I, another time, place... little lad seeing him enthralled standing on dirt we called yard gazing into the leaping fire, feeling the heat
even though taught hell would be fire could not deprive me of this mesmerizing moment of beauty, mystery
what was my little self seeing into? what was learned later?
fire is everywhere life is fire
we are all aflame everything is
why not jump into the Beloved's flames?
some say only hell is fire... I say...
"Blessed are those who leap into heaven's flames to be burnt to life"
Santoka Taneda -
there where the fire was something blooming
Gospel of Thomas Saying 82 -
Jesus said:
"Whoever is near me is near fire, while whoever is far from me is far from the God-reign."
* * *
The wandering, begging Zen priest, Santoka (Japan, 1882-1940), leads our attention to "there." Nowhere else, there. He sees something others miss, for he has eyes to see. He calls for us not to overlook it, to share his eyes.
How much do we miss by looking elsewhere, which means thinking elsewhere? Or do we live so quickly, we do not have time - or so we think - to do anything but mostly miss "there"? Insight thrives where your "there" is. The God-reign is "there," and there you are "burnt to life" - not somewhere else.
* * *
"Fire," what comes to mind? A gas stove alight? Setting ablaze barbecue charcoals? Warmth? Brightness? Destruction? Pain?
The woods burned near a friend's home. Her dad, who lived beside her, worked in horticulture. He said to her, "That's how the woods care for itself." To him, the fire was a baptism signifying rebirth. He saw in the burnt woods new growth and a healthier forest. When a little boy, my family, like many, intentionally set our woods on fire for the same reasons.
* * *
The poet unites past and present, and he presents contrast. "Blooming" is latent in the "fire." The land is still working, doing what it does, regardless of the ravages of fire.
Hence, the burning is neither good nor bad, as my friend's dad knew, simply the way of nature. If you burn yourself, that is neither good nor bad. And the blooming is neither good nor bad, merely the way of nature. We can rightly feel good or bad about burning or blooming, and that, too, is the way of nature. We cannot escape feelings arising spontaneously in response to endings and beginnings. It is the way of nature to mourn loss and celebrate newness.
* * *
Meditation is a form of entering the fire and blooms. Meditation is not first about feeling comforted, lowering blood pressure, or attaining some higher state of mind. The late Thomas Keating, founder of Contemplative Outreach, called Centering Prayer "divine therapy." Therapy is a burning and blooming. So, when we regularly go into the Silence, the Silence is healing for it is fiery. It is, also, healing for it is bloomy. When you feel worse during meditation, therefore, you trust a deeper work of healing than your feelings. You do not say, "Oh! This doesn't feel good! Why am I doing this? It's not helping."
One reason we can feel so miserable in the Silence is there we see our selves, not merely the self we present to others or, yes, even our God. We are exposed, and it can feel saddening to terrible. Yet, joyful moments arise, when we see into our natural perfection, the beauty of ourselves, our true selves, always present, even if hidden. Perfection for untouched by good or bad, right or wrong, righteous or unrighteous, enlightened or unenlightened. "There" we are not even male or female, or anything. There has never been, for example, "there" a Christian, Buddhist, theist, atheist - again, any-thing. To see this is to see flower blossoms everywhere.
* * *
We come to see we are somewhere in the fire and somewhere in the blooms at once. Burning and blooming are going on all the time. Fire is in blooms, blooms are in fire. There is no place to point to for saying, "Fall ends here, and Winter starts there," or "Summer ends here, and Fall starts there." All the seasons live inside each other. Our death is in our birth, our birth in our death. Santoka's there is there, and all boths are there.
* * *
My friend's dad had eyes to see the newness and wellness amid charred trees and black ashes. Such insight makes all the difference. What difference does it make?
* * *
Sometimes, we sense a transition from fire to bloom so clear and remarkable we can refer to it as death and rebirth, for it is. Issa (Japan, Jodo Shinshu Buddhist priest, wandering beggar, 1763-1828) marked such a transformation with a name change -this ritual is common among religious groups. Issa's given name was Yatarô, representing his past; he reports his rebirth as priest and Issa. Ironically, this occurs at the "new spring," a time of new beginnings for the people. So, new year, new person -
new spring Yatarô dies, priest Issa is born
These transitions are often felt as spiritual. That is, more than a change in circumstances, like getting a new job or moving to a new location or choosing another religion. One feels what can be called a spiritual rebirth or spiritual transformation. One does not simply sense a change to who one is, but a new self that has not been before. Hence, the Christian Scripture speaks of one becoming a "new creation" and "being born from above (or again)."
* * *
I recall a fire. I have shared about it on this site before. I was told by the religious denomination I served as a pastor for twelve years - after leaving my native sect -, "We believe you are called [by God], but you don't fit with us." They did not say why. I, later that day, stood by the Peace River in Port Charlotte, Florida, jobless and feeling alone and lost, thinking, "What will I do now? This is all I know to do, and now it's gone." I had been a clergyperson since age 15, a pastor since age 19.
Months later, sitting in a field outside the barn I moved into back in Georgia, where I was raised, I was praying and weeping. I had rented the tobacco barn for forty-five dollars a month and drew water off a neighbor's well up the hill. I had one piece of furniture, a broken down rocker given me by my brother. To cook, I had a small microwave. I did not have a refrigerator or freezer, no washer or dryer. No air conditioner. For heat, one floor heater. To do my online work and job search, I would drive twelve miles to town, buy food from a fast food restaurant, and hook up to their WIFI. I felt I would never find meaningful work again; I felt I might never know joy again. And I was only in my early-50s.
What was in the fire? Newness arose. I found a way to get some money from retirement funds to pursue certification as a clinical chaplain, intending to work in hospice. I had thought, based on prior investigation, all that money was tied up until retirement, but I checked anyway. I had just enough to withdraw from it for Summer expenses and pay for the program. I moved to Jacksonville, Florida, and lived in an old, run-down hotel. I worked day and night over those three months, which was usually spread over nine months, but this was a three-month intensive. In the end, I was certified as a chaplain. Now, I could work in a hospice. I was glad to anticipate work without the "christian" boundaries, which I found limiting. I did not want a religious label standing between others and me.
I have been serving as a chaplain the last fifteen years: in corrections, then hospice, now with an interfaith, interspiritual chaplain team in Maine. I recall those days - sitting, shocked, before that ministry committee, told I did not fit in; standing beside the Peace River; and in the field weeping. Weeping, yet - ...
(C) brian k wilcox, 2025
*Sources Quoted: Santoka Taneda. For All My Walking: Free-Verse Haiku of Taneda Santoka. Trans. & Ed. Burton Watson; Issa Kobayashi. Issa's Best: A Translator's Selection of Master Haiku. Trans. David G. Lanoue.
