The idea, as I sat in the sun, was that when we attempt to bucket the world into inherent qualities we limit ourselves immensely.
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Part One.
The moment we define good, we define bad – that is, where there once was rain, there is now “bad” weather – when, truly, there is only rain.
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Yesterday I sat outside in a t-shirt and sunglasses, smelled hyacinth poking through mulch gardens, sipped my first iced coffee of 2016 and forgot about our cold, at times snowy, spring. I’m a longtime reader of haiku and, with as much success as any mindfulness or breathing practice, it has helped me develop a serene acceptance. Haiku is the art of looking without judgement and “always bearing in mind the true nature of things,” said Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694). It begins in nature. So, in my notebook, alongside my comments on agrarian precapitalism in the southern colonies, I wrote a three lines which might not be haiku, but share the sentiment: Snow on the way / no matter / today is beautiful. The idea, as I sat in the sun, was that when we attempt to bucket the world into inherent qualities (good weather, in this case), we limit ourselves immensely.
The moment we define good, we define bad – that is, where there once was rain, there is now “bad” weather – when, truly, there is only rain. In many contexts, (the agrarian, for one), rain is nourishing and necessary. We bring our own traveling context of language, and the choice of how to label is ours. Haiku names without judgement. It sees without bias. In its simplicity, it recognizes those things in plain sight but all too frequently overlooked; reading them can be a gift.
Before the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate
for a moment
Yosa Buson (1716-1783) is a keen observer. In his observation, he reveals the very nature of observation: the scissors hesitate in the presence of the flower before it’s clipped – an observation of an observation – so the haiku poet makes his art. Bashō, on another chrysanthemum:
Sickly,
but somehow the chrysanthemum
is budding
He’s just taking the time to look. But in doing so, Bashō is a witness to life finding a way (c’mon spring!) – budding forth from the plain and the (sometimes) odd. And while they begin in observation, the weight of haiku can be enormous, demonstrated in Buson’s
Butterfly
sleeping
on the temple bell
I showed that one to a friend and he said, curtly, I don’t get it. There’s nothing to get, I said. The butterfly is sleeping on the bell. Only when we agreed that there was value in that plainness did we go on to discuss the weight of the tiny butterfly – sleeping, somehow more precious – atop a heavy metal clangor full of ominous potential – such delight in that dynamic, and further delight when one imagines that powerful bell remaining still and silent for the butterfly, conscious of its own power but allowing the butterfly to rest. Further delight in the idea that perhaps it is the simple butterfly who, contrary to its surface-level fragility, has the power to stifle the bell – might this serve as a metaphor for the power of haiku?
Or perhaps it is just a butterfly and a bell, each of them quit and still.
Although Basho’s “Coolness of the melons / flecked with mud / in the morning dew” makes me hungry for the simple days of summer, I wait, and I am contented in doing so.
… I wanted to judge them, and the world, and curse modern life with all of the problematic complexities rewiring our brains and inventing anxieties over ever-present chatter disguised as communication which is, in its hollowness, watering down authentic connections …
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Last night I took the train home and noticed the unified posture of the MBTA: a row of question marks, heads down, backs bent, faces lit sickly with LED – I wanted to judge them, and the world, and curse modern life with all of the problematic complexities rewiring our brains and inventing anxieties over ever-present chatter disguised as communication which is, in its hollowness, watering down authentic connections – worshipping whatever piece of tech we’re tapping at in the moment, or not tapping at, which is sometimes worse – but I didn’t judge. Or, more accurately, I did – but I took a deep breath and put space between my situation and my self.
Acknowledging that this sort of dissociated looking is sometimes difficult in the modern world (though we should try), it always helps to hear that even
The hollyhocks
lean toward the sun
in the May rain
Part Two.
Basho, regarding a poet that work diligently to color his mind by assiduous looking said, “the color of his mind naturally becomes a poem.”
As spring rain/blizzards give way to whatever May might hold, we should attempt to take Bashō’s advice: look, listen, breathe, and think. Leave space in your mind to be surprised, since the only way to be wrong in this world is to be absolutely certain.
At its worst, those “absolutes” promote terror and violence and hate based on the arrogant assumption that there is a clear and singular “right,” that they are on the side of it, and no external context or perspective is valid.
At its best this arrogance is benign.
To those graduating this spring, beware any sort of universal absolute in regard to your future.
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But for many of us, it is easy to imagine moments where it was, minimally, a conversation killer: you never call me back or you’re always late to class. The position in an argument of one who believes he is absolutely 100% correct anchors a perspective in melodrama rather than fact – good conversations include emotion, but they are not made of it.
There again, we need to slow down, to take a little longer to look. For some of us, that slowing down will initially feel like more work, but when the more we walk the neural pathways of our brain, the more we carve clear paths – the easier this work becomes.
To those graduating this spring, beware any sort of universal absolute in regard to your future. Think like a haiku poet, but “do not follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek what they sought.” Leave room for improvisation, and color your minds well. A mind colored by hate will produce hateful things. A mind colored exclusively by critique will paint the world with cynicism. But a mind colored by inquiry, empathy, hope, and the desire to do good in the world has the fantastic opportunity to accomplish exactly that.
Look close, breathe deep, for our work is just beginning. There are few things more exciting than that.
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Photo: Pixabay