My heart is tired today. Tired of the round black zafu,
its unflagging suggestion of a conical haven.
Tired of flat pink September roses, the glass
of shattered beer bottles at the bushes’ roots.
Along the avenue relentless joggers run, ears
plugged with music or news. City dogs wait
nervously to go-ahead across the pitted street.
They have twenty minutes to crap and pee.
From the urban trees catbirds hawk
the hot chocolate of enlightenment as
butterflies struggle into their condensed
existence. My students know to seek beauty
in the fissure between O and K
on either side of all and right. But,
I’m lost this morning in the captions
for all that’s happened, the twilight sortie
into nothingness from humanity’s
My tired heart has set on ocean’s deep sand
where sightless gelatinous creatures twirl
through aquatic space, where sound
is movement and everything smacks of salt.
– Alexa Mergen
This poem arrived after a period of extended “sitting,” as in sitting Zen. I’d gotten up and exited my DC apartment building to take the dog for a walk on the crowded city avenue; I started noticing things. My thanks to poet Luis Omar Salinas, who once was and may always be my favorite American poet (along with Walt and E.D.) ; he’s kept me close company for many years.
Although this poem arose from sitting still, it might be helpful to remember that meditation doesn’t always lead to a feeling of creativity, bliss, or even contentment.
After a day-long sit with Edward Espe Brown years ago, I remember feeling very pissy as I rode my bike home. Brown is funny and low-key like most Zen priests: it wasn’t him. It was the intensity of sitting still and being with the big question mark of existence ?.
Another time, I bailed on a day-long sit at my home zendo, All Beings, knowing I didn’t have the composure yet to put aside my agitation from weekend travels. Sometimes taking a walk and receiving a poem are best for body and mind.
Meditation can be simple, even joyful, but it isn’t always easy. It does lead to clarity…eventually.
Insight can pop up like a praying mantis on the other side of a screen door.
Or all of a sudden a bit of advice sounds in your ears like the seemingly random chorus of cicadas.
It’s all about possibility, receiving it and letting it go.
“Poetry,” Alice Oswald says, “is not about language but about what happens when language gets impossible.”
Yoga, I’ll add, is not about the living body but about what happens when the distraction of that body dissolves.
Meditation is not about the mind but about what happens when the mind, as Kosho Uchiyama says, opens the hand of thought.