After almost three decades of wanting a copy of my own, my son finally found it online and ordered me one. So yes, i am now the proud proprietor of a little book called Zen Art for Meditation. It is a beautiful collection of some rare B&W paintings and haiku put together with a non-intrusive commentary to help the reader move through the union of the three and arrive at the still point within oneself. I first read it as a student in high school; the way a painting flowed onto the text, the text to a pattern of thoughts, and thoughts to emotions, turned out to be an introspectively creative experience and has stayed lodged inside me for all these years.
Having my own copy inspired me, surprisingly not to re-read it at once, but to capture the essence of what the book represented for me when I was a mere teenager: a deep lyrical connection with myself sought in a few moments of solitude. What follows is a short week-long exercise, in which the part of 'Zen Art' was played by the scene outside the wire-meshed door in our living room, which lead to the porch and beyond...It was always the same setting, yet capable of taking me places, both within and without, if only I allowed myself to be lead.
The good thing is that once I am up in the morning, I am up. There is no sleep still clinging onto me, no dreams trailing behind. I am ready to catch the early morning light, to see how the sameness of the day unfolds unto me, what form it takes, which chord it stirs, which language it speaks...which words it adopts and which it drops...So, I feel quite prepared to take on this journey.
Day 1
the quiet music
of a new day slowly
wraps itself
around the mellotronic
beat of the diurnal weave
making everything dance:
The table, chairs,
even her exercise mat
sprawled across the
gray floor; the gentle
swing of passing
time. Outside the window
the sun peeps from
behind the cashew tree
lazy breeze sets astir
the crouching shadows
Day 2
How freeing it is to be empty: nothing to stir the hidden depths, and nothing by which the invisible heights quiver in the golden sun. Everything just is. Time sits idle like a street dog on the footpath. Eyes travel, and filled with their own light, take in the emptiness. Perception of the Self reclines from the shriveled up cashew leaves hanging supinely from the dark branches.
2.
empty I sit
filling up the page
with scribbles,
the crow caws
3.
lo, a little patch of
grass discovered briefly
by sunlight, withdrawing
again to its fallow self:
a passing cloud
Day 3
1.
the rains typing
away furiously,
thoughts scurrying
ferrying themselves
beyond the clutches of
cyclonic winds and
thunderous deluge, to
an island of peace
and rest
2.
the surge of rain
filling up my being
the sight of rain
drowning my thoughts
the sound of rain
reiterating the deafening
silence of these walls
3.
the porch leads
to the curving path,
the path to the mud trail,
the trail to the tarmac road
the road to the ocean,
thunderous and
heaving
the tarmac road leads
to a mud trail
the trail to a curving path,
the path to the porch
the porch to the woman
inside her an ocean
heaving
Day 4
1.
sliding off the leaves
the sound of gentle rain
muffling the drumbeats
from the temple yonder
2.
Drip...drip...drip...a sense of impatience rubs off into the air. And the crow pheasants' slow rhythmic harmonies strive in vain to restore a shard of spindling light to this gray rainy day. I, on the other hand can only think of wrapping my hands around a steaming cup of tea.
Day 5
1.
with every breath
columns of light
infiltrate my being
with every breath
creeps in miasma
of mortality
2.
silence entwined
around the gray
sunshine of our
days slowly unravels:
a chirp, a rustle, a
murmur, a breath of
wind, a lingering
note of vagrant life
Day 5
1.
the gray light
filled with
thoughts of you
makes my heart
ache as electric
pulses course
through my body
wrapped indolently
around the
shadow of
an early dawn
2.
i am who i am
a being on
the path
gleaning
bits of life
and bits of
death, but
which is which?
who knows
3.
where is the fountain? he asked. she pointed to her heart. he laid his head there. he felt soothed by the rhythmic sound of rain. now, do you love me? she asked. he lay with his eyes closed, listening.
4.
at the fountain
they met and
in silence
watched the
ripples; the tips
of their fingers
touched, a
shaft of lightening
split the skies.
Day 6
1.
weaving its way
across a thousand
sounds: the unseizable
silence
2.
Let the mysteries of love and life remain unseizable, keeping us wanting, moving, chasing something beyond our grasp..let them keep us hungry for the unknown...
3.
the same tree
outside the window
greeting the day
with its usual bow
and quiet rustle
of dappled gold
Day 7
1.
It is always the crow pheasants nowadays with their hollow drum like beats, reminding me of the soothing beauty of repeating moments. And yet it is their persistent knocking against the morning which unlocks the day to infinite possibilities. Where would I be without them?
2.
On this hot and humid day, through a tiny gap in the foliage of the cashew tree, do I gather in my arms a shard of sky, and a breath of air astir by the flapping wings of a passing crow.
3.
the chameleon
sits still in the
flower patch
praying the Rosary.
