Samaya

This is from Pema Chodron's book, "When Things Fall Apart."  I read it while sitting under the dryer at the hairdresser, of all places.

In the vajrayana, there is something called the samaya bond, whereby the student's total experience is bound to the path.  At a certain time, after a lot of intelligent questioning, the student may finally feel ready to enter into a samaya relationship with his or her teacher.  If the student accepts and trusts the teacher completely and the teacher accepts the student, they can enter into the unconditional relationship called samaya.  The teacher will never give up on the student no matter how mixed up he or she might be, and the student will also never leave the teacher, no matter what.

The student and teacher are bound together.  It's like a pact that they make to attain enlightenment together.  Another definition of samaya is "sacred oath," or "sacred commitment."  But it's nothing holy; it's a commitment to sanity---to indestructible sanity.  Samaya is like a marriage with reality, a marriage with the phenomenal world.  But it's a trick.  This marriage is a little bit like having amnesia.  We think that we have decided to marry this partner of our own free choice; however, unknown to us, we already are married.

Salvation

  

     

        why not just give you everything I've got?  

        it isn't much

        it isn't fake

        there's something to it

        the time has come

        rabbit senses hawk's eye

        not a twitch now

        not a breath

        this is another place

        the shadow of the valley

     
        no use thrashing here

        no mercy for the show of tears
        the girlish smiles
        the clever remarks

        the time has come

        for this frantic soul

        to hold perfectly still

Math = Life?

"It's empty, but it's complicated," says Arthur. 

Ritual

OUR WHOLE LIFE COULD BE A RITUAL

We could learn to stop when the sun goes down and when the sun comes up. We could learn to listen to the wind; we could learn to notice that it’s raining or snowing or hailing or calm. We could reconnect with the weather that is ourselves, and we could realize that it’s sad. The sadder it is, and the vaster it is, the more our heart opens. We can stop thinking that good practice is when it’s smooth and calm, and bad practice is when it’s rough and dark. If we can hold it all in our hearts, then we can make a proper cup of tea. 

--- Pema Chodron

... or a proper crossword puzzle ...

... or a proper omelet ... 

... or a proper bill payment ... 

... or a proper declaration of love ...   

Jordan

    

     braving the river

     you show me where it’s coldest

     Lord, I can’t stand still

     here it is coldest

     hold your breath as you hold mine

     yes, our hearts might break

     please teach me this too

     lost, found, loved, ill-fated you

     Lord, I can’t stand still

Baby

I am on my knees, bearing down.  I know it’s time to deliver this baby.  I look around: lots of folks in the delivery room, some of them nurses and doctors and such, some family, none of them particularly interested in what I’m doing, talking among themselves.   I survey the room to determine where else I might deliver within this space.  A low bed, a high bed, or where I am---a blanket on the floor.  

As I see the baby’s head crowning, I realize that the circumstances of this birth are not important.  Bed or floor is not important.  Whether I am alone or have help is not important.  What matters is me, the baby and the birth.  It is happening exactly as it should happen, whether I go through controlling mechanisms or just do nothing.  This is a reassuring realization.

As the baby’s full head comes out and I see his face, I clear his mouth with a finger sweep, making sure there is no obstruction to his breath.  “I’m okay” he says.

When he’s fully delivered, he stretches and feels his new-found freedom, his eyes still closed like most infant Buddhas.  He’s beautiful, robust, brown-skinned, intelligent.  Again, when my sister appears at my side to offer help, he says “I’m okay.”  He seems so wonderful, like a miracle, something special.  Is his father African or Indian? I wonder dreamily.  I have no idea who the father is as an individual, just that he must exist; there’s evidence he exists.

Holding this baby close to me, I feel his warmth.  He is still moist from birth.  I swaddle him and let him sleep.  Moments later I’m talking to medical staff on the other side of the room.  Just small talk.  There’s a feeling that something perfect and wonderful has happened, but it’s also perfectly natural and unremarkable too.  I know that my baby will be okay.  He told me so.   Still I want to get back to him and hold him close again.

True

       
     Your voice leaves a lot to be desired.

     You’re immature.

     Stop trying to be glamorous.  You’re not the type.

     You’re not really singing.

     Open your mind.

     It’s time to start learning and absorbing these things.

     It's true, what you say.

Creature

        Rip out the lungs 

        Pry the flesh from its bones

        This creature who trusts in your goodness

        And sings of a sweetness inside you

        You who so loved the world

        Kill this gentlest creature

        Now as it breathes in your hands

        As it sings to you alone, softly revealed

        And delicately yielded

        Take your time

        Creature

        Sing now of those darkest places

        Those places farthest in

        Where this sacrifice is felt

        Where cruelty and love

        Begin and end