Everywhere I look the fullness of early spring sprouts forth. The many Temple trees are now covered with green filigree as their future leaves materialize out of thin air.

Where were those leaves hiding throughout the cold winter? When the snows came and weighed down the branches how did these tender beings survive? Were they wintering in some other universe?  I imagine little leaf people lying on warm beaches in other worlds – talking about how lovely it is to be away from the daily grind of hanging from a tree, but at the same time kind of missing it. They sip alcoholic drinks and get woozy – make sloppy love with each other in some esoteric leafy kind of way. And perhaps they eventually get bored and begin to long once again for the high breezy places.

Do they each get an assignment? Planet earth. Worcester, Mass. On the top branch of the katsura tree in the back of a Boundless Way Temple. Maybe there’s excitement—‘Have you ever been a katsura leaf before? It’s a great opportunity. Don’t forget to make that graceful heart-shape as you sprout out. And you can sprout right from the branch, no need to wait for a growing tip. And here’s how to make that lovely smell – a little like cinnamon or nutmeg – not too much – just enough to make the Zen people wonder as they walk below.’

That’s probably what happens.

Anyway, they are back now. Emerging and blossoming.  Sprouting golden green and lacy from the dry brown solidity of wood—an impossible feat repeated endlessly as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

This astonishing miracle of life is hidden in plain sight – everywhere abounding – everywhere present. In the mustard weed that I pull incessantly with some annoyance to these magnificent trees that grace the Temple grounds. While we humans too often spend our days conjuring a landscape of worry—forgetting that, like the countless leaf beings, we too have sprouted forth from some utterly mysterious place—that we are indeed infinitely lucky to be hanging from whatever branch we find ourselves today.

 Just at sunrise for a moment
sometimes streaming stardust
intertwingles with Itself
and manifests unbidden.

 For me, a sacred ascent
of the dark urban mountain
while savvy locals scurry
up and down for exercise.

 But I dawdle, always hoping for
a glimpse of God’s garment—
always dreaming of flaming words
to save me from descent.

This particular morning,
an unexceptional saguaro
with no arms announces
the gospel of momentary grace.

I dream of walking through spring-damp gardens to greet the surprising rise of green shoots while I break ice in the parking lot to clear safe walkways to the Temple.  What a pity!

Nearer Charlotte, the landscape flattens and houses sprout with rectangular regularity.  The straighter lines of muscular highways impose themselves over the landscape — organizing principles promising the false efficiency of arriving somewhere more important – faster.  But in the meantime (and our whole life happens in the meantime), we miss the melody of the sweet unreasoning changes of texture and contour that are the thing itself.

We intimately travel the boundless landscape of our lives.  Why hurry?  It’s just one thing after the other.  And besides, soon enough we will reach the surprising conclusion – that vaster mystery of death – so apparently beyond these fleeting breaths of form.

No straight lines for me please.  Give me the sweep of the curve that tells the ancient geometry of the earth – the unexpected arc that follows the contours of some deeper urgency.  Let this turn as the plane tilts and banks toward the unseen runway be enough of a destination for now.  Let me enjoy the soft touching that happens on its own – my shoulder against the unknown stranger sitting right here in the seat next to me.

Waking this morning a little before six.  Through the eastern window at the foot of my bed, I see my day beginning at the horizon – a clear band of soft light below a layer of clouds.  How to get out of bed this morning?  I have time.  It’s still early.

Rather than force the issue, I try to wake myself gently.  Like a father hovering over his young son – wanting to wake him but not wanting to disturb him.  Lovingly touching the small sleeper’s shoulder, he murmurs: ‘David.  David.  Time to wake up.’

Now I remember.  It’s my mother’s voice waking me up.   It didn’t used to be my job to wake up or to know what time it was.  That was Mom’s job—coming into my room to urge me toward the vertical.  Now it’s all up to me—to get in time for meditation—to remember what day it is and what I’m supposed to do.  I’ve gotten pretty good at it, but part of me longs for the days when it wasn’t my responsibility.

But now that it’s my job, in the waking, if I can, I like to find the current that guides me from the dark river of sleep and toward the firmer bank of consciousness.  On a good day I can almost sense the water gradually getting shallower as I drift toward the dawning.  At some point, my feet find the firm earth beneath the surface. I stand and walk out into a new country—the land of this day.

I wander through fields and streets meeting the strangely familiar people of this foreign country. I try to communicate with them though mostly I can’t  understand their language of odd sounds and gestures.  I watch carefully to learn their customs and do my best to join in the busyness and festivities.

When I tire of it all, I somehow find my way back to the river and enter once more—wading into the shallows then giving myself back to the fluid darkness to be carried off once more.

This sleeping and waking—this falling in and out of consciousness every night and day makes me wonder if the one who thinks he is in charge of my life may not actually be the primary mover – that maybe it is the river rather than me.

Sunlight splashes through this second floor window – just now cresting the rooftops to the east – thickly yellow against the pale wall of my bedroom.  I swing my feet to the floor and pad off toward the bathroom.

The first night after the operation on my shoulder, I slept in the recliner.  Between the nerve block in my arm and the oxycodone pain meds, I drifted effortlessly between sleep and an easy but dull wakefulness.  The next day, Thursday, was a delightful day.  I took my pain meds regularly – along with a stool softener that a friend had highly recommended – and enjoyed a spacious day of sitting in my recliner throne without a care in the world.  Melissa brought me food and kept my ice pack cold and I spent much of the day silently chanting the name of the Bodhisattva of Compassion.  (Kwanseom Bozol in Korean)  With each repetition I fingered another bead on my set of black mala beads and sent my faithful call off into the universe.

This practice of chanting the name – of calling out to the Bodhisattva of Compassion is an ancient Buddhist practice that is described in the Lotus Sutra.  Kwanseom (Kannon) is the bodhisattva that hears the cries of the world.  As we call out, Kwanseom’s response is immediate.  This teaching of the power of supplication and prayer is present in many of the world’s great spiritual traditions.  Jesus said ‘Knock and the door shall be open.  Ask and it shall be given.’  Bodhisattva James Taylor sang ‘You just call out my name and you know wherever I am, I’ll come runnin…’

This teaching of a universe that responds immediately to the individual cries of human beings, is clearly not true.  In high school, I prayed for victory before every wrestling match and only had a moderately good record.  On long meditation retreats, I used to call out to be relieved of the suffering of my mind and would most often find myself in the same mental bramble patch after my calling out as before.  But perhaps the truth of this teaching manifest at some other level than the world of appearances and wish fulfillment.

So on Thursday, I called out for help and was able to rest in the spaciousness of pain-free ease and good feeling.  It was quite lovely and I could see how these round white oxycodone pills are quite popular ‘on the street.’  Who wouldn’t want to feel like this?  Nothing to do, nowhere to go.  Just sitting here seemed fully enough.

Later in the afternoon, the nausea began.  Not terrible, but enough to disrupt my alloted time in the heavenly realms.  The chanting which had seemed so sweet and certain, gradually drained of its magical powers and turned two dimensional – just some flat words and endless beads on a string.  By the evening I had given up.  The current issue of Sports Illustrated that I had previously set aside in favor of the higher toned Dogen’s ‘Instructions to the Cook,’ became my new religious text.

I always hope I will have more courage and determination than I actually do.  I imagine I will be able to tough it out – to maintain my perfect Zen composure to see me through whatever difficulties that may arise.  And while there are many times when I am able to abide calmly in challenging situations, there are also points where I collapse – where I lose my way, right in the middle of something important.  At these times, I can’t remember what I was supposed to be doing and why it seemed like a good idea in the first place.  I run out of my own power.  It always feels like failure, but more and more I recognize it as entry point.

So here I am.  Stuck in the recliner for another night feeling slightly nauseas.  I’m not in a lot of pain, but I’m confused and disheartened.  Time has slowed down.  The approaching night threatens to be one of the endless kind.  I’ve run out of faith in my techniques and practices.  A subtle panic rises slowly as I see no escape route.

The last time I remember this happening was when I had the flu several years ago.  The panic led to darker and darker places where I felt overwhelmed by negative thoughts and  powerless to find any way back.  I pray I don’t have to revisit that land.  I am dimly aware of some kind of choice here.  I can fight this and will certainly lose.  Or I can surrender.

In the abstract, I have a great philosophical preference for surrender.  Given my estimate of the relative power of my self-will versus the power of the universe, the only sensible thing to do is to say YES to whatever arises.  But this clarity of thought and belief is not always enough, actually is never enough, when things turn desperate.  Just because I want to or think I should, I can’t will myself to surrender.  Consciously choosing to surrender does not actually loosen the grip of my opinion about how things should be.  The intention to surrender is not the same thing as surrendering.

True surrendering happens at a deeper level – in the innermost chamber of my heart.  And it seems to happen in its own time and of its own accord – always a kind of grace.  The surrender — the letting go — allows me entry into a new kind of freedom – a freedom that is not dependent on external conditions or my images of how things should be.

So Thursday night, I feel myself at the edge – and I am not certain which way I will go.  It clearly isn’t up to the ‘me’ who I usually assume is in charge.  That ‘me’ had given it his best shot and come up lacking.  I don’t have the energy to fight any more or to try to do much of anything.

I have a vague memory of giving up – of realizing that my whole life—my thoughts and mental states, my physical condition, my sensations are beyond my control.  That I may journey through the hell realms or I may not, but that I am simply too tired to struggle.  So I somehow give myself back to the universe and go into the darkness with a quiet prayer that I might be taken care of by the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, by the saints and the mercies of God.

And in that moment, the darkness is no longer dark—the confusion no longer confusing.  No great victory, just an imperceptible settling.  I put my Sports Illustrated down, close my eyes and go to sleep.  I wake twice to pee and take my pain medication but slept easily through the night.

I don’t know how this happens, this grace of release.  I only know that it is the most precious thing in the world – the only thing that has the power to save us in whatever state we are in.

Every thing, every breath is freely given but one of the requirements of fully receiving and appreciating is the realization of the inadequacy of my individual efforts.  In the end, I let go not because I think it is a good idea, but I have run out of other options.  I abandon all hope and fall into the arms of a merciful God – into the heart of Kwanseom Bozol and I am saved once more.

Back from arthroscopic surgery on my right shoulder.  It was a ‘minor’ outpatient procedure last Wednesday but involved general anesthesia – which, as a friend pointed out, is quite similar to dying.

On the table in the rather chilly operating room, I took two breaths from the clear plastic mask and remember thinking how silly that the drugs weren’t working.  Then I opened my eyes in another dimly lit room with a slightly sore throat and the doctor looking at a clipboard at the foot of my bed.  Apparently, it all happened without me.

When I asked about my throat, they casually mentioned the tube they inserted to keep me breathing.  They hadn’t told me about that part in advance – that I would be so totally at their mercy that I couldn’t even breathe for myself.

I am grateful for the skill of the doctors and nurses that kept me alive and repaired my shoulder, but delighted to out from under their protections and ministrations.

I like breathing on my own.

Then there are moments of the opposite – sitting in the meditation hall with a mind that is bleary and unfocused, an eternity passes before the timer strikes the bell for us to stand up.  A slow evening spent reading blog posts about whether American Buddhism is real Buddhism or if we are simply saying we are Buddhist.  My mind caught in this internal sectarian debate, then waking up this morning and wondering what that all has to do with opening to the truth of our lives – opening to God.

I have a dear friend who strenuously objects to my use of the word ‘God.’  To him, it feels exclusionary and reminds him of being forced to sing hymns in chapel at prep school.  He says: ‘You don’t believe in a God with a white beard sitting up on a throne do you?’  I reassure him that when I say God, I am referring to the great mystery, the Tao that cannot be named.

But secretly, sometimes I do talk to God.  I know it’s not ‘correct’ and that God is not a plain fellow like me, or a souped-up version of me. But when times get tight, I offer up a prayer, a call for help in a very personal way.  My usual prayer is ‘You got me into this mess, now you better figure out how to get me out of it.’  I often say this to myself when I am headed out of the house to present to a group – to preach or lead a workshop or read from my book.  I’ve worked with so many groups and I have some confidence in my capacity to make something interesting happen,  But almost every time, I am viscerally reminded that I don’t know how to do what I do.

I do my planning and figuring.  But the connection in the moment that I seek happens on its own.  It’s not about my notes and plans, but rather something that arises in the moment.  I have come to trust this arising more and more, but I still don’t understand it.  I am certain that it is more than me, that I am tapping into some source that is not domesticatable.  Certain things I experience, say and do can help, but I cannot create this connection of myself – it is simply what arises when we stop doing some of the things that get in the way.

But it’s cold this morning.  The thermometer outside the kitchen window says minus nine, but it’s usually a bit over-dramatic.  It’s probably only minus two or three.  My friend in Minnesota says they were predicting minus seventeen there this morning.  I guess it’s not so cold here after all.