Spring Snow

Through the morning,
wet flakes fall heavily.

Daffodils bow down
while undaunted
ferns unfurl.

Not Looking Away

Another black man killed at the hands of a police officer in Minnesota. Duane Wright was killed in his car after being pulled over because of expired plates and an air freshener dangling from his mirror. Mr. Wright had an outstanding arrest warrant from a misdemeanor weapons charge and was being handcuffed as he attempted to get back in his car and drive away. Kimberly Potter, the third police officer at the scene, then said ‘Taser, Taser, Taser’ as she shot Mr. Wright in the chest with her handgun, apparently mistaking it for her Taser. She was arrested yesterday and charged with second-degree manslaughter.

This happened earlier in the week but I have not written about it because I don’t know what to say. How can this keep happening? Just as the murder trial of Derek Chauvin, the ex-police officer charged in the brutal death of George Floyd, nears its completion, we come up against this seemingly ongoing police campaign against Black men again.

One protestor in Brooklyn Center where Mr. Wright was killed told a reporter, ‘Black people can’t take anymore. We can’t bear the responsibility of the change of the system that must occur for us to be acknowledged and be able to exist as humans.’

I feel grief, anger and helplessness at the unending violence being directed at Black people, Asian people, and all people of color—at women and people of non-binary and non-standard gender identities. This violence is a lived experience and continual threat to the lives of so many. The violence arises from fear and leads to more fear. This violence is perpetrated by individuals, but those individuals are acting out the deeper terrors of a culture that undergoing an existential crisis.

This country was founded on lofty principles that were inextricably intertwined with a system of slavery and the subjugation of women that was viewed as necessary and acceptable. On many levels, great progress has been made. But beneath this progress, the roots of violence and oppression remain baked into our psyches and our cultural institutions. Black and brown bodies and women’s bodies continue to be subjected to the terror of ongoing random acts of violence. No one is safe.

So I again pledge to not turn away from the horrors being inflicted on my sisters and brothers at the hands of the institutions that seemingly make my life safe and secure. I vow to keep showing up and using my power and privilege to acknowledge violence wherever it happens and to support ongoing actions and conversations that can lead, ever so slowly, to some kind of accountability, healing and new possibilities.

A Small Offering

This morning, many entrance points appear, but all are overgrown with the brambles of self-consciousness.

Every inspiration, left to its own devices, deteriorates to a technique that the little self uses to reinforce its defenses against the true and generative shape-shifting reality.

In my ritual of daily creation there is danger—the allure of imagining I know what I am doing. Then, lost in reliance on some self-conscious skill, I fall away from the hazardous heart of things and am condemned to wander in the dreary world of what I already know.

My audacious intention is to live on the edge of the unknown.

I want to pitch my tent on the edge of the great and mysterious forest. Like the great explorers of old, I want to make forays into that uncharitable territory that is the interwoven source of all.

I want to slip into the realm of illuminated shadows to see what I can learn about appearing and disappearing. I aspire to join in the great rising and falling of it all then to report back of wondrous creatures and fresh vistas.

Each small journey, if I can lose myself clearly enough, becomes its own life and death. I practice following some thread I can never know—waiting patiently until what arises offers its own shape and meaning. I do my best to use what I know gently and tentatively, never sure if what applied yesterday is still valid today.

So, this morning, just this. A few cautions, a few intentions—a small offering from the dark forest.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Delighted and Unmoved

The granite stone Buddha that was carved out of a Chinese mountain has sat for twelve years in front of the weeping cherry tree by the entrance to the Boundless Way Temple. Through snow storms and sunshine, through harmony and discord—he is unfazed and serene. The white cherry blossoms have come again this year—behind his back like an artificial Zoom background that flickers on-screen for a moment, only to disappear back to the mundane branches and leaves.

Briefly. Just a week—two at most. But reliable as a stone that falls from your hand when you unclasp your grip.

Usually, the two ton stone Buddha and his background would have had quite an appreciative audience this weekend, but our Zen retreat was on-line again so only I and a few Temple Garden visitors have witnessed the silent magic trick. An umbrella of delicate white blossoms, complete with buzzing bees, happy for the early spring nourishment. As for me, it’s nectar too, this dependably extravagant display of fragile beauty. I look long and long, trying to understand and receive the wisdom of such largess.

I saw the tight buds begin swelling slightly in the early spring. Eventually some small white came to the tip of the buds. Then the first few blossoms that could not contain themselves burst into light followed by all the others tumbling open over the next twenty-four hours. From within their tightly packed space capsules, their wondrous white petals deployed with papery finesse—showing no signs of fatigue from their long dark journey within the bud.

But the stone Buddha forever faces away. Does he miss seeing this annual ritual of brief flowering behind is back? Or does the faint smile deepen ever so slightly on his granite lips? Can he hear the buzzing of the countless bees who have been summoned? Or the softest rustling of the delicate white petals? Perhaps he just delighted by the reflected wonder in the eyes of those of us that come to pay homage the brief miracle of the weeping cherry.

But however it is viewed or not viewed, the cherry tree never holds back. She offers her full display without gauging reactions or worrying about how long the run will be. Just a week or two is a full lifetime, then petals will drop and the tree will go on with green leaves as if it had been all a dream.

While the granite Buddha sits delighted and unmoved.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

On Retreat Till Tuesday

I’m leading a Zen meditation retreat and have foresworn dancing, playing cards and writing.  (Just kidding about the dancing.)  I’ll resume writing on Tuesday but probably not playing cards until later in the week.

I’ve been trying to upgrade my email process related to these reflections, but a number of people have reported not receiving the usual posts over the past two weeks.  If you used to get these posts regularly and have suddenly not received any, please let me know at  DRynick@gmail.com.

Blessings,

David