The Brisk Goodbye

[Guest guest]

In a message dated 1/28/2006 7:37:34 AM Pacific Standard Time,

pedsie4 writes:

 

> Many years later, I did pass that way again, and as I was

> straitening up from a deep vow, miracle of miracles, a

> red and black butterfly alighted on his grave.

>

> Pete

 

L.E: Did you write this?

Beautiful, excellent.

 

Larry Epston

 

 

 

[Guest guest]

After my lecture on poetry, I stayed

at the zendo for another three years,

but, until the day I left, Cagamucho and I

never spoke again.

 

I repeated Mu, I sat for two hours in

the morning, and two in the evening,

I attended lectures and sermons, and

did my chores, but my main practice

was Cagamucho watching.

 

He walked like an elephant, and sat

like a great ape. He had all the unconcerned

confidence of a huge beast. His movements

were like a deliberate, ponderous dance.

At times he had the stare of a wolf, and at times

his eyes would look on things like a puppy, with

that irresistible, innocent charm. He was

uncomplicated, single, all of one piece, but his

simplicity was mysterious, dark, empty, and as

scary as a bottomless pit.

 

I stalked and studied him like an entomologist

pursuing a rare butterfly. Sometimes, when

meditating I felt I was him, and sat on the mat

like a huge rock. And then, one day it happened,

I was him. The mind became an endless pit.

a chasm which had no needs, fears, or goals,

empty and self-sufficient, it contained all things.

 

I marched to his room like a rogue elephant in its

prime ready to confront an aging bull. Sliding

the paper screen door open, I saw him sitting by

his window gazing at the Zen garden, the wisteria,

and the blue hills beyond. He stared with brown

puppy eyes. He seemed soft, open, receptive, like

a woman in love.

 

As I sat down, he turned, looking at me now, as a cat

sizing up the strength of a rat. We confronted each

other in silence for a few seconds, then I touched the

mat with my forehead.

 

I'm leaving you now.

 

He nodded with a faint smile, You have done well!

 

I jumped to my feet, I'll be forever grateful. I vowed again.

 

Do you still write poems?

 

Sometimes.

 

How many words?

 

Eight or ten.

 

Good, he smiled. Come and see us if you pass this

way again.

 

Many years later, I did pass that way again, and as I was

straitening up from a deep vow, miracle of miracles, a

red and black butterfly alighted on his grave.

 

Pete