"Emptiness is just everything as it is," said the late Zen teacher Bernie Glassman in talks included in his book Infinite Circle: Teachings in Zen. In the talks, he referred to the word used in Chinese Buddhism for "emptiness." He said it is ku and remarked, "One of the meanings of ku is 'sky,' which the Chinese used to convey the sense of the boundlessness that contains everything: the clouds, the planets, the stars." He referred to this everything-as-is by "One Body." Glassman observed that emptiness, a key term in Buddhism, is not a void; it is empty of anything separate. So, one can translate emptiness as "fullness" or "boundlessness."
The chair I sit in now is over here beside this window, the altar table over there beside that window. Language splits this all up into pieces. Yet, the chair and table are not separate. They are over there and over here, that is all.
Everything is vegetable soup. All the vegetables are in the soup, here and there, and they are the soup. The soup is everywhere. Paradoxically, the soup is all the vegetables, and more. To taste the soup as vegetables, and more, you only need to taste one piece of a vegetable, no matter how small; then, you have tasted the whole soup.
The soup is the sky; you are the sky, and you are you. But our brains have been trained over millennia to see vegetables and soup, rather than vegetables and soup and, also, soup. You are the sky, I am the sky, everyone and everything is the sky, yet that does not tell us all the sky is. The sky is all this, and more.
This introductory background may be more confusing than helpful. Let us proceed and stir the soup some more. Then, it might make more sense... or not. If not, not belongs in the soup, too.
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In the evening when the wind blows hard, Making the leaves of the judas trees dance, I think of the Xunyang River, And pretend that I'm Minamoto no Tsunenobu.
When I'm in the mood, I play the "Song of Autumn Breezes," To the wind in the pines, Or "Flowing Water" to the babble of the stream.
Although I'm not skilled, I play not to please the ears of another.
I play and sing on my own, To give sustenance to my heart alone.
*Kamo no Choimei. Hojoki: A Buddhist Reflection on Solitude: Imperfection and Transcendence - Bilingual English and Japanese Texts with Free Online Audio Recordings.
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The poet and essayist Choimei (Japan, ca. 1153-1216) had a midlife crisis and became a Buddhist monk, forsaking politics. In his classic Hojoki, he thinks of the Xunyang River, a tributary of the Yangtze in China. He recalls Minamoto no Tsunenobu (1016–1097), a Japanese nobleman and celebrated waka poet during the Heian period (794-1185), esteemed as a golden age of culture in Japan. Also, in the background of this verse is allusion to a poem by the celebrated Tang poet Bai Juyi (772–846). Hence, Choimei writes this poem as part of a larger landscape and history connecting him to distances in time and space.
The poet does not write alone, though alone. He poses for us the question, "Is anyone ever alone?" Alone but not alone is a paradox. How can we be alone but not alone?
I live just off the Canadian border. The border is up a hill behind the cabin. I can go for many days in the winter and not see anyone. I do not hear any traffic. Even in the warmer months, I am alone almost all the time, briefly going to a town 16 miles inland. Am I living alone? On days I cannot get on the road due to storms, am I alone? A little river flows behind the cabin and crosses near the border-crossing about a mile up the highway. Does it flow alone? Recently, a moose walked through the yard. Was it alone? Recently, a groundhog sat atop the front left wheel of my truck. Was it alone? Was I alone when observing the moose and groundhog - the moose from a safe distance outside, the groundhog from the kitchen window?
When I go to town and shop in the grocery store, standing in line with others to check out, am I with them, so not alone? Could it be I am as alone as I am on those days when hibernating inside the cabin during winter storms? Or those days the cold is so cold I hunker inside and do not even go outside, even for a short time? There are non-storm days I step out onto the porch and think, "No way I'm going out there!" and return inside to the warmth for the rest of the day. Am I alone or with others?
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In some sense, we are always alone. In another sense, we are part of the One Body. Alone and with live inside each other. Do we say anything unconnected to what has been said before by someone, somewhere? Is there such a thing as an original thought? Do you not carry all your ancestors within your body? And how many ancestors did those ancestors carry within their bodies? Does it ever end in any direction?
And the poet enjoys playing music. Whom does he play to? Who is the audience? He plays to the "wind in the pines" and the "babble of the stream." So, he poses us another query, "Who or what is part of the One Body - your Body?" And, "Where does that body begin and end? Does it?" Can it be that the whispering wind in pine trees and the babbling, bubbling water of a stream is your family? Is it possible you are not alone because they are near, even though no human is in sight?
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Your separateness is what it is because togetherness is what it is. Chomei, Bai Juyi, Ogura Hyakunin Isshu, the wind, and the stream are each alone, yet together. Apart and with are not opposites. They complement each other the same way as do the front and back sides of your hand or the left and right sides of your face.
So, in the Way, you can enjoy being alone among others and being with them when by yourself. Solitude and communion complete each other. The question is, "How willing are we to let our heart open?" And, "How open will we welcome it to open?" Our heart can hold the entire world. The heart can host everyone and everything, even when we are somewhere by ourselves. The heart is not located in any somewhere, but it can open to anywhere. Is there an end to its potential to open, to welcome? But note, we do not have the heart, we are the heart.
There is no such thing as a private heart, a VIP heart, an oligarch heart, a migrant heart, a caucasian heart, a Christian heart, a Muslim heart, a homeless heart, an Australian heart, ... The heart is the heart.
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Apart physically from other humans, the poet enjoys playing and singing. He plays unskilled. He plays and sings with no audience, not one to like or dislike it. He is not performing. Why does he do this? Because he wants to? He needs to, for the playing and singing are inside him? The heart calls us to live what is inside us; it calls us to do it, for it is worthy of being done. We may profit in some way from our doing, but that is an addition; the substance is the act itself. The heart is first interested in the act itself.
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When reading this poem, the last line stood out to me. Unattended, the poet plays and sings, "To give sustenance to my heart alone." For the poet, solitude is a space to do what brings pleasure to his heart, what enhances its joy and well-being. In cultures that focus on the health and longevity of the body, what about the heart? The heart includes the body. But what is the heart? Whatever it is, solitude provides an opportunity to nurture and please it. When the heart is joyful, you are joyful.
We can squander solitude on activities that do not enrich our heart. To hold in paradox both together and with, we use wisely our time apart from others. The poet plays and sings, among other things. What do you do? What would you like to do? How do you take care of the heart? Please remember this: when you care for your heart, you care for everyone's heart, even if they do not know it.
In taking care of the heart when alone, you discover something amazing. The more deeply you can welcome your own solitude when apart, the more you can offer yourself to others when with others, and not because you feel you have to say or do something, but by you being you. You may or may not say or do. You may sit or stand silently, and that be enough.
What is important is you are there, fully there, and there offering your solitude to others. This is the offering. This is self-sacrifice in which there is no loss of self and no sacrifice. Nothing is gained, nothing is lost, for there is nothing not already present. This offering itself is wholly communion, the functioning of the One Body.
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Sometimes, we feel drawn to be apart, sometimes with, both are natural expressions of life functioning spontaneously. Some of us are more drawn to being apart, some to being among, and both are natural expressions of life functioning spontaneously.
Saying "Yes" to your way of being in the world is saying yes to other's way. This One Body consists of many bodies, and more. Wisely follow the path that takes care of your heart. This is your grace to the One Body.
Even as you do not want to sate your physical heart with junk food, you do not want to sate the heart with psychological junk food. We cannot hide from negativity, nor do we need to, but we need to limit intake of it. We need to maximize positivity, even when something as simple as the poet singing and playing to the wind or babbling waters.
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To close, a ritual of mine by which I nurture the heart on days warm enough to allow it. In the late afternoon or early evening, I sit outside for a while. I sip on hot tea. I look into the skies. I admire the colors of the sky and earth. I enjoy birdsong. If the sun is out, wonderful! If the goats are nearby, I talk with them and pet them. I sometimes sing, sometimes chant. That simple, that fantastic. No-frills awesome. No, I do not always feel elated sitting there, but caring for the heart does not mean it always has to be fun. Yet, if I sit long enough, a calm rises, a being-present, for the heart is presence, the one presence. The One Body manifests as a man alone in a chair, yet not alone. And all he sees is One Body, including the crow sitting at the top of the tall tree and cawing to another crow cawing somewhere. He listens to that conversation, each replying to the other, "Caw! Caw!"... alone, with, that is you and me. How could it not be?
