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Inspired By Awakening Poems

A very warm welcome to everybody. It's nice to see you all, nice to practice together.

Tonight I wanted to talk a little bit about practice, and there are so many different ways we can consider it and so many different elements that make up practice. One way that I'll begin with is that practice is kind of like a journey. In some ways it's not helpful to think of it that way, but sometimes it's helpful to feel like it is a transformative path. To help introduce this idea, I'd like to start with a poem that outlines or highlights this path. This poem is from thousands of years ago, but somehow it feels to me there's a certain timelessness about it, and we can imagine that a similar scenario is playing out today.

The poem goes like this:

Plowing fields with plows, sowing seeds in the ground, caring for children and family, people gain wealth.

Why is it that I, through virtuous conduct, doing the Buddha's instructions, not lazy or proud, have not attained peace?

I watched the water, the foot-washing water, as it flowed from high ground to low. With this, the mind concentrated, like a thoroughbred horse.

Taking an oil lamp, I entered my hut. Looking over the bed, I sat down on the bed. Taking a needle, I pulled out the wick. As the flame went out, the mind was freed.

This poem describes just some ordinary experiences. In the beginning, noticing that other people are getting the results that they want: they are plowing fields, they are sowing seeds, taking care of their family, and they're gaining the rewards from their efforts. It's something that's really tangible. You plant a seed, it grows some grain, you can take care of your family and bring some to market, sell it, and have some prosperity.

The author of this poem says, "Well, everybody else is getting what they want, but why is it that I am not getting what I want?" Even though she is practicing, doing what she believes she should be doing, following the instructions that she was given, and working diligently, still she's not attaining what she had hoped to attain. Perhaps she's feeling a little bit of frustration or confusion. "Why is it that I have not attained release?" Maybe there's a certain striving or straining.

And then, she goes to do the ordinary thing at the end of the day. After being barefoot or walking in sandals, just washing one's feet before going to bed so that the bed stays clean. Just an ordinary, humble thing. And dumping out the bowl of water and watching how the water flows, in some ways just obeying the laws of gravity, this reality. Things always flow downhill; they never flow uphill.

This idea of flowing downhill as being reality is part of what the Dharma is about. The truth of the way things are is just the way it is. So, watching the water flow downhill, settling, just being aligned with, "Okay, it's just this." It's time to go to bed, she goes to bed and just turns off the light. Maybe in the same way that we use a light switch nowadays. Something about this shift from going from light to dark, from being able to see to not being able to see, allows the mind to let go. Maybe the mind was clinging or identified with whatever it could see in the visual field, but when the visual field all of a sudden went away, it was the last thing that the mind was holding on to, and the mind was freed.

The Fifth Posture: In-Betweening

I recently taught a retreat, and one of the co-teachers gave a talk about the postures. The way that he described it, he said, "You know, the Buddha has taught about these four postures, and they're perfectly valid, all four of them: sitting, standing, lying down, and walking." We sometimes give instructions for all four, though we tend to focus on the sitting. But then he slipped in this little comment. He said, "But I think they forgot there's this fifth posture. It's called in-betweening." Moving from one posture to the next.

We might consider that in this poem. Getting into bed, leaning over to turn off the light, just this ordinary movement. Having this shift in the visual field, just when something different happened. Ānanda^[1], the Buddha's attendant, the same story happens with him. It's kind of this in-betweening. After practicing all day, he lays down on the bed. Maybe there's just something about going to bed, like, "Ah, okay, well I'm finished with today." With Ānanda, before his head hit the pillow, he had this awakening moment.

So, in-betweening is an opportunity. I myself have had this experience, being on retreat and doing a lot of sitting meditation, trying my best with real diligence while sitting, but then standing up to go do walking and having a flash of an insight. It's not so uncommon that, after putting in some effort, when there's a little bit of a release, some unguarded moment, something new can arise.

Some of you might have recognized the poem. It's the poem of Paṭācārā^[2]. It is the awakening poem attributed to her, a preeminent nun from the time of the Buddha, and she was a teacher of others. A number of people report how she helped them find their awakening. The one thing that's interesting about Paṭācārā is her backstory: she came to practice after experiencing heartbreaking tragedy. First her husband dies, one child dies, the second child dies, and then her parents die. Oh my goodness, it's just hard to imagine. She was crazed with grief. In this crazed state, she meets the Buddha, who gave her some teachings, and she decided to practice.

We know from this poem that she practiced with the way that she was in the world. She talked about being virtuous, taking care with others, taking care of herself. Virtuous ethics is about having care and respect for others, and care and respect for herself. She talked about in this poem, "not lazy or proud." Doing what needed to be done, but also not lauding it over others, or not doing more so that she didn't stand out as being particularly special, not striving to be the best in some kind of way. Instead, applying the right amount of effort and creating the conditions in which the mind could be settled, could be aligned with just the natural way things go. Water flows downhill. Just tuning into the reality and the simplicity, very uncomplicated, just watching water flow downhill.

Paṭācārā's poem, as many of you know, comes from a collection called the Therigāthā^[3], these poems of the nuns from the Buddha's time.

Finding Inspiration and Beauty

Something that I appreciate very much about the Buddhist literature and scriptures is that we could make a broad generalization—maybe it's a little bit helpful to make these broad categories. One category, as I'm sure you all know, is the lists and maps: the Four Noble Truths, the Seven Factors of Awakening, the Five Hindrances, the Three Characteristics, the Ten Paramis. The Buddha saying, "There are two things, what two? There's this and that." I am fond of these lists. I like to have things ordered, systematized, and categorized.

We might say that that's one style of the Buddha's teaching, important and valuable. But there's also another style that includes poems, stories, and similes that aren't so systematic. They evoke something else, they touch a different part of us. They touch the richness of our hearts and minds, painting pictures that are more evocative. Dare I say, there might be a certain amount of beauty to these stories or similes. Sometimes I've heard similes and thought, "Oh, that's fantastic, it's so evocative."

One that comes to mind is about the hindrances. Sometimes the hindrances are described like water. When water is still, it can be like a mirror. But when there's a lot of ill will, it's like water boiling, and you can't see through it. I thought, "Oh, that's so apt." It communicates something very clearly.

To be sure, there's a beauty also with the structure, the maps, and the numbers. There's a certain elegance there. But is there a way in which we can tune into what the Buddha is pointing to with the stories, the poetry, the similes? Gil likes to use this word beauty sometimes to translate this word kalyāṇa^[4], which talks about the Dharma as beautiful in the beginning, beautiful in the middle, and beautiful in the end.

I think of beauty as something often inspiring. Sometimes going to art museums is a different type of beauty—that's visual and aesthetic. Spiritual beauty can be associated with goodness, clarity, or some warmth inside of us. Both aesthetic and spiritual beauty can really support a sense of inspiration, a way for us to feel like, "Oh, this is worthwhile to do," recognizing that sometimes it's difficult. Just like in the poem with Paṭācārā, experiencing tremendous suffering before she came to practice, and then even when she started practicing, noticing, "Why is everybody else getting what they want? All the farmers, I can see they're able to reap the rewards of their efforts, why can't I?" These are the words of somebody who is still struggling and having difficulties.

I would suggest that in practice, we need both. We need the structure, the guidelines, the maps and lists, holding them lightly and letting them be a support. But we also need to be inspired and have our hearts feel touched, resonating with the stories, poems, and similes—these things of beauty.

Dropping the Burden on the Path

I'd like to offer another poem along those lines. This poem is attributed to a nun whose name is Citta^[5], which we often translate as heart or mind. For me, it's a little bit interesting that a poem is attributed to somebody that has this name.

Citta says:

Though I'm skinny, sick, and very feeble, I climbed the mountain leaning on a staff. Having laid down my outer robe and overturned my bowl, propping myself against a rock, I shattered the mass of darkness.

Citta talks about her body, even though her name refers to heart and mind. She talks about her body being sick and the difficulty of walking up a mountain. But I appreciate very much that she's using a staff, she has a cane, she has something to help her. We all need help at different times, in different seasons of our practice, and it can take so many different forms.

She's climbing this mountain, and in some ways, we are all climbing mountains too. We all have difficulties, things that aren't so easy or straightforward. Hopefully, everything isn't a mountain in your life, but we do have these mountains. In my mind, she's just taking one step after the other. She's sick and feeble, and she gets to the top. Or maybe she's not even at the top, but she's resting. She puts down her robe and her bowl. She puts everything down.

And then the mass of darkness is shattered—the darkness of ignorance, the darkness of not seeing clearly. Again, we have this shift in the visual field. Before, Paṭācārā went from light to dark, and now we have going from dark to light, being able to see something she hadn't seen before.

We might ask ourselves, what would it be like for us to put things down? Just like Citta is putting the robe, the alms bowl, the cane, everything she's carrying down. She's resting. She puts it down, she lets go, and there's awakening. Is there a way in which we can put things down, or at least loosen the clinging? So maybe instead of holding on so tightly, we hold or support with open palms. That allows us to see things more clearly, experience things more clearly.

Matty Weingast^[6], another poet who is inspired by this poem, wrote another version based on it. That poem goes like this:

Somehow I kept climbing, though tired, hungry, and weak. Old too. At the top of the mountain, I spread my outer robe on a rock to dry, set down my staff and bowl, took a deep breath, and looked around. It was windy up there. As I was leaning back against a large gray rock, the darkness that I had carried up and down a million mountains slipped off my shoulders and swept itself away on the wind.

I appreciate this idea of these darknesses that we carry with us sometimes, and this idea that it slipped and swept itself away. There is less of the practitioner here making it go away; just with the wind, just with nature, off it goes. So maybe having put down, or let go, or no longer clinging, just allowed things to go where nature takes them, without us having this feeling like we have to make them work or make them go away.

Again, there is this interesting thing about this person climbing the mountain. She's putting effort in, she's practicing, one foot after another. And then it's with this in-betweening, this leaning back against a rock, then something else can happen. So there is this recognition that there are these rhythms of practice: times in which we're more deliberate, more intentional, and then some ease. But you can't take the ease if there hasn't been a certain amount of effort, a certain amount of intentionality. Which doesn't mean that we have to be huffing and puffing and straining up a mountain—this is just an analogy—but there is a pointing to a certain commitment, an intention to spend one's time and energy doing this work.

A Sense of Urgency

I'd like to read another poem. In this poem, this nun talks about how she "went forth." To go forth is to ordain, to become a monastic, to dedicate one's life full-time to the monastic life, which includes going for alms rounds and living in communities. Especially if you're a nun, the nuns have less time alone than the monks for safety reasons. It is a real commitment to practice. I appreciate that sometimes we might have this idea of, "Well, the monastics, because they've dedicated their life to practice, it's maybe a little bit easier for them. They don't have mortgages, and kids, and partners, and the news, and traffic, and all these things that we have."

So here's this poem by Sāmā^[7]:

In the twenty-five years since I went forth, I don't know that I ever found serenity in my mind. I'd failed to find peace of heart or any control over my mind. When I remembered the victor's instructions, I was struck with a sense of urgency. Though subject to so many painful things, I have, through my love of diligence, reached the ending of craving and fulfilled the Buddha's instructions. This is the seventh day since my craving dried up.

Twenty-five years! That is a long time. But when she remembered the victor's instructions, when she remembered the Buddha's instructions, she was struck with a sense of urgency. Sometimes we hear things over and over again, but it's not until certain conditions are in place that we feel like they resonate, or maybe we understand them in a way that we hadn't understood them before. I know this has happened to me so many times. I love to read the suttas, and I'm often rereading them, thinking that I know everything that's in there, and then I'm like, "Oh wait! Oh, now I understand what's here." Or hearing a Dharma talk, maybe one that was recorded, and taking something away from it the first time, but then again later realizing something else was there. Maybe you all have this experience as well.

Bringing to mind the teachings brought this sense of urgency, a sense of really wanting to practice. The Pali word for this is saṃvega^[8], this inspiration to practice with a sense of urgency, a sense of commitment, or a sense of, "I really want to do this. This is what's important for me in my life right now."

This practitioner wasn't able to find ease in the beginning, but she stuck with it. She didn't disrobe, she practiced earnestly. She wrote the poem saying, "with my love of diligence." Just coming back, coming back in whatever way made sense for her at that time. And she talked about reaching the ending of craving. For her, that freedom was expressed as the ending of craving. Shattering the mass of darkness, or the ending of craving, there are so many different ways this can get expressed. It's maybe not exactly the same for everybody, or maybe it is, I don't know. But the way it gets expressed, or the way it shows up, is different for different people.

I'd like to share another poem that Matty Weingast wrote, based on the poem that I just read. Having heard that poem, feeling inspired, he wrote another poem, and it goes like this:

After twenty-five years on the path, I'd experienced almost everything except peace. When I was young, my mother told me that I would find true happiness only in marriage. Remembering her words all those years later, something in me began to tremble. I gave myself to the trembling, and it showed me all the pain this little heart had ever known, how countless lives of searching had brought me at last to the present moment, which I happily married. Can you imagine? We've been living together ever since without a single argument.

This idea of marrying the present moment, this commitment to, "Well, I'm just going to be here." I appreciate this very much. This person had been socialized a certain way, these expectations of how she should live her life, and she kind of twisted it a little bit, modified it a little bit, and found her own way, marrying the present moment. And that's where she found the happiness. Maybe all these twenty-five years when she hadn't found peace, she was always thinking that the next moment would bring the happiness, something that's over there or in another time. But instead, she found this commitment to be here.

I also appreciate in here these lines: "Something in me began to tremble. I gave myself to the trembling." Just allowing her experience to be what it was. Trembling is uncomfortable, I imagine, but she stayed with it, and that maybe gave her the confidence to say, "Oh yeah, I can do this. I can be with the present moment even if it shows up in this way, with some trembling."

Themes of the Path

In these poems I've read, there are a few themes. One that we might say is some diligence in practice, which doesn't have to mean straining or overexertion. It just means this sense of, "This is what I'm going to do now. I'm going to practice now." This is part of the art of practice: to know how much effort. One person became awakened when she leaned back against a rock, right? So there's a certain amount of ease that's required, but also, she was climbing up a mountain, so a certain amount of one step after the other.

There are also difficulties on the path. Some of us might have come to this practice because we had difficulties in our life, and we discovered that there was some ease or some wisdom that we could relate to that we could find in this path of practice. It's not uncommon for this practice, or any spiritual practice, that there's going to be some difficulties. If we want transformation or some shifting in our inner life, it's going to be uncomfortable sometimes. How could it not be uncomfortable? So, just a recognition that maybe things don't happen on the timeline or the way that we expect, hope, or had thought it would be.

Another theme is this idea that awakening shows up in many different ways. Whether we're talking about complete liberation or just some awakening, some liberation from whatever is binding us up at that time. The more mundane ways in which we find greater ease, some greater peace, it shows up in all kinds of different ways and there are so many different ways to express it. Different people express it differently, and maybe at different times they express it differently.

But one thing that these poems have is more of a mood or a tone: a sense of confidence, and maybe a sense of delight. We hear this, that once they have found greater freedom, there's this sense of a certain uprightness. "This is what happened." They're just sharing their story, describing what happened, without being shy, without bragging, just a certain sense of confidence, delight, and clarity, using language that makes sense to them.

Befriending the Mind

I'd like to end with this last poem. It's written by Matty Weingast, and I feel touched by it. There's something very evocative about it. It uses a simile that I feel touched by, and we'll see how you relate to this.

While walking along the river after a long day meditating on Vulture Peak, I watched an elephant splashing its way out of the water and up the bank. "Hello, my friend," a person waiting there said, scratching the elephant behind its ear. "Did you have a good bath?" The elephant stretched out its leg, the person climbed up, and the two rode off like that together. Seeing what had once been so wild now a friend and companion to this good person, I took a seat under the nearest tree and reached out a gentle hand to my own mind. Truly, I thought, this is why I came to the woods.

This idea of our practice: sometimes our mind feels like a wild creature. [Laughter] And elephants can be very destructive and very powerful, but to befriend them, instead of this idea that they have to be doing something different, or they should do that or shouldn't do that, but just to befriend them.

So, may we all contribute our own poems, in whatever way makes sense to us, whether they're actually written poems or just the way that we live our lives. May we all contribute our poems to the human race, and may this verse, this poem, be for the benefit of all beings everywhere.

Thank you.

Questions and Reflections

I'll stay up here for a few moments if anybody would like to ask a question or come up and ask a question. Otherwise, I wish you all a wonderful evening, and thank you for your practice and for your attention.