One of the reasons I believe in jazz is that the oneness of man can come through the rhythm of your heart. It’s the same any place in the world, that heartbeat. It’s the first thing you hear when you’re born — or before you’re born — and it’s the last thing you hear. — Dave Brubeck



Showing posts with label Jon Joseph Roshi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jon Joseph Roshi. Show all posts

Thursday, September 10, 2020

The Many Voices, a Note from Jon Joseph Roshi


by Jon Joseph Roshi

Jon has allowed me to repost his commentary on the koan "Little Jade." 

I will attest that the monsoon has finally let up. Thank you, Jon.

Nora Reza


A treasury official retired and came home to Sichuan where he sought out Wuzu to learn about Zen. Wuzu said, "When you were young, did you read a poem which went something like:

 

“She calls to her maid,

‘Little Jade!’

not because she wants something

but just so her lover will hear her voice."

 

The official said, "Yes, I read it."

Wuzu said, "That is very near to Zen."

   ~ PZI Miscellaneous Koans; Entangling Vines, Case 98, Notes

 

This is too rich a story-koan to leave its many parts unvisited, so I would like to sit with it again this week. The above exchange is deeply touching for me: a mistress of the house is calling to her lover through her maid, Little Jade. It is very near to Zen, says the teacher Wuzu. I have a warm memory of this koan, when a few years ago, at St Dorothy’s Rest, a moldering century-old building deep in a redwood forest, we were holding a week-long retreat. I walked into the kitchen to help with cooking, and found my retreat roommate, a former Jesuit novitiate, rooting and clanging through the industrial pots. He was calling out, “Little Jade! Little Jade! Where are you, Little Jade?” At that retreat, unbidden, he gave me a pair of new white socks, which I still have, though they now have holes in the toes.

 

It was all the more unsettling and heart rending, then, to read my Little-Jade friend’s recent blog posts on revisiting his first major love encounter as a gay man. What he thought was a friendship of growing mutual love and respect, turned out to be forced sex and rape, a pattern of emotional abuse that lasted for a quarter century. “I can find no silver lining in the story of my abusive relationship with B, but even if there were one, the relationship was so muddy that I don’t know where to begin to look,” begins his blog.

 

So how to resolve, for him, the many decades-long pain that recently revisited him? “It is my ghost,” he wrote me from Dharamshala, in India, where he now lives. An acquaintance of his and follower of the same psychic-spiritual school from those days, wrote that she herself was able to put her shadow behind her by “obliterating the traces of her parents’ negative influence" in a daily ritual of stamping out her family’s memories. She suggested my Little-Jade friend try the same. “Only time can judge its effectiveness,” my friend writes sardonically.

 

Last night I checked in with him via WhatsApp. McLeod Ganj, like all of India, is under stay-at-home orders; the dark downpour of the monsoon has not let up for weeks. “How are you doing?” I asked my Little-Jade friend, who is alone in his small apartment all day long. We talked about the dark nature of his posts, and laughed about Little Jade in the kitchen years ago. Despite the need, he felt, to write of his experience, he does know that “the Little Jade poem has been written more than once,” and that “it comes in more than one voice.” The variations of the Little Jade poem have allowed him to fall into some deeply satisfying love relationships in his life, he says. “I now write my own Little-Jade poem.”  I sent him Tony Hoagland’s piece, A Color of the Sky, one of my favorites (fragment below):

 

Last night I dreamed of X again.

like a stain on my subconscious sheets.

Years ago she penetrated me

but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,

I never got her out,

but now I’m glad.

 

I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.

I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.

What I thought was an injustice

turned out to be a color of the sky.

 

Perhaps the rain will let up soon. That would be very near to Zen.


___________________________


P. S. Here are two links to the the writing Jon refers to: 

This Victim Refuses Silence

A Very Personal Question: Can I Forgive Bob Hoffman?


Saturday, October 12, 2019

A Poached Egg Koan

In memory of Blue Bell. You, kitty, were a joy.


On the joys of looking for a slotted spoon in a really well equipped kitchen.

One morning I got up in an empty house where I had been charged with looking after a very smart cat, and decided to poach two eggs. Simple.


Of course everyone knows that you need a slotted spoon to achieve the pinnacle of poached eggs, slots or holes spaced just right to release the water and save all the luscious strands of lightly cooked egg white. 

So I began my search....

Everything is perfectly ordered. All the pot holders are clean and neatly arranged by size and usage. Ah, I hadn’t found the right drawer.

Then I looked again in three drawers where I’d looked for a coffee filter that I didn’t find. And didn’t need

Then I discovered sauce pans sorted by size and use, but got distracted by the perfect action of the high end closing slides--they completed the shutting motion so smoothly and silently that I suspected black magic. But it was more likely that they represented a long process of industrial design, lots of trial and error, lots of user feedback, many hours exploring the physics of metal to metal resistance smoothed by precise bearings. 

Then too many choices, 14 wooden spoons mixed in with plastic spatulas, but alas, none with slots. Another drawer! Ah pay dirt! A drawer just for spoons, so many choices! A spoon for every occasion. What could go wrong? But perhaps it was just that my eyesight has dimmed and I could not distinguish any slots in the lot. 

But the boiling water had almost finished its job. I had to act now. So I grabbed a metal spoon, and just drained the water out by tipping it against the side of the pan. Some salt and pepper. Perfect.

Yesterday I was trying to explain to a Tibetan monk why I loved koan practice. An impossible task. Capturing words to describe the experience is as easy as making arrows collide in midair or describing the first time feeling sand slip through your fingers though you’ve felt it a million times!

But it could be just the fun of searching through a well stocked kitchen and finally tasting a well-cooked poached egg.


The funeral of Ösel Tendzin. Deliver us from cults.

My friend Barbara O’Brian alerted me to an article by Steven Butterfield, When the Teacher Fails . It was published in 1989 while Ösel Tend...