Merely Observe Flowers

One of the ancillary benefits of Zoom is that you get a tiny glimpse into other people’s lives through what is behind them as they show up on your screen. While some of us zoomers choose fancy artificial backgrounds and others carefully curate a neutral background, most of us are content to display some small sections of our lives without worrying too much about it.

One of the participants (from Belgium) of our Boundless Way Temple Zoom meditation sessions had a lovely calligraphy scroll on the wall behind her the other day that some of us noticed and commented on. While she herself didn’t know what the characters meant, she sent a photo and one of our other members (from Pittsburgh) tracked down the meaning through a Reddit group. It’s the second line of a two-line poem by Liang Xianzhi, a Chinese poet from the Qing Dynasty (1644 to 1912).

Do not try to understand human affairs, merely observe flowers

As an aging gardener in the middle of a global pandemic, I take this as confirmation of what appears more and more evident to me. Human beings are endlessly difficult and confounding. I give myself a headache when I read or listen or watch too much news. The political maneuverings and power plays—the incessant blaming and vilifying of others—the sheer complexity of human affairs often feels overwhelming to me.

The garden and the flowers are a healing balm—an antidote to the fears and disturbances that so often pervade human interaction. The flowers are perfect teachers. They don’t give lectures or tests and you don’t have to take notes. The flowers don’t even demand that you pay attention. It’s all up to you. They simply show the way through their presence.

The flowers teach beauty and generosity. Each one, however large or small, expresses the essence of life.  The daffodils have been lecturing incessantly for the past five weeks–bright yellows, oranges and creams in various sizes and shapes. Their subtle fragrances and filigree belies their robust constitution. They survive the snow and sway easily with wind.

In their honor, I’ve decided to modify the meaning of the verb ‘to garden.’ Usually ‘to garden’ means ‘to cultivate or work in a garden.’ I’d like to take the work out it to expand the meaning to include ‘the act of walking through or sitting in a garden.’ This will now allow me to say, ‘I’m going out to garden’ and all I have to do is hang out in the garden.

‘Merely observe flowers’ is an invitation to turn our attention—to move from worried preoccupation to appreciative observation. We can choose to open our eyes and our hearts to receive the teachings of the flowers and the world around us. One worthy Zen teacher offered this pointer:

“Don’t seek transcendent enlightenment, just observe and observe—suddenly you’ll laugh out loud. Beyond this, there is nothing that can be said.’

Playing in the Dirt

These past weeks of social distancing have been a great time to garden. Without the distraction of being able to go out to restaurants and get together with others in person, there has been more time than usual to play in the dirt.

I have recently begun to suspect that there may be a genetic urge to dig in the soil as my grandson, at fourteen months old, can easily spend ten or fifteen minutes sitting down digging with his hands in the dirt. He clearly has his own wordless purposes and fascination with his activity. But from the outside, it looks like he is just picking up dirt from one place and letting it drop somewhere else. Already a gardener!

Though the weather of the past few weeks has been quite variable, I have been outside in the gardens of Boundless Way Temple most days. When the weather is good, I’ll spend an hour or two relocating various perennials or clearing out the winter debris or tending the various paths and beds. When the rain (or snow!) comes, I may just take a quick inspection tour to see what’s new and emerging. There’s always something to see and something to do.

I have a dear friend who is a ‘completest’, she gets great satisfaction from a kind of thoroughness and being able to check things off his list. I, on the other hand, tend to be an 80% kind of guy. I like to get most of the task done and then I’m on to the next project. I don’t have real ‘todo’ lists as much as I have lists of projects I want to work on. Her style can drive me nuts, but I like to do projects with her because things really get done. But my style works well in a large garden where the tasks are endless.

I suppose that’s one of the great appeals to me of caring for a garden. There’s always something that needs to be done—there’s always some way to be useful. Caring for the garden helps me feel like I am part of something greater than me. As long as I don’t think I’m ever going to finish, it gives me a ongoing purpose and sense of connecting to life itself.

In the garden, I am intimately engaged with the forces of growth and decay that have their own unstoppable momentum. In recent years, I have been more appreciative of the generative necessity of decay as part of the cycle of life/death that is the garden. Decomposition is what turns last year’s dead plant matter into useable form for these year’s plants to use for their renewed purposes.

Decay is an integral part of life. The microbes and fungi and tiny bugs and worms that break down the old branches and leaves and flowers are part what makes life possible. Without these lively beings who happily go about their own silent purposes, there would be no room for new life and nothing to nourish the next generation.

Even as I look from my morning chair to the miracle of my trays of sprouted seeds eagerly awaiting their time to be out in the real sun, I appreciate the liveliness of the garden as it already is. And I’m looking forward to going out in today’s rain to check up on the rising and the falling of the cool green life I call the Temple Garden in spring.

Without Justification

This morning,
rather than diagnosing
and recommending,
in pragmatic prose,
a way through
the current crisis,
I sip tea and
practice being
irresponsible.

The dark masters
gather and grumble
at my indolence,
but I courageously
resist their muttered
insults and seductions.

I have grown old
and weary in steadfast
pursuit of their fickle
approval; as if
freedom could happen
at some other time.

Every action chooses
dungeon or delight:
the futile quest for
self-earned grace or
some rougher sweet
enterprise depending
only on what has already
been freely given.

This morning
again I practice
resistance to
the ancient gods
of Self accomplishment
and vow to disappear
into just this
one life without justification.