Brief Visual Meditation

Courtesy of a Zen droogie on social media.

WW: Old farmhouse

(This old house, near my childhood home, was once the residence of a family who owned and operated a dairy farm on the premises. The farm has long since become a housing estate, and the house effectively abandoned, for about 50 years now.

It's painful to see it slowly crumble, though slightly miraculous that it's still here at all, and entirely unchanged. It's like historical preservation, except the preservation has largely been inadvertant.

Any road, this is pretty much exactly the sort of house I've always wanted. [A more elaborate meditation on old farmhouses can be found here.])


Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Bashō's Frog

Matsuo Bashō (芭蕉) was a wandering Zen hermit of the Edo period, as well as an accomplished poet. Popularly considered the father of modern haiku, many of his verses are accepted as teaching in Zen circles today. The readily-memorised haiku format may drive some of this posterity, but there's no denying that Bashō's work often encodes palpable koanic insight.

Interestingly, his status as a self-trained free-range monk is rarely mentioned in our discussions of him, though we're happy to claim Bashō as the "Zen one" of Japan's Four Great Haikunists.

Thus do conservatives lay claim to the dissenters of yore.

Yet the eremitical nature of Bashō's practice is clearly evident in much of his work. Particularly his most famous poem, which is not merely lauded as Bashō's best, but in fact as the most awesomest haiku ever written, by anyone.

Feel up to it?

OK, clear your mind.

Ready?

the old pond
a frog jumps in
plop

That's it.

That's the poem.


Stuff to Notice

To begin with, this translation (Alan Watts, this time) is only one of dozens if not hundreds available; about which, more later. But I especially value Alan's take, emphasising as it does the humour that's central to Bashō's perspective.

Note also that while haiku – at least the classic kind – is supposed to contain references to nature, this one has nature coming out of its ears. I mean, there's no moonlight or cherry blossoms or summer rain or drifting snow. Nothing pretty, you dig. But nature? Yeah. It's got that in spades.

In his sardonic hermit way, Bashō seems to be saying, "I got yer nature, RIGHT HEAH!"

And then there's the Zen.

You may be thinking, "Big deal. Frog jumps in water. There's a noise. Nothing to see here."

And you may be right. I mean, you can get that kind of stuff anywhere, for cheap or free. Nothing unique is going on here. Nothing special.

Scared frog jumps in water, goes splash; not a headline you're likely to see in the Times.

Meanwhile, concentric circles are expanding in the water, lapping at the edges, returning through other circles approaching from behind. Frog resurfaces, climbs out. More circles. Wet frog drips, log gets wet, water runs off into pond.

The concentric circles expand and retract forever. The whole pond is implicated. And also its environs. And their environs. And all the environs beyond that.

And that's just one possible response. Maybe there's some suchness in there. Maybe some satori. Some admirers see all seven Zen principles of composition in these three banal lines.

Which is why they're sometimes called the most perfect haiku ever penned.

But not by its author, of course. We should also bear that in mind.


Language Matters

While we also remember language.

To start with, Bashō never wrote the poem reproduced above. And if by chance he had happened on it, none of that chicken scratch would have meant a thing to him. Because his text (per this source) was actually this:

古池や
蛙飛こむ
水の音

Which works out to:

furuike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto

You don't need any Japanese to feel the visceral difference between this and literally anything it might have inspired in English. In fact, if you want to see just how thoroughly we anglophones can mess something up, check out the 32 translations catalogued here.

Robert Aitken's commentary on that page is also well worth the read, as is his stab at the source material:

The old pond has no walls;
a frog just jumps in;
do you say there is an echo?

And if you really want a plunge into the abyss, try Geoffrey Wilkinson, who starts with an acerbic comment on this whole frog thing, and then… well…

Go see for yourself. By the time Wilkinson's done he's taken you on a fascinating street tour of the haiku form and this one in particular, including several parodies by Japanese monks and poets over the past 500 years.

For example:

Old pond—
Bashō jumps in
the sound of water

– Zen master Sengai Gibon, 1750–1837.


Master Bashō,
at every plop
stops walking

– Anon, 18th century.


...while fellow hermit Ryōkan (1758–1831) had this to add:

The new pond—
not so much as the sound of
a frog jumping in


To say nothing of the fellow who wrote a limerick. (Yes, really.)

So if you're a fan of haiku, or hermits, or haiku-writing hermits, take a good surf into the lore of Bashō's frog. By the end of the evening you will have visited many corners of Zen, Japan, poetry, and history, and learned a great deal about the practice value of small bodies of water.


(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

WW: Warm autumn day

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

How To Sleep In The Woods

(This entry from my ango log is a timely reminder of how difficult life was in the jungle during those first frigid, rainy months. I wrote this record down because I knew I would soon forget these hardships when I returned to the Red Dust World.

Simple things aren't simple when you live outdoors.

The brother who drove me out on the last day of ango also brought my camera so I could take some photos of the place where I'd just spent 100 days alone. By then it was late summer, so the rainfly was furled, revealing the door and mosquito netting of the walls behind it. Equally telling is the fact that the entire world is no longer dark and sodden, as it was when I wrote the following entry.)

BEDTIME ORYOKI:

1. Unzip the tent fly, then the tent door, just at the bottom, so as not to let bugs in, and slide the rolled blue foam mat, orange Thermarest, and journal case through the slit.

2. Zip back up, return to Tyvek [meditation shelter] and [secure it] for the night. (Mostly hanging stuff up and blowing out the candle after thanking it.)

3. Pee.

4. Lay [walking] stick outside tent door. Unzip the tent and sit in it with feet still outside on the ground. Take off the road [right] sandal, then the heart [left] sandal, and leave them outside, on the heart side, under the fly.

5. Brush off feet with gloved hands if wet, or by rubbing them together if not, and lift them into the tent.

6. Switch on the tent light and place it in the attic [small net hammock overhead]. Turn off the flashlight and store it there as well.

7. Pull the stick inside, clean off the [dirty] end, and lay it along the door sill. Zip up the door.

8. Take off specs and put them in the attic.

9. Untie the blue mat and unroll it along the door side, beside the stick. Store the tying string in the attic.

10. Reinflate the Thermarest and lay it on top of the blue mat, at [the] head end.

11. Spread the [sleeping] bag out on the mats, zipper to the heart (inboard) side. Spread the [cotton sleeping bag] liner on top of the bag.

12. Take off the [monk] robe and lay it next to the bedroll on the floor, interior down, knife [worn on the robe's belt] to heart side, mala [also on the belt] road side, collar headward.

13. Remove needed articles (hand sanitiser, toilet paper, gloves) from cargo pockets of trousers and lay them on the floor against the standing [back] wall, chest-high [when lying down].

14. Take off trousers, roll them up, and place them on the rain poncho against the standing wall, at about knee height [when lying down].

15. Roll up [a] pillow from un-needed clothes and other fabric items. Place at head-level, on heart side.

16. Remove underwear and place on trousers.

17. Snake into liner [first], and then into the bag.

18. Spread the robe over the sleeping bag as a blanket, interior down, collar at chin level.

19. Tuck robe's roadside hem corner, belt end, and sleeve under the blue mat (not the orange one), to keep it anchored during the night.

20. Mount night guard [a plastic device I wear at night to protect my teeth].

21. Turn off the light, lie back, find and place pillow.

And pleasant dreams.

This process is very time-consuming. But there's no other way to do it so you meet all your needs: warm, dry, as comfortable as possible, properly positioned on the ground, able to find stuff you might need during the night, especially emergency stuff such as you might need during an attack of Giardia or something threatening outside the tent, like a bear.

WW: Holding up the sky

(Altocumulus undulatus clouds.

The tree in the foreground is a sequoia [Sequoiadendron giganteum]. It's not native here, but introduced specimens are spotted fairly often in older Olympia neighbourhoods. This is because in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the area absorbed a wave of incomers who arrived via Northern California, where the species is iconic.

This one occurs in the backyard of a house I lived in when I was 7. As I never noticed it then, it must have been much smaller.

Happens a lot these days. May I age as gracefully as my sister has.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Apple hook season

(Feral apples are almost always the best-tasting, and you can't beat the price. With all the former farmland around here, the scrumping this time of year is great.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Muslim Dharma

A lifetime sitting with the central tenet of Islam has led me to accept it.

You must submit.

Islam means submission in Arabic. A muslim is a person who has submitted.

Specifically they submit to Allah. He's also the only thing worthy of submission. If your orders come from anywhere else, you waste your life marching into a dead end.

Most religions recognise this truth, though they express it differently.

Buddhists call it acceptance of the Dharma. You don't get enlightenment from your teacher, your religion, or even the Buddha.

It comes directly from the Dharma.

This may seem fanatically reductive, especially when the people shouting it at you are really referring to themselves when they say "Allah" or "Dharma".

But taken at face value, I'm convinced it's exact.


Because Allah isn't just the only authority qualified to lead you.

He's also the only one you can trust.


(Photo courtesy of Muh Rifandi and Wikimedia Commons.)

WW: Autumn bullfrog

(Here's another bullfrog [Rana (Lithobates) catesbeiana], rather better lit and differentiated from her background. She's a whole handful, likely weighing about a pound; I found her sitting zazen in the middle of a local bike path on a cool autumn day.

Literally just sitting, untroubled by bikes, dogs, or walkers, as one seldom finds her kind.

Frogs play an outsized role in Zen, but I'll temper my monastic impulses and guess that my sister's equanimous demeanour was down more likely to being zombied out on incipient hibernation, and heading to a winter bed in the muddy lake some yards away.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Timely Reminder

"Strictly speaking, every unenlightened practitioner is mixing their own convictions and belief systems with Buddhism. There is no way around it.

"We need to acknowledge that in ourselves and understand that our perception of reality is clouded by many things, some of which are ideologies and beliefs."

—This salient practice point courtesy of an astute sanghamate in Reddit group r/Buddhism/.

(Photo of torii gate [a Shinto symbol that's been widely embraced by Japanese Zen] at Mosteiro Zem Budista, Ibiraçu, Brazil, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

WW: Poke berries

(Another rivetting instalment in the saga of the wayfaring poke [Phytolacca americana] that's mysteriously turned up in the neighbourhood, thousands of miles from its native range. Here you see its ripe, deep-purple berries, whose poisonous juice was once used as ink in settler communities far from mine.

Invasive, but fascinating.)


Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Street Level Zen: Family

"Having children takes talent, like any creative thing."

Maurice Sendak


(Photo courtesy of Seth Anderson and Wikimedia Commons.)

Tandem

Let us walk alone together, comrade sojourner.
We will be like pebbles in a bag, polishing each other bright.


(Ship's dogs, ca. 1920, courtesy of the US Navy and Rawpixel.com.)

WW: Pacific crabapple

(Malus fusca. Native to the North Coast, in my home county it's a common understory tree, flourishing on the margins and in clearings of mature forests.

Though M. fusca's apples are only bean-sized, given the number available, they're a staple of local indigenous cuisines. Like all crabapples they're barely palatable raw, but a brilliant upgrade to other fruits, contributing depth, tartness, pectin, and rosy perfume to evergreen huckleberries, apple pie and cider, rose hips, blackberries and a great many others.

The wood is dense and hard, verging on flinty, and so good for such things as tool handles, stakes, digging sticks, and hard-duty walking sticks.)


Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Vaudeville Dharma

"Dying is easy. Practice is hard."

(My monastic riff on a hallowed show biz pun.)


(Photo of Chàn ancestor Hanshan Deqing's mummy courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

WW: Prairie farm

(Appearing also on My Corner of the World.)

Glamorous Mystery

When I encountered this florist-worthy flower on a bike ride through local prairie country, I was certain it must be a garden escapee, persisting on ground that was once a yard, or arriving more recently in a load of soil. A dozen-odd volunteers had formed a loose colony, with random pioneers scattered along the trail beyond for perhaps a hundred yards.

I was so taken with the glamour – and mystified that I couldn't identify this stranger, given moderately wide experience of garden blooms – that I emailed a few shots to a friend who's a recognised expert on the topic.

The mystery only deepened when she couldn't identify it, either.

At last, my friend worked her resources and reached a verdict: Clarkia amoena.

Thus was I thoroughly humbled, because not only does this eye-catching bloom turn out to be native – while in theory I'm Mr. Wild Plants Guy – it's a fêted member of the freakin' Lewis and Clark herbarium.

Named after William Clark, for God's sake! (Way to rub it in, karma.)

Clarkia amoena, also called farewell-to-spring, is an evening primrose relative, which accounts for another common name: satin flower. It prefers well-drained and –sunned soil, and as that first common name suggests, tends to burst into glorious blossom just as things start to hot up. Which is exactly the moment in which I passed that day.

Indigenous peoples made a staple of this plant's tiny, grain-like seeds, eating them toasted as-is, steamed into porridge, or brewed into a thick, nutritious drink. In addition, Clarkia was one of several field-forming flowers on the pre-settlement prairie that sustained multiple species of butterflies and other insects that have since become endangered.

Finally, it counts among the relatively few North American flowers to pivot to cultivation, thanks to a ready willingness to thrive anywhere that supplies its minimum requirements.

And also, of course, its magnificence.

So, why has this once-classic local suddenly (re)appeared? Well, the land on which grows is actually a reserve, donated to prairie preservation by former owners who'd run a horse-training facility on it. As such it's undergone incremental restoration, some of which might recently have included inoculation with Clarkia seed.

The reserve trust has also taken to conducting controlled burns on their property, as fire is important to prairie health – among other things, nudging Clarkia seeds to germinate.

Whatever the reason, I'm glad it's back.

WW: Giant yellow bamboo

(Suspect Phyllostachys vivax. This is very big stuff - diameters up to 4 inches and heights to maybe 60 feet. This grove occurs in the neighbourhood where I grew up, on a tract of land that was once a farmer's backyard, but has been untended for 50 years now.

Always surreal to see such an iconic plant of the tropics growing so happily here on the North Pacific Coast.)


Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Theory Kyôsaku

The theory is really simple.

The only problem is that theory alone will not help us to be content with our practice.

Although practice of the buddha way is supposed to be the easiest thing in the world, I think it is a fact that we are never quite content with our practice.

Why?


– Though unattributed in the source, this very Soto teaching apparently comes from Muhō Nölke, former abbot of Antaiji.


(Photo courtesy of Antoine Taveneaux and Wikimedia Commons.)

WW: Crane

(On my recent visit to Spokane I was struck by the sci-fi aesthetics of this building going up on the far side of the river. The crane dramatically frames and accents the distopian structure below, its bold red steel startling against a classic vibrant blue Gold Side sky.

Tourists often complain about cranes ruining their photos, but I find them uplifting.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

If You Can't Fix What's Broken, You'll Go Insane

The title of this post is a line from Mad Max: Fury Road, the 2015 instalment of the Mad Max film series.

Much has been said about these Australian productions. Unlike virtually every other movie "franchise" (a fast-food industry term that often denotes similar entertainment), it contains no weak links: every release is genetically different, and all five succeed both as stand-alone works and episodes of the larger story.

Reasons for this are highly speculated among film geeks. Suffice it to say that creator-director George Miller came into cinema with no formal training (he's actually a doctor – odd how often that happens) and aside from not knowing any better than to just go out and make a movie, he's also a bit unhinged.

In the best possible way, I mean.

Anyway.

Fury Road is a tale for our times. Made on the very cusp of the current collapse, it takes place, like all Mad Max movies, in a thoroughly collapsed world that was fanciful when the series began. In this respect, it's hard not to read it as allegory – nay, prophecy – of all that's pounding down on us now.

I don't want to spoil this epic for those who've yet to see it, but to service my theme, I'll just say that unlike previous Max films, Fury Road has two protagonists: the titular figure, whom we know well (though played by a new actor), and Furiosa, a newcomer who is in many respects his female prosopopoeia. (English. Use it or lose it.)

The two share a common if involuntary struggle – the old, damaged, half-crazy man, and the younger, vital, ultimately righteous woman – and in the end, Max quietly issues her the above warning.

The Zen of which is undeniable.

As a young man, I was determined not to give in to the hypocrisy and self-centred self-destruction of unworthy authority. Not to serve it, certainly, but also not to enable it. This is why I get both Max (who's my age) and Furiosa.

I understand the ambition to cast down the wicked, even if no-one else has your back, and the danger of accepting that crusade at heart-level, on behalf of others; you can't stop fighting without defecting.

In Zen we have an uneasy relationship with activism. Classic teaching condemns it outright, as wasted effort at best, and multiplying delusion at worst. The fact that this means we've given de facto (and sometimes active) support to unspeakable evil over thousands of years renders that reading of our practice unsound in my eyes.

In the late 20th century, Thich Nhat Hanh came up with the notion of Engaged Zen, of which Kevin Christopher Kobutsu Malone became the head of the arrow in North America. That Kobutsu was ultimately crushed by his ministry in no way invalidates it; if anything, it's a mark of honour. But it does go to Max's point.

I never served like either man, but I've experienced that crushing. And I think all Zenners should consider this thing that I wish I'd learned much younger than I am now.

That the main reason inquity always prevails is because it isolates its opponents, leaving them outgunned and outnumbered.

And that's why you can't beat evil without accepting it.

If that makes no sense, you're in the right room.

WW: Century-old wiring

(This ancient outbuilding, one of a few derelict structures still surviving from what was a working dairy farm near my home when I was a child, has knob-and-tube wiring. As you can see, it was a two-element system consisting of cloth-covered wires strung on insulators. In living areas they were usually hidden inside walls, but in basements, attics, service buildings, and outdoor applications, they were hung along rafters, down siding, and under eaves, as here. [Note the old-school porcelain insulators – no longer wired – on the rafters.]

Though alarmingly primitive to modern eyes, knob and tube wasn't much more dangerous than recent methods. The main reason it disappeared was that it required twice as much labour as the single integrated cable introduced in the 50s, and was therefore twice as expensive to instal.

I believe that old farm dated to the 20s [the other 20s, I mean], when knob and tube was industry standard. But this shed was apparently still rocking it in the 70s, while in active commercial service.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Everything Is Time

"The entire evolution of science would suggest that the best grammar for thinking about the world is that of change, not of permanence. Not of being, but of becoming.

"We can think of the world as made up of things. Of substances. Of entities. Of something that is. Or we can think of it as made up of events. Of happenings. Of processes. Of something that occurs. Something that does not last, and that undergoes continual transformation, that is not permanent in time.

[…]

"Thinking of the world as a collection of events, of processes, is the way that allows us to better grasp, comprehend, and describe it. […] The world is not a collection of things, it is a collection of events.

[…]

"A stone is a prototypical 'thing': we can ask ourselves where it will be tomorrow. Conversely, a kiss is an 'event.' It makes no sense to ask where the kiss will be tomorrow. The world is made up of networks of kisses, not of stones.

"The basic units in terms of which we comprehend the world are not located in some specific point in space. […] They are spatially but also temporally delimited: they are events."

Carlo Rovelli, The Order of Time

What Dr. Rovelli, internationally noted theoretical physicist and philosopher of science, is saying here, is that a rock isn't an object; it's an event. Which is true of literally every "thing"; they're phenomena, not matter. They only exist for a specific time, their natures changing from moment to moment. So time is the only thing objectively present in that space.

We think objects are solid and exist because we can't grasp the temporary (the word means "subject to time") nature of matter and energy – which are the components of "stuff".

But stuff is an illusion. (More accurately, it's a hasty conclusion, leading to a practical fiction.)

So the good doctor has at long last caught science up with Zen, of which this notion of an "empty" universe, where things don't really exist, but are instead an ever-changing stream of dependent co-arising (scientists call it "attraction") that never attains stasis, is a fundamental teaching.

Which is why every "thing" in the universe – you and me and rocks and trees and amœbas and planets and galaxies and Labrador retrievers – aren't objects or things at all, or even matter, but events.

Literal products of time, having a beginning and end, because the agglomeration of attractions that make us all up never settles on a permanent relationship, and eventually dissipates entirely, its components running off to join other processes, in the manner of a wave or a cloud.

Thanks to Brad Warner, whose latest book, The Other Side of Nothing: The Zen Ethics of Time, Space, and Being, alerted me to Dr. Rovelli's thoughts on this matter.

(Who, by the way, is also a professor emeritus of L'Université Aix-Marseille Luminy, where I spent a year in the late 80s. An observation à propos of nothing but my startled satisfaction.)


(Photo courtesy of Neil Owen and Wikimedia.com.)

WW: Scottish thistle

(Emblem and patron of my father's people, as any who know us will understand, this well-armed weed flowers in surpassing beauty on the North Coast this time of year. Hated invader notwithstanding, compromising pastureland, and misguidedly considered coarse and unseemly.

As are we.

Cirsium vulgare; though this being the avatar of Scotland, disputes abide over which exact species is truly the authentic Scottish thistle, amongst the many, well... er...

pretenders.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Battered but not beaten

(I made this fudo [look left; hanging from the bell] in 2009, for friends in Spokane County. When I took care of their farm for a few weeks 6 years later, I posted a photo of it here. It was still looking pretty smart then, all things considered.

On a visit last month I noted that 16 years' continuous duty in the desert hadn't done it any favours. But given the conditions, the old warrior still serves our patron well.)

Sea Star Wasting Disease Cracked

Over the past eight years I've posted regular reports on the welfare of local starfish as they endured (and some populations became extinct due to) a mysterious contagion that makes them rot alive. Now American television network CBS has announced that the cause of Sea Star Wasting Disease has been firmly established, and it's not a virus as suspected, but a bacteria.

As noted before, several species have developed a measure of immunity to this pathogen since it first appeared in 2013, but a few have been wiped out, at least in shallower, warmer water. One of my favourites, the sunflower star (Pynopodia helianthoides), once omnipresent on the North Coast, is now basically exterminated; according to the article, less than 10% of the original count still exist, all in cold, deep water. But efforts to breed them in captivity have been successful, so there's hope they might be reintroduced to their old habitat one day.

A little Googling verified that another old friend, the giant pink Pacific starfish (Pisaster brevispinus) also lives on in colder water.

As suspected, the underlying cause of this pandemic is climate disruption, which has allowed the bacteria to flow north along the eastern Pacific Coast, to warming waters where sea stars have no defence against it.

But we've got an important scientific advance in the identification of the pathogen. Together with significant rebounding on my local beaches and location of surviving populations of much-mourned MIAs, I'm taking delivery.


(Photo of pre-plague tidepool crammed with young Pycnopodia courtesy of the US National Park Service and Wikimedia.com)

WW: Novel architecture

(The Spokane Regional Health District is an arresting sight, inspired as it apparently was by the architecture of West and Central Africa. I can't remember seeing such a structure anywhere before. And I certainly wouldn't have expected to find one serving as a government building on the Gold Side of Washington – arid though it is. Hats off to an inspired county facilities committee.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

The Grandfather Paradox

This graphic illustrates the grandfather paradox, a secular koan demonstrating the inability of the human mind to grasp reality.

Alright, it's actually La avo-paradokso, which means "the grandfather paradox" in Esperanto, because it's still July and I'm still licensed to go a bit off the rails. And as we'll see, those rails can be hard to discern, anyway.

For starters, let's acknowledge from the outset that the above premise cannot be tested, because we don't have a tempomaŝino (time machine). But that doesn't stop us using it to challenge our mental faculties.

So, starting at 12 o'clock and proceeding horloĝdirekte (clockwise):

I invent a time machine.
I travel into the past.
I kill my grandfather.
My father isn't born.
I'm not born.
I don't invent a time machine.
I don't travel into the past.
My grandfather is born.
My father is born.
I'm born.
I invent a time machine.
I travel into the past...

You can see that though the proposition is (science-)fictional, the conceptual challenge is real. It's an example of a reality that the human mind can't perceive:

– It's impossible to kill your grandfather, because if you did, you wouldn't exist.
– But you do exist, so if you could go back in time you could totally kill your grandfather.
– Except you couldn't, because if you did, you'd never exist in the first place, so you couldn't kill anybody.
– But you do exist, therefore…

The solution? There isn't one.

Not if you're human.

Because your primitive reason runs on logic, which is why all the Vidyārājas are sniggering at you.

(However, consider that we might come to realise even this concept if we could live it. The human brain has the capacity to pencil out and penetrate circumstances that utterly lack logical sense, if it stands in front of them. I only hope our grandfathers arm themselves well if ever that comes to pass.)

Buddhism has long taught that time is neither linear nor universal; timelines are numberless, each running at its own speed and in its own direction. The variance between the classical reincarnation of Hindu and some Buddhist worldviews, and Zen's messy ad hoc concept of transmigration, originates in this contention.

That's why we developed koans, which are meant to jazz that part of the brain that can't grok the great stretch of reality that lies beyond dualistic perception. ("What was your face before your grandmother was born?" seems an appropriate example.) This also goes a long way toward explaining those wild tales of monastery practice: the decades of mu-pondering, the dharma combat, insight expressed by farting and slapping and barking like a dog. Because extracranial notions exceed language.

You can find an in-depth philosophical exploration of the grandfather paradox, as well as similar thought experiments, at BYJU'S page about it. And while you're there, take a moment to marvel that this page was uploaded by a company that educates children. I've got a feeling India's going to be running this popsicle stand in another generation.

In the meantime, why not just be nice to your grandfather? Ok, so maybe you can build your time machine without him, but who decided we needed that more than we need him?

See if you can wrap your choanocytes around that, Spongebob.

WW: Collapsed apple tree

(This 20-odd year apple met its end last week, a victim of its own success. In the late 20th century, varieties such as these, bearing heavily but not growing very tall, became all the rage; they really pump out crop and it’s all in reach, at least of picking ladders and apple hooks. Since that time, little else has been planted.

Trouble is, this blueprint results in a top-heavy tree, balanced on a root ball smaller than evolutionary spec. So one good breeze on dry soil, and that’s that.

Sometimes traction and tree surgery can save such casualties. In fact, in the ancient abandoned orchards where I grew up, many of those old heirlooms actually bore from a reclining position, having fallen in some winter storm and retained enough root contact to keep producing.

But those were hardy, full-sized, union-built trees, falling where no-one cared what they looked like, of a wet, dormant season.

And so this beautiful new-guard girl is done for. How sad to lose a thing that gave so generously for so long.)


Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Rock Groups 2025

So it's July again, when Internet readership drops off sharply and strange things happen on this blog while no-one's looking. Arguably the strangest is the annual Offering of Rock Groups Yearning to Be, that yearly list of potential group names posted for the benefit of literally anyone who wants one. (Full details here.)

Included in the deal is permission to reveal to anyone who enquires that your group's name was bestowed by a Zen hermit monk. And that all by itself is worth the price of admission. (Which is zero. Don't ask; it's a Zen thing.)

So once more into the breach. Extra credit to anyone who catches the literary, historical, scientific, and pop culture references that follow. In Google veritas.


Rock Groups 2025

The Window

Holgar

Tsunami Turtle

Der Pfeilstorch

Concrete Animals of Mexico

Einsatz

Exidor

Fala Does Mind

Hyōgaiji (may I suggest that you also take 丂 as your logo)

Vines's Boot

The Offcuts

Morton's Fork

PTT

The Skeleton Men

The Dumb Waiters

Headbolt

Deadbolt

Gasket

The High-Fivin' White Guys

Daily Driver

Harfang

Elon

Musk

Membrane

Jonas Grumbey

The Heat Monkeys

The Luck

Hinge

Plug Ugly

The Roadside Dinosaurs

Pilori

French Club

Uh-Oh Chongo

Gaturro

Motormouse


(Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com and a generous photographer.)

WW: Raising bread

(As I recently pointed out, at high summer you can often raise bread dough outdoors in the shade. An 80 to 95-degree day ought to do it.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

What Is Practice?

What is zazen?

Just sitting.

What is practice?

Just doing.

What for?

For nothing.

Just do it.

Practice the dharma for the sake of the dharma.

There is no goal to reach, nothing to long for and nothing to attain.

Just follow life in this one single instant, right here, right now – the life that you are presently living.

Be one with reality, that is all.


– From an unsigned teaching given at Antaiji, possibly by Muhō Nöelke.


(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

WW: Highest dome on the continent

Hermitcraft: Hermit Bread, Case 2.

'Way back in the first weeks of this blog I posted on the sourdough bread that's been part of my monastic practice since before I became a monk. But seeing as the recipe has continued to develop over the intervening years, and is arguably improved, I reckon I should revisit the subject now.

The big news is that some years ago I stopped using baking soda to raise the sourdough, though that's the traditional Old Settler drill. Soda is good for baking on the fly, because it reacts to the heat of the oven instead of requiring a lengthy stretch of steady, controlled warmth beforehand to raise the dough.

But eventually I succumbed to the richer scent and flavour, and the light, airy crumb, you get from wild yeast.

And it's still a simple and straightforward process, calling for just 20 minutes of hands-on labour, followed by a single rise. So now I do it like this:

YEAST-RAISED SOURDOUGH HERMIT BREAD

1 1/2 cups sourdough starter
About 2 cups all-purpose flour (added by handfuls to optimum texture)
1 tablespoon oil for brushing
shortening or butter for lubrication

Liberally grease a 10-inch cast iron skillet. You can also use a cake pan or cookie sheet, but cast iron gives the best results.

In a large bowl, blend the flour into the starter with a butter knife. When too stiff to stir, continue cutting in flour with the blade until the dough balls easily and is dry enough to work with the hands.

Knead the dough while continuing to add flour as necessary to prevent it sticking to your fingers. (See notes below.) When the dough is smooth, elastic, and dry enough to work lightly without gumming up your hands, roll it into a ball and position it in the centre of the greased skillet.

Pat the ball down to six to eight inches in diameter. Brush the top with oil and perforate the pat in rows with a wooden spoon handle or similar until it's holed all over.

Mark the dimpled pat into 8 wedges with a cleaver, chef's knife, or pastry scraper. Clean up and reseal the edges, cover the skillet, and place the dough in a warm location to work for about 4 hours. (See notes below.)

When the dough has risen sufficiently, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Uncover the pan and bake the bread on the middle rack for 20 minutes.

When lightly browned, unpan the loaf and place it on a rack to cool for a few minutes. Eat as-is or with any of the usual amendments. (Butter, jam, cheese, herbed oil, sugared berries, etc.)

Keep the fully-cooled pat fresh in an airtight plastic bag. Cold pieces can be microwaved for 30 seconds for a credible impression of just-baked bread.

Notes:

• For a richer bread, make your starter out of bread flour, then knead all-purpose into it as usual.

• I never knead this on a board, as is normal with bread. Instead I tip the bowl up on its bottom edge and knead the dough against the side while turning the bowl with the other hand, like a steering wheel. When the dough is sufficiently dry I hold it up and knead it between my hands. I suspect this technique is rooted in the recipe's origins as sojourner food; there's no other place to knead bread on the trail.

• If you lack grease for lubrication, oil and flour will work as well, but don't skip the flour dusting; the oil alone won't cut it.

• The dough must be tightly covered during the rise, or its surface will dry out and prevent the pat from expanding. I put a tight-fitting lid on the skillet. When baking on a sheet, I invert the now-empty mixing bowl over the pat. Make sure to grease an inch or so of the bowl's upper edge, or any dough that touches will stick tight.

• For the rise, place the dough somewhere that delivers gentle heat at 80 to 95 degrees. Good prospects include a water heater closet, a purpose-built proofing box, strategic positioning beside a woodstove, or, on a summer day, in reliable shade outdoors. I've also had success in an oven with the light on – usually with the door cracked a certain distance; the light alone can heat the interior to surprising levels – and a sun-heated car, but monitor the temperature carefully and consistently with both. I've also preheated an oven at its lowest setting, turned it off, and placed the pan on the middle rack, returning once or twice to take the dough out and heat the oven again. And I've put a size-appropriate incandescent light in a closet, tote, disused refrigerator, or large ice chest. Again, be very wary – those bulbs throw a lot more heat than you think – and mind the serious fire danger when placing a heat source in a tight space.

• Finally, remember that sourdough will also rise at room temperature if necessary, though it takes longer and results in a sourer, less consistent product.

The history of this bread, as well as traditional ovenless baking methods, is found at the bottom of my original post.

And a last important point: the original soda-raised recipe is still perfectly enjoyable if you've got no way to incubate the yeast; would rather not wait that long; or aren't over-fond of the taste of sourdough, which soda mitigates. It's also good for an upset stomach, among other things.

And I still mix it up for pizza dough.

At some point I'll post a few whole-grain elaborations I've developed over the years. In the meantime, enjoy this simple, thrifty down-home staple, that never fails to bolster my sense of comfort and well-being.

WW: Pokeweed

(This is Phytolacca americana, called poke in the American South and Midwest, where it's a rampant weed. [And also a wild edible, though just how edible is a plant that must be boiled in four changes of water to stop it killing you is worth discussion.]

I've never seen pokeweed on the North Pacific Coast till this summer, when I spied it growing on two neglected bits of land in my neighbourhood. The iconic, high-growing, and monopolising Southern brakeweed first evaded recognition, so far from its natural home, till I'd confirmed it online, where I also found that poke is now listed as an incipient invader here.

I'm about certain this is yet another misfortune of climate disruption. Protected before now by our wet, grey, cold weather, the new drier, hotter North Coast is proving quite hospitable to this latest headache, as well as many others.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

July Haiku

even one-penny
fireworks...
ooo! ahh!

Issa


(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

WW: Deer through the back window

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Dukkha Koan

"You may not believe in hell, but hell believes in you."

(A message from this station and Fudo Myō-ō.)


(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

WW: Oriental poppies

(Papaver orientale. Came in time for Remembrance Day.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Standing Up

Some months ago I had a refreshing conversation on Zen ethics with a fellow hermit on Mastodon. We're equally sceptical of quietism – the religious posture by which forms are judged sufficient to practice and action anathema – and our discussion helped me clarify some of my own thoughts on a matter that's critically pressing.

The quietist temptation pervades contemplative religions: this notion that real Zenners sit serenely with a satisfied smirk on their faces while injustice gallops unchallenged and others suffer.

It's easy to mistake that for dharma.

Quietism is the opposite of theological activism: the idea that true practice means doing good outside in the Red Dust World. Western Zenners most commonly encounter its ad absurdum form in those Christians who are called to sing, exhort, and engage in public "praise" (an archaic word for advertising) by way of filibustering hesitant believers and driving converts to the fold, where they too will presumably join in such questionable practice.

We non-Christians and former Christians tend to lean hard on this demographic when the topic of activism comes up, since this sort of exercise is easily criticised. But let us note also the Christians who care for the poor and imprisoned; assist the stranger and the foreigner; educate the illiterate; raise the downtrodden; and actively enhance the levels of hope and opportunity in their community.

A rare few publicly oppose deliberate evil, often at significant personal risk, while others – Quakers, for example – go so far as to confront passive evil. While a minuscule fraction of the whole, these last still trounce the percentage of Buddhists doing it.

Which brings me back to the exchange with my brother. We began on common ground, agreeing that the popular Zen position that practice excuses us from protest is erroneous. That, said I, is an illogical conclusion; ethical people act, and as I've written before, if practice doesn't result in an ethical person, there's no need of it. (I, for example, am already a fully-transmitted Self-Absorbed Jackass. No need for cushions, candles, or things that go ding to attain that.)

In the end, my brother summed up this entire meditation in words he'd come to several years ago:

"If you don't sometimes sit down and shut up, you'll never be enlightened.

"If you don't sometimes stand up and shout, there's no reason to be enlightened."

He also offered an alternative phrasing (another translation, what) that I call "the Rinzai version":

"If you never get your ass on the cushion, you can never become enlightened.

"If you never get your ass off the cushion, there is no point to becoming enlightened."

Regular readers will comprehend which of these I'm most given to.


(Photograph of police arresting a Buddhist sitting lotus during the Clayoquot Sound protests courtesy of Aldo de Moor and Wikimedia Commons.)

WW: No Kings, Olympia

(US national day of demonstration, 14 June 2025. The photo depicts just the Capitol steps, where the speakers appeared, and maybe half the crowd below. There were about twice that many more on the front lawn and approaches, and maybe that many again on the sidewalks of the city, waving at passing drivers and receiving their honks of support.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Street Level Zen: Home

"A man is never lost at sea."

Ernest Hemingway


(Photo courtesy of Paul Harrison and Wikimedia Commons.)

WW: Flag lily

(Iris versicolour.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Good Song: Nobody Asks

Here's insight we can use.

In this short meditation, Rusty Ring favourite Peter Mayer sums up the lesson we all should have learned long ago, but that many – perhaps the majority – of us are still sulking over.

Candid elaboration on the Zen notion of dependent co-arising, as applied to the human condition (a subordinate form I prefer to call co-dependent arising), the whole track consists of little more than Peter's own voice and guitar, enhanced here and there with a ghostly violin at the edges. It all adds up to power that commands attention, and a sedate simplicity our sort esteem.

Another cut from Peter's excellent album Heaven Below.

I've got this on frequent rotation these days, as I absorb demands to take arms against successive waves of faceless, vaguely defined offenders. Give it a click; see if it doesn't help to keep you on-task as well.


NOBODY ASKS
by Peter Mayer

Nobody asks to be born
They just show up one day at life’s door
Saying here I am world
I’m a boy, I’m a girl
I'm rich, I am sick, I am poor

Nobody asks to be born

No one is given a say
They’re just thrown straight into the fray
The bell rings at ringside
And someone yells fight
Some just end up on the floor

Nobody asks to be born

And no one’s assured
Of a grade on the curve
Or a friend they can trust
Or a house where they’re loved
And no life includes
A book of how-to
Because nobody has lived it before

So to all the living be kind
Bless the saint and the sinner alike
And when babies arrive
With their unholy cries
Don’t be surprised by their scorn

Nobody asks to be born

WW: Calla lilies

(Zantedeschia sp.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Annoyance Kyôsaku

"I always think friction and having annoying things around is absolutely essential for good meditation. Otherwise, you become incredibly selfish, controlling, and easily upset."

Ajahn Sumedho

[I find this note encouraging, as friction and having annoying things around is basically the definition of my life and practice.]


(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

WW: Derelict treehouse

(Kids love treehouses, but the treehouse years are few and fleeting, and as the demographics of a neighbourhood age and change, those much-loved adult-proof hideaways quickly return to the source.

This one is relatively unusual, in that it was built by adults to an actual plan, and features a host of architectural novelties. (It's also not even technically a treehouse, since no part of it is a tree, but I'm sure the child who owned it considered it one.)

And though its construction was obviously both time-consuming and expensive so far as such structures go, within just a few years – that probably seemed like months to the child's parents – its owner grew up and out, and with no other potential residents in the vicinity, even this carriage-trade example became uninhabitable.

Which is why you see many more abandoned treehouses than occupied ones.

So next time you see an occupied treehouse, take note. Because chances are you're seeing impermanence in action.)



Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Good Cartoonist: Avi Steinberg

If you haven't discovered Avi Steinberg, you're in for a treat. (And if you have, a welcome visit back.)

Avi's deceptively simple New Yorker cartoons have a knack for penetrating the heart of the problem, often in ways that illuminate the crux of our delusions. Though not a Zenner to my knowledge, his work repeatedly strikes Zen-adjacent targets with a clarity worthy of Nasrudin.

I've avoided possible insult to Avi's copyright by not posting any examples on this page, though the writer in me is, like, "Really? You're trying to drive traffic to his Substack without showing anybody why they should go?"

But such is the looking glass of these greedy times.

So you'll have to trust me. Click the links. See what I'm talking about.

Start here.

I don't know if the guy meditates, but this about sums it up. It's part of a protracted exploration of the nature of anxiety, of which pretty much every frame is gold.

Then sample a few from his timeline:

Winning.

The perils of mindfulness.

Why it's hard to keep writing.


Then click through to some more.

Or just Google Avi and click on Images.


And then we'll all sue him for stealing our lives.


(Photo of Hotei figurine courtesy of Adrian Pingstone and Wikimedia Commons.)