Daily Meanderings and Meditations

 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.