Wednesday, May 25, 2011

At the start of the rainy season

   At the appointed time of year the shaman goes to an ancient clearing in the forest and makes the rainy season start. He lights the a fire, draws raindrops on his face, and sings the song of how the Mother of the People cried when her eldest son died of thirst.
   Within days, clouds start to gather.

   In the same way, a story tells about a monk who is furiously practicing meditation when his master walks by.
   Say, what are you doing?, the master asks.
   I am practicing meditation in order to become a Buddha!
   Is that so?, the master says and walks on.
   Later, the monk sees his old teacher polishing a roof tile. The monk asks: What are you doing, master?
   I am polishing this tile to make a jewel!

   And again in the same way, when I sit down to practice, it is the right time. To cross my legs is the right action. I am here because, soon, the rainy season starts. All effort that’s required of me is what it takes to be there to get wet.

   Superstitiously polishing roof tiles will only tire me out. So will making rain. At best. In the worst case scenario I while away my session, thinking about my polishing rag, about my tile, arranging the tucan bones just so to get my chants to the ears of the ancestors. What kind of jewel will I make? How fat will the clouds be? How precious will it be, how special, how very, very special?

   So many problems.
   So much to think about.

   Confusing cause and effect, I might even miss the first, fresh drops of rain.

Note: This is part of something larger I may be writing. Let's see what it becomes.

1 comment:

  1. ...a monk who is furiously practicing meditation...

    RAAAAAHHH!! Om mani FUCKING padme HUM!!