Poetry of Practice (5 of 5): Kindness

This is an AI-generated transcript from auto-generated subtitles for the video Poetry of Practice (5 of 5) with Diana Clark. It likely contains inaccuracies, especially with speaker attribution if there are multiple speakers.

The following talk was given by Diana Clark at Insight Meditation Center in Redwood City, CA on August 18, 2023. Please visit the website www.audiodharma.org for more information.

Poetry of Practice (5 of 5): Kindness

Introduction

It's been such a pleasure to practice with you all this week. Today is day five of five, and we're continuing on this theme: the poetry of practice. There's a way in which poetry can highlight, emphasize, or maybe even shine a light on some of those dark and hidden crevices of our hearts and minds—those parts that we don't necessarily look at. Maybe we're not even intending to not look at them, they just, for whatever reason, don't get seen.

This is part of the power of poetry: it helps us to see them and maybe even bring some lightheartedness, some new perspective, or maybe even some spaciousness. Like, "Oh yeah, I had seen that." And with that recognition of something new, there can be some delight or some openness. Like, "Wow, okay, I hadn't seen that before." So that's part of the power of poetry—to help us see what hasn't been seen, coupled with this sense of recognition: "Oh yeah, that is there, I just was not paying attention to it before."

As I've been doing in the preceding days as part of this series, I'll drop in a poem during the guided meditation. But let's start with a guided meditation.

Guided Meditation

Taking a meditation posture, maybe starting by taking a few long, slow, deep breaths as a way to connect to the breath, to the body, to this moment. There's a way in which the physiology of the body responds to deeper breaths. Particularly, longer exhales activate the nervous system in a way that promotes relaxation. So, take just a few longer breaths to support relaxation or some letting go of tension, but also to support our connection to the bodily experience.

Tuning into the experience of sitting in this posture, whatever posture you're in. What is it like to be in this posture today, at this moment?

Maybe doing a light, general body scan and noticing if there are areas of tightness or tension, or places where there might be some more opening, softness, and ease available. Not because we have to get rid of any tension or tightness, just because of this recognition that openness and ease is the direction that our practice goes. Part of how we go in that direction is being sensitive, tuned into what's happening, with an attitude of allowing as best we can.

Sometimes tension is very subtle around the eyes, the jaw, or the mouth. Sometimes the shoulders are raised up just a little bit.

Tuning into the sensations of breathing in a relaxed, warm manner, with some care and respect for this body that's breathing.

Is it possible to set the direction, the attitude of this meditation session as one of care, warmth, and openness?

Part of the way this warmth and care can be expressed is when we notice that the mind is no longer on the sensations of breathing, can there be an attitude of, "Oh, look at that. Okay, let's just begin again with the sensations of breathing."

I'm going to drop in a poem. You don't need to do anything with this poem, just allow it to enter into the space. You don't have to figure it out. You don't have to have a commentary. I'll talk a little bit more about it after the guided meditation. But during the guided meditation, just listen.

I like wrecks. I like ex-junkies. I like flunks and ex-flunkies. I like the way the careerless career. I like flat beer. I like people who tell half-stories and forget the rest. I like people who make doodles in important written tests. I like being late. I like fate. I like the way teeth grate. I like laceless shoes, cordless blues. I like the one-bar blues. I like buttonless coats and leaky boats. I like rubbish tips and bitten lips. I like yesterday's toast. I like cold tea. I like reality. I like ashtrays. I write, and I like crap plays. I like curtains that don't quite shut. I like bread knives that don't quite cut. I like rips in blue jeans. I like people who can't say what they mean. I like spiders with no legs, pencils with no lead, ants with no heads, worms that are half dead. I like holes. I like coffee cold. I like creases in neat folds. I like signs that just don't know where they're going. I like angry poems. I like the way you can't pin down the sea. See.

Reflections on Cultivation and Letting Go

So hello again. Welcome, everybody. In the short few words that I said before the beginning of the guided meditation, I mentioned that poetry sometimes helps us to see things in a little bit of a different way, or maybe to see things that we wouldn't otherwise see. Poking into the crevices of our hearts and minds and shining a light, hopefully in a way that has a sense of recognition, like, "Oh yeah, I had noticed that."

So that's a little bit about what this poem is like. Maybe I'll read the poem, or maybe I'll make a few comments before I read the poem. I would say, just in general, to use a really broad brush about Buddhist practice: this has a few movements, you might say. A directionality towards greater understanding of both ourself and others, as well as this movement towards greater ease and well-being, and this movement towards the diminishment and elimination of suffering. So these are all happening together with practice.

And making another really big generalization, I would say that there are these two primary types of practices, like subsets of practicing. One is this cultivation: developing, building, strengthening. And the other is letting go: releasing, shedding, renouncing. So we have both of these types of practices that help support these three different movements: this movement towards greater understanding, greater ease, and less suffering.

So this poem, I think, helps us with all of this. There's a way in which it helps with this cultivation and with letting go. The poem is by Lemn Sissay^[1]. It's called Something I Like.

I like wrecks. I like ex-junkies. I like flunks and ex-flunkies. I like the way the careerless career. I like flat beer. I like people who tell half-stories and forget the rest. I like people who make doodles in important written tests. I like being late. I like fate. I like the way teeth grate. I like laceless shoes, cordless blues. I like the one-bar blues. I like buttonless coats and leaky boats. I like rubbish tips and bitten lips. I like yesterday's toast. I like cold tea. I like reality. I like ashtrays. I write, and I like crap plays. I like curtains that don't quite shut. I like bread knives that don't quite cut. I like rips in blue jeans. I like people who can't say what they mean. I like spiders with no legs, pencils with no lead, ants with no heads, worms that are half dead. I like holes. I like coffee cold. I like creases in neat folds. I like signs that just don't know where they're going. I like angry poems. I like the way you can't pin down the sea. See.

For me, I just feel so much delight with this poem. And maybe I'll clarify that the very last word, "sea," is the verb "to see," to visualize. So, "I like the way you can't pin down the sea" (and that's like the body of water, the ocean), and then the next line is just "See." I feel like this is an imperative. The poet is asking us to just see.

And what is it that we're seeing? Well, maybe we're seeing all the ways in which we don't have unconditional regard for our fellow beings. Maybe we're seeing all the ways that our preferences push us around—the things that we like and the things that we don't like. We're always trying to avoid what we don't like and move towards what we do. And wow, how much of life's energy gets put towards or used up just to move away from the things that we don't like, or that are just mildly irritating?

I have to say, I just kept finding myself reading this poem over and over because I kept on finding all these little delightful things in it that I hadn't seen before. I feel like this poet, Lemn Sissay, has not only the content of the poem, but this musicality. There's this rhythm to it that just feels like it builds up, and there's maybe a crescendo somewhere in there. Where the line breaks are, it has this playfulness too, maybe this whimsy that allows us to chuckle at ourselves as opposed to being filled with shame. This recognition, like, "Oh yeah, yeah, these are some of the things I actually don't like." And here's this poet just highlighting that for us by saying, "These are the things that I like."

I will say that with regards to Buddhist practice, I feel like this poem is pointing to both cultivation and letting go. Maybe this cultivating of a generosity of spirit. This generosity of heart and mind that is more unconditional. That isn't setting limits on what our heart can hold. It isn't setting limits on what the mind can be open to. Instead, maybe the poet is pointing out all the ways in which we have set limits and conditions. "Yeah, I only like this, but not like that." I feel like this poem is pointing to the possibility of unconditional warmth, care, and kindness. And maybe that's why the poem speaks to us. I'll say it speaks to me partly for this reason: it points to the potential for this unconditionality. This limitless care, warmth, respect.

I would say this poem is also pointing to the same thing, but using different language. It's pointing to the possibility of letting go of our preferences—"I like this, I don't like that"—and this quiet expectation that we have that experiences, things, and people please us, or at least don't annoy us. And then this openness, this acceptance really only happens when there's not a strong sense of self, and we've relaxed, abandoned, let go, or softened this strong sense of "me against the world," "us versus them," "I versus you." When that has been let go of and softened, then everything is something that we can take delight in or notice—see, as the poet uses at the end, just to notice.

So I would say part of the power of the poem is this unexpectedness, and maybe the sense of space that it creates when you hear the poem or read the poem, like, "Oh yeah, I don't have to say that I don't like this or I don't like that."

So here it is. I'll read it one more time.

I like wrecks. I like ex-junkies. I like flunks and ex-flunkies. I like the way the careerless career. I like flat beer. I like people who tell half-stories and forget the rest. I like people who make doodles in important written tests. I like being late. I like fate. I like the way teeth grate. I like laceless shoes, cordless blues. I like the one-bar blues. I like buttonless coats and leaky boats. I like rubbish tips and bitten lips. I like yesterday's toast. I like cold tea. I like reality. I like ashtrays. I write, and I like crap plays. I like curtains that don't quite shut. I like bread knives that don't quite cut. I like rips in blue jeans. I like people who can't say what they mean. I like spiders with no legs, pencils with no lead, ants with no heads, worms that are half dead. I like holes. I like coffee cold. I like creases in neat folds. I like signs that just don't know where they're going. I like angry poems. I like the way you can't pin down the sea. See.

A New Engine for Kindness

I don't know, I just have a feeling of delight, and I'd like to share this delight with you. And then maybe I will end our time together, these five days of practice on the poetry of practice, with another poem that I'd like to leave you with. This is a poem that also has some playfulness in it, some whimsy, but maybe some encouragement to help us practice with this unconditional noticing. This unconditional care, this unconditional warmth to fellow beings, fellow situations, to whatever life brings us.

So this poem is called On International Kindness Day by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer^[2].

Kindness went out and got itself a new engine. A twin-turbo premium unleaded V6 cylinder engine. Something with real oomph. Something that provides a bit of giddy-up when the going gets tough. Turns out kindness likes horsepower, a lot of horsepower. Plus, it sprung for direct fuel injection to maximize its power output. Everyone thinks kindness prefers things quiet and calm, But kindness is ready for action, ready to take on the world. Ready to travel every back road, every highway, every main street, And get this ever-loving show on the road. There's a whole lot of work to do.

I love this idea, right, of kindness going out and getting a new engine. And maybe that's what practice is about. Maybe practice is about getting a new engine for kindness. Kindness for ourselves and kindness for others, with some of this unconditionality sprinkled in there.

Maybe I'll read this poem a second time. It's On International Kindness Day by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer.

Kindness went out and got itself a new engine. A twin-turbo premium unleaded V6 cylinder engine. Something with real oomph. Something that provides a bit of giddy-up when the going gets tough. Turns out kindness likes horsepower, a lot of horsepower. Plus, it sprung for direct fuel injection to maximize its power output. Everyone thinks kindness prefers things quiet and calm, But kindness is ready for action, ready to take on the world. Ready to travel every back road, every highway, every main street, And get this ever-loving show on the road. There's a whole lot of work to do.

And with that, I'll end our time together. Thank you. Thank you for your practice and for allowing me to join this sangha^[3] for these days. Thank you.