blinding oneself
to the pain and imperfections of the world.
Nor is happiness a state of exultation
to be perpetuated at all costs; it is
the purging of mental toxins,
such as hatred and
obsession.
Intellectual
knowledge exists in
and of the brain. Because the brain is
part of the body, which must one day expire,
this collection of facts, however large
and impressive, will expire
as well.
Insight,
however, is a function of
the spirit. Because your spirit follows
you through cycle after cycle of life, death,
and rebirth, you have the opportunity of cultivating
insight in an ongoing fashion. Refined over time,
insight becomes pure, constant, and
unwavering. This is the beginning
of immortality.
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To Shine One Corner of the World
A student who
had just concluded a thirty-day
zazen retreat with two enthusiastic dharma pals
asked Suzuki Roshi how to maintain the
extraordinary state of mind
he’d attained.
“Concentrate on your
breathing and it will go away,”
Suzuki said.
Haven’t you
read the ancient worthy’s saying?
“The white clouds are clear and still, and the rivers
flow into the blue sea. The myriad things are
originally peaceful, but people
make trouble for
themselves.”
After all,
this statement is completely
accurate and true. If you know what it means
as soon as you hear it mentioned, you can use it to pass
through birth and death to freedom and no longer be obstructed
by the psycho-physical nexus. You will be like a bird getting
out of a cage — independent and free. With a single
stroke you put a stop to all other actions and
talk, and you no longer fall into
secondary views.
Try
to praise
the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads
of exiles.
You
must praise
the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts
and ships; one of them had a long trip
ahead of it, while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees going nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners
sing joyfully.
You
should praise
the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when
we were together in a white room and
the curtain fluttered. Return in thought to
the concert where music flared. You
gathered acorns in the park in
autumn and leaves eddied
over the earth’s
scars.
Praise
the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays
and vanishes and
returns.