My zen is simple
just sitting zen
in my home
no expectation
no judgment

my zen is old zen
not as monk
not separate 
hermitage zen
world passing by

my zen is sangha
two three many
sit alone
with others
all the same

zen as it has been
facing a wall
thoughts come
thoughts go
silence

my zen is simple
helps me
calms anxiety
since a child
biting my nails

my zen is child
become old
changed yes no
just myself
young or old the same 

Korin Etsudo zen
ancient forest
joyful path
hear my name called
Korin! Joyful!

zen of morning
springtime
I hear birds
see them fly
dharma life

my zen is simple
sit morning
sit evening
be at ease
let it all go

Not shikintaza - just sitting still
as now, outside in the spring evening,
no better thing to do or place to go.
Carol often said, seeing me leap up
to get or do something or other
rarely important hardly necessary,
"You're like a Mexican jumping bean!"
All those years she was right.

It is a practice for me
not unlike shikintaza - just sit.
She would appreciate that I am trying
making an effort at last
if too late for her.
It helps I no longer have a home 
a large yard, garage, car
all seeming to require my constant attention.

How often I interrupted her calm way.
Had I learned my lesson sooner 
one I am practicing now -
to be still, quiet, at rest -
she too could have enjoyed her rest the more.
On the scale of things I might have done better
my annoying habit would not rank high.
That it is on the scale at all makes me sad.

Time remembered
time begun.
As much as is behind
so much ahead
unmeasured by days
but in silence stillness.
My past so rare
found in such a state.

I wish to be so now
as daylight fades to dusk
precious days
no calendar can say
needing not to be filled
as they are full
only to lightly live
walking soft with care.







 

Pondering solitude
I remember a lonesome place -
Lake Solitude.
There is no road to Lake Solitude.
To go there is to go alone
seeking what few seek
finding a way on a little used trail
once there calm ripples on a placid surface.

Solitude found by the quiet mind
no road or trail.
Solitude unbounded
emptiness a vast horizon.
Sit. Mind expands
opening to a vast timeless realm.
It is all just here - hummingbird alights
spring sun sets through the pine.

The national folk epic of Finland, The Kalevala,
tells of the foreboding "cold spring wind."
It's here today in Seattle.
Being of centuries old Finnish ancestry
I feel quite at home sitting outside
as the wind roars through the trees.

This is a thing I think about in solitude -
where I come from and where I'm going.
The cold spring wind is the story of waiting
as cold winds blow over still melting ice and snow.

With Carol I visited Finland
she enduring with great grace
our visits to the homes of every cousin
and there are many indeed!
Endless pots of coffee were poured out
trays loaded with buns cakes and pastries were eaten!
They were pleased to meet an American cousin
and sit all around the room speaking of family.
They had not left their lands 
as my grandmother did in 1911.
The lands are utterly rural - flat farmland 
autumn stubble on all sides surrounded by deep forest.

My Finland and Michigan homes are in my past -
grandparents, parents, American and Finnish cousins.
There is no one I can to talk to of my ancient story.
All I can do is think of it from time to time
consider how their blood and mine 
share something deep and old.

My Michigan cousins I grew up with 
are still in Michigan or are gone.
There is not a reason I know of 
for me to go home again.
Seattle is my chosen home and my last home.

Carol's two daughters and granddaughter 
remain in my life but with her gone
our bonds weaken as the years pass.
I don't know how long we can keep it together
I'll do my best but their lives remain in front of them.
I've written of Carol, their mother and grandmother,
but I've not told them of my writings.
I don't know whether I ought to or not
if they would care to read what I've written
what they would think.
Their memories and stories are theirs to tell.

It's a cold spring wind kind of thing
blowing through me carrying 
remains of loss and winter away.
The wind blows cold tonight
but it blows through the fulness of spring
leaved branches and flowers opening all around.





 

Tonight's wind whips tree branches 
as the forestalled sun is cloud hidden.
My home is quiet but for clanging wind chimes
stillness and incense this spring eve.

Since my wife died 
I've thought myself lonely.
Difficult to think that - lonely -
a troubling feeling
hinting a kind of disease
a thing to be cured.

At length I understand 
it is not loneliness I feel
but the presence of solitude -
caretaker of the soul.

Stillness quietude calm -
solitude's sensual expressions.
I ought to have known all along
it is the very sanctum 
and refuge I needed most.

A poetic palindrome - kinnikinnik -
Pacific Northwest native plant
small, evergreen, lovely
carpeting the floors of our ancient forests.
Where, you might ask 
did such an exquisite palindrome come from?
Why, from the Algonquin peoples 
whose unceded forested lands
included the Huron National Forest
surrounding the small town 
in Michigan where I grew up. 

Why kinnikinnik?
Because the etymologic name 
is the longest true palindrome
in the English language!
Also because I now have two
tiny palindromes on my veranda.

I am neither plant nor palindrome
nor am I native to this land I call home.
It is home about which I wish to write
going the long way around to it.

I too quickly left our Portland home
following my wife's death.
We were happy there for ten years
near her daughters and granddaughter. 

When Carol went away
I found myself alone
too easy to make decisions without
another to check my worst instincts
to make hasty and often expensive decisions
for which I have paid more than the cost.

I wished to get back to Seattle
where we had lived for many happy years.
Seattle, big city doorway
to forests and mountains of the Olympic peninsula.
I did not look within.
I practiced zazen but did not, in retrospect,
deeply practice the practice.
Had I done so I might
have checked my own worst instincts
without the need for another 
to keep an eye out on me.

The inherent nature of zazen 
is to slow the world down
still its frantic whirl
allow senses to capture 
more than sights and sounds
also the slow movements of the spirit
however we might imagine that spirit to be.

In what land is zazen a race towards anything?
No land I know of,
except the one square inch of land 
the ancients called "mind,"
specifically, my mind.

No. I sat cross-legged
but it was my mind that got all crossed up 
going where I was not 
getting there before I had left.

I write to offer feeble excuse.
I came to be in a place I loved
having lived here many years.
I am no native of this place
not like the lovely kinnikinnik
but I've sunk my Michigan roots here
white birch trees perch and all.
I'll not be in haste again
to leave this place I love so well.

We moved to Seattle in 1997
leaving Reno, never really home to us.
Quit our jobs, sold our home
to live closer to her daughters in Portland.
Seattle close enough for us
far enough away for them!

Driving across I-90 through the Mercer tunnel
revealing the beautiful face of Seattle. 
Don't remember the how or why
continuing north on I-5 
turning off onto Eastlake
where we found the 14-Carrot Cafe.

Reading this, whoever you are,
go to the 14-Carrot Cafe
and toast Carol and Tom
who came to love Seattle there.

Years passed. 
Seattle seasons one after the other
spring sweet seasons
winter chilly seasons
summer sun without rain seasons
autumn seasons brilliant leaves and cool.
Together we loved them all
our front porches our fireside chairs
backyard dinners times on the town.

Granddaughter came and Portland called
grateful we heeded her cries!

On a summer's eve friends called us back
to celebrate with them their married years.
Ten years away from Seattle 
we went enjoying time with old friends
in the lovely late summer's light.
We sat down before the others - 
Carol was tired. 
We took a table, our closest friends joining us
the sensuous evening went on and on.

We were to leave for Portland the next day.
Breakfast called and we were off 
to the 14 Carrot Cafe 
where we had first come those many years before.
I took her picture there before we left.
Weeks later she was gone.

I used to spend Friday evenings with my wife 
sipping on cocktails some nibbles to dine on.
Spring evenings were especially lovely
sitting outside in the light breeze
sunshine bright on the branches and leaves
chatting about our day our week
about nothing at all
tinkle of a glass now and then.
How I miss those sweet sensual moments.

Tonight a glass of wine some cheese
through the trees the sun shines
Spring evening in Seattle
an old Chinese poet for company.
It's just not the same.

I find myself standing between giants -
Dōgen of Japan (1200-1253)
     founded a monastery and a school
Stonehouse of China (1272-1352)
     left a monastery founded a thatch hut in the mountains.

I stand between knowing and not knowing Zen 
always more questions than answers.
Dogen tried to explain Zen
Stonehouse began living Zen.
Both sat in Zen meditation
recognizing the boundlessness of emptiness
following the Zen inside them.
I too sit, following the Zen in me
our Zen is the same
no matter how different.
They are Zen giants. I am me.

I've taken a retreat from sangha
allowing room for questions to emerge -
trouble for sure!
Is it not better to stick with one teacher or the other
put blinders on and stay out of the in-between?
No. It seems I'm not built that way.
I try to change but then ask, why?
My Zen is who I am.

I will go back to sangha
having listened to my body
my need to still and in stillness
recognize my loss my age
my desire and need to live peaceably 
between the rules that dominated my earlier life
and the freedom my Zen life is in me now. 
Masters Dogen and Stonehouse -
living teachers in me from the distant past
privileged to stand between them
learning from and inspired by both.
What will come of this dubious collaboration
remains to be seen.