Fields of Spring

Vasumitra

Hello All,
     Each Thursday or Friday morning, I pick up the next reading that you will be attending to on Saturday and memorize it. I then carry it with me each place I go during the day--to the barn, to the zendo, to work, to lunch--to see how it fits, accords with, relates to the new situation I find myself in. In some encounters, I feel a little closer to the reading, sometimes I feel closer to the one right before me and sometimes I can't find a way for the reading to dovetail with the present situation. When I cannot find or feel a relationship, however, I imagine I am missing something in the koan-verse rather than that the writing is missing something. This allows me to lean into the koan-tale and look-feel-hear a little more closely with an open, wondering mind. This, too, is how I sit with koan on the cushion. I don't force the koan but lean into it. I don't doubt the koan, but open to my own sense of curiosity and not-knowing. This allows a space to arise, like an open field that we come to on a backpacking trip in the mountains. We come to the edge of the field, set the pack down and find a rock to sit on or next to as we catch our breath. We don't make any demands on the open field, why would we? We just sit and enjoy the ache of our legs, the coolness of a wanton breath, the rugged raggedness of the rock on our back and sit...and wait. But we arent' really waiting for anything or anyone because we already have all that we need and all that we are. We just wait because that is somehow what the field asks for, or in some unknown way, demands. It is the field's land, it is its habitat, its home and we are known to ourselves as guests only, new and fleeting. So we just sit, rub our knees and wait. Sometimes, maybe, a marmot whistles from a rock outcropping. Sometimes, maybe, a shadow of a hawk flits across the continually opening space. Sometimes, maybe, nothing...but nothing in a mountain meadow, too, is quite wonderful. This type of opening field which we attend to only with our diligent, wondering mind is the place that first lines of poems arise, or the first notes of a new song, or maybe, a first love with the world gathering again anew. It, too, is the place where we catch the first glimmer of a koan response. It might still be shaded and fleeting, but it is of the field. It lives here no less than the whistle, the shadow or the first smell of sweet, late summer flowers. There is no need to doubt the koan or verses but there is the possibility of meeting your self more clearly in the opening spaces that are always here before us. I wonder, how do you attend to the koan-verses as you backpack through this one and only life?
     Vasumitra carried his wine vessel everywhere he went. How could he not? You, too, carry yours as you go to buy milk, arrive on time for your doctor's appointment to sit awhile because he is running late, or as you go to dinner with your lover. Even if you wanted to, you cannot leave it home, even for a single evening. It is closer to you than your shadow at high noon and it follows, as shadows or want to do, as diligently. It is you but, also, it isn't you at all. When Micchaka came into the town, he knew he would find a holy person. He knew this because if you look closely, each town you come to is filled with holy folks. All carry vessels, all have shadows. If we learn nothing else from the goings-on in Boston, we can learn that. So many gave of themselves, forgot themselves, so that they could attend to someone else's needs...stranger, friend or maybe even foe's.
     Vasumitra asked a wonderful question as he went from place to place with his vessel. He said, "Do you know what I have in my hand?" Please ask this question, out loud or to yourself, as you walk through one entire day. But before you do that, please answer that question which you have just presented yourself with. If you do not have an immediate or satisfactory response, please sit down at the edge of your opening field and wait. The response will come...pay attention...for it may come in a form that you are not expecting or are unfamiliar with.
     Keizan said, "Since the vessel is neither my vessel nor yours, the vessel is also not a vessel. As a result, the vessel disappeared." When you are the sound or the clouds or the cold, there is no sound, no clouds, no cold. But still, I must ask--then 'what is there?'  Or, from another vantage, you might say, since the vessel is neither my vessel nor yours, the vessel is also not a vessel so therefore, we call it a vessel. And this new vessel which is exactly the same as the old vessel is abundantly free because it has cut all its ties with associative feelings, sensations and thoughts. Another way to say that might be, "As the bell in the frosty dawn/ Echoes at the moment it is struck,/So from the beginning/ There is no need for an empty vessel." Enjoy the ringing which started long ago in the continually opening field which you always sit at the edge of.

warmly
Jack