2024-04-14 | Dharma Talk | Fearlessness | Ann Lipscomb

00:02:00 - A short reading from ‘Not Always So: Practicing the True Spirit of Zen by Shunryu Suzuki
00:03:50 - Reading from: Seeds for a Boundless Life: Zen Teachings from the Heart by Zenkei Blanche Hartman
00:05:33 - The Niagara River By Kay Ryan (see below)
00:08:50 - The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac by Mary Oliver (see below)
00:15:47 - Peonies by Mary Oliver (see below)
00:21:37 - Ann Invites Questions
The Niagara River
By Kay Ryan
1945 -
As thoughthe river werea floor, we positionour table and chairsupon it, eat, andhave conversation.As it moves along,we notice-ascalmly as thoughdining room paintingswere being replaced-the changing scenesalong the shore. Wedo know, we doknow this is theNiagara River, butit is hard to rememberwhat that means.
The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac
by Mary Oliver
1.Why should I have been surprised?
Hunters walk the forestwithout a sound.
The hunter, strapped to his rifle,
the fox on his feet of silk,
the serpent on his empire of muscles-all move in a stillness,
hungry, careful, intent.
Just as the cancerentered the forest of my body,
without a sound.
2.The question is,
what will it be likeafter the last day?
Will I floatinto the skyor will I fraywithin the earth or a river-remembering nothing?
How desperate I would beif I couldn’t rememberthe sun rising,
if I couldn’tremember trees, rivers;
if I couldn’teven remember, beloved,your beloved name.
3.I know, you never intended to be in this world.But you’re in it all the same.
so why not get started immediately.
I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.
And to write music or poems about.
Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.
You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.
Or not.I am speaking from the fortunate platformof many years,
none of which, I think,
I ever wasted.Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be urgent as a knife, then,and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.
4.Late yesterday afternoon, in the heat,
all the fragile blue flowers in bloomin the shrubs i
n the yard next door hadtumbled from the shrubs
and laywrinkled and fading in the grass.
Butthis morning the shrubs were full ofthe blue flowers again.
There wasn’ta single one on the grass.
How, Iwondered, did they roll back up tothe branches,
that fiercely wanting,as we all do,
just a little more oflife?
Peonies by Mary Oliver
This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers
and they open ---
pools of lace,
white and pink ---
and all day the black ants climb over them,
boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away
to their dark, underground cities ---
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,
the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding
all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again ---
beauty the brave, the exemplary,
blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?
Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,
with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?
Mary Oliver
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world
MB