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Buddha's teaching method was counter intuitive, to say the least. More often than not, he didn't even talk. He just sat there.
There is a well known story about The Buddha sitting in a place with hundreds of people gathered around him. (Waiting for pearls of wisdom I suppose.) However, he just sat, and after awhile everyone started grumbling about how he was a fraud. Then he stood up and held out a flower. One of his disciples, Kashayapa, smiled. He understood. (Kashayapa became one of the forbearers of Zen Buddhism).
So that's it?
He held out a flower?
That's the moral to the story?
There's got to be more to it. . .
On this early summer night, I can tell you that it may all depend upon the flower. Constance Spry (the first David Austin English rose) clambers up and over an old rusted arbor and into a Styrax tree off our back patio. Its blooms are cupped--like halved cabbages--and on warm evenings, they carry the hypnotic scent of myrrh.
I've known the story about the flower for many years. . .although I wasn't planning to use it for a Sabbath Moment. I suppose because it's interesting how we're wired. We want tales that we can dissect or parse or figure out. In other words, "what's the lesson here?" (In the New Testament, Jesus' disciples were continually aggravated because he wouldn't give them the Cliff Notes to understand his parables.)
And all the while we look for the revelation, we miss the flower.
What does the flower represent?
Well that's just it. I don't know.
Perhaps it's the heart.
Or being present.
Or awareness.
Or openness.
Or vulnerability.
Or all of the above.
But here's the deal: when I require certainty--or conclusiveness or resolution--I will most assuredly miss the moment, the sacred, the serendipitous, the delightful, and the unfeigned.
When I lead retreats about Sabbath (the permission to sit still, slow down, pause, do nothing), people get it. You know, the need to let our souls catch up with our bodies. And then they ask, "Can you please give us the specifics? I mean, if we're going to sit still, what is the requisite list? Because if I'm going to slow down, I want to be good at it! In fact, I want to excel at Sabbath."
But all of this is not just confined to faith and religion. I read this exchange in one of my garden magazines.
Q. I'm considering converting my lawn to a wildflower meadow. Can you suggest any wildflowers and provide some pointers on how to grow and maintain wildflowers?
A. You might want to check with your local zoning regulations to make sure you are permitted to convert your lawn to a meadow before you go to the labor and expense. Many communities have restrictions as to how tall grass is permitted to grow.
Lord help us.
And yet. . .there is something comforting about the regulations. It's as if we don't want the moment without an ability to appraise the moment. (Who knows where the world would be if we all had tall grass. . .)
There is a rule of thumb for any writer wannabe. Just write. Glue your butt to the chair, and write. And then write some more. Begin by writing without appraisal. Let it flow--even if only in fits and starts, regardless of its value or merit or worth. Put it down on the page. Without stopping to judge or rethink or spell check. In due time. In due time.
It's the same rule of thumb for the gardener. Paint the landscape in your mind. Let plants cascade and jumble. With paths and walls and waterways. Embrace plants from your childhood--and plants from your dreams. Give no heed to "I can't" or I shouldn't."
When people visit my garden, they ask for advice on their own backyard Shargri-las. Some are starting from scratch. Others are working with a garden they have had for years. Some have lots of space. Others have two or three whiskey barrels on their patio. "There's always room for one more plant," is my best advice, stealing from Oscar Wilde's reflection, "nothing succeeds like excess." Of course, once given the opportunity to dispense such acumen, I decide not to stop. The preacher in me is in full gear. "Besides," I tell them, "Good taste is definitely overrated. Because you can't really make a mistake in the garden. Honestly, if you don't like the way something turns out, you can always move it. That's part of the fun, and the wonder." Which is about the time I usually spot some clump of an unnamed aster that has run amok, doing my best to resist the urge to start whacking at it with my spade.
Therein lies the temptation. As if we can ultimately "get it right" (whether it's our garden or faith or prayer life or emotional well-being). So I guess a part of us doesn't mind giving in to some form of excess, as long as it is time constrained. (Like my friend who tells me, "Of course I'm spontaneous, just tell me which day so I can put it on my calendar.") We know there will be some hour or place when we will be done with this madness. Project over. And we give thanks to whoever may be responsible, for the order in our world is restored. Okay. . .we took the flower. . .are we done yet?
Or could it be that we are suffering from an excessive dose of self-consciousness? Feeling the glare of that third party in our heads demanding that we dance to one particular tune, or else. Some of us capitulate and dance. Some of us snap and kill the music, all the while looking over our shoulders just to see if they notice.
It may be that we miss the point that our spiritual nature is enhanced precisely when, for these precious moments, we are able to shake that voice and find ourselves knee-deep in the colors, smells, and emotions of the day.
Lying back against a voluptuous swirl of smooth pink rock, I idly watch a scuffle of soaring birds, trying to decide if I've baked long enough in the late July sun to make the ice-green water at my feet once again gratifying, rather than mortifying, to the flesh. . .I find myself thinking that we've finally succeed in getting away from the world, and then realize I've got it backward. The world--the phenomenal world, unmediated--is just what we've found our way into. John Jerome
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