Virtually a yogi the world is at your fingertips
Real depth is just a flat screen
Real tone is a compressed wave that jingles artifacting
Real people are so close yet so far away
Strangers are more familiar than family
A sense of closeness to others is like
Dreaming of a dead pet
It's only really pleasant if you don't know it's a dream
Separating from loved ones is like
Living through a heart attack deep in the woods
Surviving with the comfort of marauding bears
Who can't see you're almost dead, but trust you live
Enough to produce more edible garbage
Wishing for reunions is like longing for the taste of salt water
And dangerous undertow because summer sun used to be fun
But don't cling now to mystery slime that washes up on the beach
Could be dangerous
You don't know who that slime is
Or where it's been
Listening to news breeds angst and competitition
The downfall of one is the triumph of many,
And virtue is the opposite of vice-versa.
Watching friends decay is like watching a roast burn in the oven slowly
While your arms are strapped to a wheelchair
Seeing children grow
Is like an old ghosts twice born in a flood plain
Who watch waters engulfing their kin
As if to float together, but instead both are swept away
And left somewhere else to wander
Old age and sickness are a slaughterhouse
That livestock tour again and again
For a nip and a tuck
Yielding a pound of karmic debt
Like calves drinking blood and milk
From an old shaky heifer
One one of us dying while the rest live
On dividend income from the healthcare industry
Death is a nagging wife
An ever constant reminder
Who makes you want to keep living
You really can't live without her
In a way I dread her so
But together life is precious
Friday, November 24, 2017
བགྲོས་འདེབས་ཤིང་སྡོང་མ།
།ཤིང་སྡོང་ཆེ་བའི་གྲགས་སར་རི་ཐོད་ཀྱི།
།དཔུང་པོའི་གཡས་གཡོན་གཉེན་བཤེས་དུ་མར་དྲངས།
།སེམས་ཅན་བདེ་སྐྱིད་དེ་རུ་མང་བཙལ་ཀྱང་།
The many-vultured mountainside garden grove
On the shoulders of the mountaintop on a place renowned
For large trees, to the left and right, many kalyanamitras are drawn
Though one seek much happiness and delight for beings there,
།ལྷ་སྲིན་འདེ་མོར་བཟློག་པའི་འཚུབ་མང་བས།
།ཆོས་ཀྱི་སྒྲོན་མེ་རླུང་ཤུགས་མར་མེ་འདྲ་།
Because of the great disturbances caused by gods and demons
Going against the demoness,
The beacon of Dharma is like candle in the wind.
།སྒྲུབ་བརྒྱུད་ཤིང་རྟའི་དེད་དཔོན་གང་ཆེས་ཀྱང་།
།སེམས་ཅན་བདེ་སྐྱིད་གཡེང་ལ་འཆོར་ཀྱང་སླ།
།དེ་དུས་གུ་རུར་གསོལ་བ་བཏབ་པའི་བུའམ།
No matter how great the pilot of the Practice Lineage-chariot
The happiness of beings is easily lost to distractions.
At that time, a son who supplicates Guru Padmasambhava
།རིགས་ཀྱི་བུ་མོས་ཡིད་ཀྱང་ཆེས་པར་སླ།
།སེམས་ཅན་དོན་ལ་དཔའ་སྟེ་རྗེས་སུ་འཛིན།
།སྦྱིན་པ་རྣམ་གསུམ་གཞན་གྱི་དབུགས་དབྱུང་ཐབས།
Or a daughter of good lineage, will easily gain confidence.
Be brave in the benefit of beings, take care of them!
With three generosities, the supreme method of alleviating others --
།མཆོག་ཏུ་གྱུར་པ་རྗེ་བཙུན་ཁྲོས་མར་གཞེངས།
།དགྱེས་བཞིའི་རྒྱུན་སྐྱོང་ཞི་བདེའི་རྟེན་འབྲེལ་ཚུགས།
།སེམས་དཔའི་གདེངས་དང་མི་བྲལ་ཐ་ཚིག་གོ
Is to arise as Sublime Lady Tröma
Keep the practice of four feasts going,
To establish interdependence of peace and happiness.
Your vow is don't separate from confidence of bodhichitta.
ཞེས་རང་ཉིད་གང་དུ་སྡོད་པའི་གྲོང་གསེབ་ས་ཆ་གཙོ་ཆེ་བའི་རྟགས་བྱ་རྒོད་མང་པོ་བསྡུས་པ་ལ་སོགས་པའི་ལྟས་མོ་རྣམས་དྲན་ནས་དེ་ལ་བསྟོད་ཚིག་སྙན་པོ་འགའ་ཤས་དགོས་ཞེས་བསམ་བློ་བཏང་ནའང་། རང་ལ་བགྲོས་འདེབས་སུ་ཤར་མར་གང་ཕབ་པ་འདིའི་དགེ་བ་འགའ་ཡོད་ན་དོན་གཉིས་སུ་ཡང་དག་པར་བསྔོ་བ་དང་། རང་མགོ་རང་གིས་བསྐོར་བཏང་བའི་རློམ་སེམས་ཀྱི་དཔང་པོར་བྱས་ཏེ་གཤགས་ཤིང་བཟོད་བཙལ་དུ་སྨོན་པའི་བློ་དང་ལྡན་པའི་པད༷་མིང་ཞིག་གིས་སོ།
Sunday, November 19, 2017
The Value of Time
I don't pretend to know the value of time. To know how I've wasted it in my life is a source of discomfort for me, and should disqualify any philosophical reflection of its value. It's as though one were to mistreat one's neighbors terribly and then write a blog post called, "The Value of Neighbors".
But this is the age of populist politics down in the mud with over-dressed, over-trained, overly old ideologues, when one hypocrisy trumps its predecessor, day after day in the psuedo-quasi-meta-news. With the assumption that we are all wrassling in the quamire of our own and other's P.O.O. -- Power Over Others -- with all the mudslinging, face-painting and subterfuge that would imply, I would say this about the value of time.
The simple fact of sitting there, and doing nothing, shows the true contempt we have for time. The millisecond-slices of time we can observe in the moment of contemplation shows the tricky undercurrent of likes and dislikes, of personal preferences, the creeping pall of unquestioned assumptions, not to mention the pervasive creakiness of embodiment, from the clicking of big-toe joints to the gurgling of pylori up to the dandruff flakes on a comb-over crown. That we try to ignore these annoying but infallible reminders of impermanence, that they vex us only enough to use dandruff shampoo but not the means of ending cyclic existence itself, shows that we do not value time enough. A single flake of dandruff should be heartbreaking enough to provoke renunciation and savoring this very moment of awareness as a wide-open portal of liberation, but instead we won't let dandruff or sore feet get to us if we can get to them first, or simply ignore them, and therefore do not appreciate what the present moment -- much less the future -- really might contain.
This is a mistake.
As amazing as phenomena can be, a flow of wasted moments -- moments obscured by trivia, by avoidance of discomfort or pursuit of pleasure, or simply by an irresolute sense of what really matters -- is what occurs at the beginner's level of self-observation in meditation. Even at presumptively 'advanced' levels of practice, it turns out the subtle undercurrent of habit is still part of the contemplative weather. The dangerous undertow even seems necessary, in a way. Fair weather nearly all the time amounts to a desert; an ocean without currents is a swamp. Though some hardy, rare, beautiful critters may find a way to thrive there, a civilized biome cannot.
The highest products of human spiritual endeavor can thrive in desert, but in general, aside from sometimes ripening well in an alpine or deserted region, most Buddha-fruit appear in a jungle in the lowlands, near a river, belonging to a kingdom. So began Buddha Shakyamuni's teaching career with the first turning of the Dharma-wheel. Lord Buddha was born a prince, so he was a personal product of great cultural refinement. His Shakya lineage was considered ancient even 2,500 years ago. His appearance in the world was like a rare flower or mushroom that appears only when certain long-developing conditions are complete. That is not to say Buddhas are not here already. They are here already, just like an ancient mycelium underground or a primordial banyan forest that hasn't fruited anytime in memory. We call those unripened growths "sentient beings".
Fortunately, for ourselves to savor the Buddha-truffle we do not need to grow one from scratch, or use an alaya-ground-sniffing theoretical pig, as it were. We have the distilled essence of Buddha-fruit, or Dharma, and skilled fungus-farmers, known as Sangha or in the case of wizardly fruit-breeders, Lamas. The most skilled of those are able to make Mendrup, which is like grafting 1,000 different scions of new, old and ancient fruit trees all on the same trunk and producing a single type of fruit, just once.
This is an over-extended and mixed-up metaphor, but I'm already out on a branch here, as it were.
This is the value of time, among other things: that the results of Buddhahood, such as the personal effects or artifacts of holy beings, are riper and more beneficial like the best of old wines or cheeses -- or truffles -- if we dig them properly.
But this is the age of populist politics down in the mud with over-dressed, over-trained, overly old ideologues, when one hypocrisy trumps its predecessor, day after day in the psuedo-quasi-meta-news. With the assumption that we are all wrassling in the quamire of our own and other's P.O.O. -- Power Over Others -- with all the mudslinging, face-painting and subterfuge that would imply, I would say this about the value of time.
The simple fact of sitting there, and doing nothing, shows the true contempt we have for time. The millisecond-slices of time we can observe in the moment of contemplation shows the tricky undercurrent of likes and dislikes, of personal preferences, the creeping pall of unquestioned assumptions, not to mention the pervasive creakiness of embodiment, from the clicking of big-toe joints to the gurgling of pylori up to the dandruff flakes on a comb-over crown. That we try to ignore these annoying but infallible reminders of impermanence, that they vex us only enough to use dandruff shampoo but not the means of ending cyclic existence itself, shows that we do not value time enough. A single flake of dandruff should be heartbreaking enough to provoke renunciation and savoring this very moment of awareness as a wide-open portal of liberation, but instead we won't let dandruff or sore feet get to us if we can get to them first, or simply ignore them, and therefore do not appreciate what the present moment -- much less the future -- really might contain.
This is a mistake.
As amazing as phenomena can be, a flow of wasted moments -- moments obscured by trivia, by avoidance of discomfort or pursuit of pleasure, or simply by an irresolute sense of what really matters -- is what occurs at the beginner's level of self-observation in meditation. Even at presumptively 'advanced' levels of practice, it turns out the subtle undercurrent of habit is still part of the contemplative weather. The dangerous undertow even seems necessary, in a way. Fair weather nearly all the time amounts to a desert; an ocean without currents is a swamp. Though some hardy, rare, beautiful critters may find a way to thrive there, a civilized biome cannot.
The highest products of human spiritual endeavor can thrive in desert, but in general, aside from sometimes ripening well in an alpine or deserted region, most Buddha-fruit appear in a jungle in the lowlands, near a river, belonging to a kingdom. So began Buddha Shakyamuni's teaching career with the first turning of the Dharma-wheel. Lord Buddha was born a prince, so he was a personal product of great cultural refinement. His Shakya lineage was considered ancient even 2,500 years ago. His appearance in the world was like a rare flower or mushroom that appears only when certain long-developing conditions are complete. That is not to say Buddhas are not here already. They are here already, just like an ancient mycelium underground or a primordial banyan forest that hasn't fruited anytime in memory. We call those unripened growths "sentient beings".
Fortunately, for ourselves to savor the Buddha-truffle we do not need to grow one from scratch, or use an alaya-ground-sniffing theoretical pig, as it were. We have the distilled essence of Buddha-fruit, or Dharma, and skilled fungus-farmers, known as Sangha or in the case of wizardly fruit-breeders, Lamas. The most skilled of those are able to make Mendrup, which is like grafting 1,000 different scions of new, old and ancient fruit trees all on the same trunk and producing a single type of fruit, just once.
This is an over-extended and mixed-up metaphor, but I'm already out on a branch here, as it were.
This is the value of time, among other things: that the results of Buddhahood, such as the personal effects or artifacts of holy beings, are riper and more beneficial like the best of old wines or cheeses -- or truffles -- if we dig them properly.
Tuesday, November 14, 2017
Man-Cave of Being
There's a room behind the words
A space of all intents and meanings
And a space behind the meanings
The air is always fresh here
The landscape often pleasant
The sounds, sights, smells and such
All quite an odyssey...
Forgive this idiocy but
Sentient beings are as if crazy
So say the yogi-lamas
Echoing the Buddhas' P.O.V.
I say let's party they say only just so much
Beings shop at the mall, Buddhas go dutch
The world's appalled, stuck at a widow's wake
The Shambhala Sun's in fall,
There are colors and sheaves to rake
Skipping along we ride on bright
Tidal waves of poesy and brooding clouds
Of uncertain intent,
Down through ages speaking in, and of
Sages, raging, christening, grinding out the schtick
A thousand point-and-clicks of pixel light
Somewhere a kind of golden chain was forming
That liberates on sight
And meanwhile shining on like an astrological smorgasbord
Hem and haw I, I fear ignored
But faith is not boring
It's just a box of pain that's worth
Long-term cold storage
So eat, child! I chide my porridge
The gruel of my soul, bartered for forage
Washed up verb flotsam almost overlooked
A tie-dye shoe in a tree tangled down by Tannery Brook
Mixing it up so as not to get stale
Moving around so as not to despair
Living and breathing in this air of being
With the force of a million mayflies wheezing
Lest that future be displeasing
Remember the future of food is bugs
We survive best with eight legs not hugs
Not kisses but hisses and disses
Sent slinking home and be et by the missus
Or spin your own web, hang out in dishes
Trolling with lines for digital fishes
Such is the sport in the man-cave of being
Why crane our heads over a keyboard to be free.
A space of all intents and meanings
And a space behind the meanings
The air is always fresh here
The landscape often pleasant
The sounds, sights, smells and such
All quite an odyssey...
Forgive this idiocy but
Sentient beings are as if crazy
So say the yogi-lamas
Echoing the Buddhas' P.O.V.
I say let's party they say only just so much
Beings shop at the mall, Buddhas go dutch
The world's appalled, stuck at a widow's wake
The Shambhala Sun's in fall,
There are colors and sheaves to rake
Skipping along we ride on bright
Tidal waves of poesy and brooding clouds
Of uncertain intent,
Down through ages speaking in, and of
Sages, raging, christening, grinding out the schtick
A thousand point-and-clicks of pixel light
Somewhere a kind of golden chain was forming
That liberates on sight
And meanwhile shining on like an astrological smorgasbord
Hem and haw I, I fear ignored
But faith is not boring
It's just a box of pain that's worth
Long-term cold storage
So eat, child! I chide my porridge
The gruel of my soul, bartered for forage
Washed up verb flotsam almost overlooked
A tie-dye shoe in a tree tangled down by Tannery Brook
Mixing it up so as not to get stale
Moving around so as not to despair
Living and breathing in this air of being
With the force of a million mayflies wheezing
Lest that future be displeasing
Remember the future of food is bugs
We survive best with eight legs not hugs
Not kisses but hisses and disses
Sent slinking home and be et by the missus
Or spin your own web, hang out in dishes
Trolling with lines for digital fishes
Such is the sport in the man-cave of being
Why crane our heads over a keyboard to be free.
Monday, November 13, 2017
A Garland of Verses: Why I'm Depressed about Things
Translator's note:
It is well-known that in his early years, prior to becoming the chief disciple
of Dzogchen master Kumaradza, the great scholar and poet Tsultrim Lodro 'Disciplined Intellect' (if not also as Lodro Tsungmé, 'Peerless Intellect') -- later known as
the Omniscient Longchen Rabjam -- became disgusted with the behavior of his
fellow students at Sang phu monastery, and issued several barbed
compositions in verse, directed especially at hooligans from Tibet's Khams
region. Thus the title of this piece,
rgyu la khams 'dus, literally means "depression about causes" (or, by
inference, "the causes of my depression"), but also puns on the real source
of Longchenpa's gloomy mood, namely, crude behavior of monks from the eastern
frontier.
༄༅། །རྒྱུ་ལ་ཁམས་འདུས་མེ་ཏོག་ཕྲེང་བ །།
Why I'm
Depressed:
A Garland of Verses
rGyu la khams 'dus me tog phreng ba
A Garland of Verses
rGyu la khams 'dus me tog phreng ba
OM SVĀSTI SIDDHAM
The one from Glorious Samye in the snowy
fastness of Tibet --
Whose beautiful form, like a sunlit lotus grove,
Is revered by the all-seeing gods and men alike --
Offers these few words for inquiring minds!
These days some people tell me that
I'm out of touch with the world, aloof,
Unable to stay put, and very depressed.
Now, listen to what I have to say!
Holy beings despise them, these un-Dharmic
and nefarious ways,
The sneaky and manipulative methods of deception,
Which cause regret at death's door, and low rebirths
in the future:
To be out of touch with the world is a good thing
indeed!
Luxury and pleasure, the noose of Samsara
Are the basis of endless conflict and suffering --
Holy beings despise them.
Even if you have them, there is no satisfaction,
And attachment increases.
To stay away from these causes of lower realms is
a good thing indeed!
If you don't renounce the ways of the
world,
You will never be free of the ocean of suffering.
Not clinging to impermanent, meaningless things,
And remaining aloof is a good thing indeed!
Staying put, desire and anger increase
automatically;
You get busy, and there's too much to do;
You get caught by the lasso of selfish desires.
Not staying put in a place like this is a good thing
indeed!
So, this depression of mine is not without
reason.
I've been thinking day and night about this:
We're adrift in this turbulent sea of Samsara,
The process of selfish delusion.
Having seen the depths of this ocean,
From which rescue is difficult,
I'm depressed and shed tears of despair.
Closely observing the behavior of others
Is what makes me depressed: so listen!
Externally refined, but inside most arrogant,
They loudly proclaim themselves to be
Venerable abbots, disciples and lamas,
But they don't practice Dharma and chase after luxury.
Observing these clever frauds, I'm depressed!
They are more interested in rich people,
Than those who know Dharma.
They are nicer to sinister types,
Than to honest persons.
Seeing these experts on the eight worldly Dharmas
Disguised as lamas, I get depressed!
They don't know what really matters and
Sever friendships with nasty gossip.
They're not happy if things go well
And foment disagreements.
With "friends" like this, I am depresssed!
Impatient with work, they make others
work for them;
Not there when you need them, they are fickle and
disloyal;
They're hypersensitive and unpredictable.
With friends like these, who wouldn't be depressed?
They have no sense of decorum, and
Lash out if you tell them so.
They love to eat but avoid anything that involves
effort.
Seeing students like these, I feel depressed.
If you praise them directly, they criticize
you behind your back.
They have no interest in Dharma and hanker for luxuries.
After caring for their needs, they still resent you.
With students like these, I am depressed.
They'll reject a wise man for eating
and dressing simply, but
Show respect to a dimwit because he's rich;
They find con artists personable, and consider them
clever.
Seeing people like these, I get depressed.
If you're honest, they think you're totally
rigid.
If you're poor, they think you're utterly worthless.
If you know Dharma, they'll say you're useless and
incompetent.
Around people like these, I feel depressed.
Someone who follows the ways of the world
They esteem as an excellent master;
An underhanded charlatan
They claim as a noble person.
Foul-mouthed morons and frauds
They consider good folks --
These kinds of people make me depressed.
What they promise to give, they dedicate
as merit.
The gift of harm they imagine is virtue.
The practice of non-Dharma will lead to happy rebirths
--
Or so they think.
Such confused thinking makes me depressed.
If you commit pecadilloes, they think
that's grand.
If a pure monk shows up, everyone hates him.
Now, when everyone loves a fool more than a saint,
A sensitive person might well feel depressed!
In our times, everyone is wrong-headed.
Virtues, which show up one's weakness,
Are judged to be faults.
Because they seem to have an extra leg,
Such now is the case with the man from Samye, a philosopher
Skilled in composition, teaching and debate,
Who practices Dharma, but is hated!
Having said this, the hordes of rowdy,
ignorant fools --
Who are completely misinformed about traditions
Of study and contemplation,
Who rashly pawn the jewels of the three trainings
For their personal benefit --
And those who admire them,
Will surely not be pleased.
However, I have written this for the
delight
Of intelligent persons who spread the wings of three
trainings
From the fine body of their ethical discipline
To fly in the sky of honest endeavor.
Look into the distinction of truth and
falsity, gifted ones!
About this, the poet from the Land of Snows,
Tsultrim Lodrö Zangpo, has written.
By this merit, may I and all beings
Reach the foot of the glorious Bodhi Tree,
And having vanquished the armies of Mara and their
unpleasant words,
Go to the regal state of spontaneous presence, the
three Kayas!
This
"discourse garland of refutation", written sincerely as an authentic response
[to criticisms] by the learned poet, the one from glorious Samye, Tsultrim
Lodrö, is hereby complete.
[This
preliminary translation was created on Thursday, November 25, 1999, and
revised on March 11, 2000, by Konchog Tashi. Sarva Mangalam!]
©
1999 by Non-white Jetty Pith. All rights reserved. This translation may
be freely distributed in digital media. No part of this translation may
be distributed in any other medium without written consent of the author.
Saturday, November 4, 2017
།མ་ཡུམ་འཇམ་དཔལ་ངང་ཉིད་བཞུགས།།
༈ །མ་བྱས་ལྷུན་གྲུབ་ཡངས་པའི་ཡུམ་གྱི་མཁར། །གླིང་ཕྲན་དབེན་པའི་རྣམ་དག་ས་གཞིའི་ཐང་། །བླ་མ་རྩ་བ་གསུམ་དྲན་བྱིས་པ་ནི། །གཅིག་ཏུ་ལུས་པའི་འདུ་ཤེས་ཡིད་རེ་སྐྱོ། །གཅེས་པའི་མཆེད་ལྕམ་ཡུན་དང་མ་འགྲོགས་བཞིན། །མཚུུངས་མེད་སྐྱབས་མགོན་ཞིང་དུ་ཕེབས་ཤུལ་འདིར། །ཅི་ཡང་མི་ཤེས་རྟོག་པའི་ལྡོམ་བུ་པ། །རང་ལས་སྐྱབས་གཞན་མེད་ན་འོ་རེ་བརྒྱལ། །བཀའ་དྲིན་མཚུངས་མེད་བླ་མ་རྣམས་ལ་དྲན། །དངོས་གྲུབ་གཏེར་ཆེན་ཡི་དམ་ཚོགས་རྣམས་དྲན། །ཕྲིན་ལས་དམ་ཚིག་མཆོག་སྲུང་མཁའ་འགྲོ་མ། །མོས་གདུངས་འབོད་པའི་བུ་ལ་ཡིད་བདེ་སྩོལ། །གཅིག་ཏུ་དབེནཔའི་དོན་གྱི་དམ་པའི་གནས། །རྣམ་ཀུན་ལྡན་ཉིད་རྟོགས་པའི་རྒྱུར་བྱེད་ན། །སྙིང་རྗེ་ཆེན་པོའི་འཆར་གཞིའི་འགགས་མེད་གདངས། །དངོས་འདོད་ཀུན་གྲུབ་སྟེར་བའི་ལྷ་མོར་འགྱུར། །དེའི་ཕྱིར་སེམས་མ་སྐྱོ་ཤིག་རིགས་ཀྱི་བུ། །མ་སྲིང་ལྕམ་ཚོགས་ཁྱེད་ལ་རྗེས་བཟུང་བཞིན། །ཐར་པའི་ལམ་དུ་གཞན་ལ་སྐྱབས་མཛོད་ཅིག །རང་ལས་གཅེས་འཛིན་དམ་བཅས་གཏན་སྲིད་སྲུངས། །མ་ཡུམ་འཇམ་དཔལ་ངང་ཉིད་འགྲུབ་པར་འགྱུར། །ཞེས་རང་ཡིད་སྐྱོ་བསེལ་བའི་ཀླད་ཡེ་ཤེས་མ་ཡི་སྐད་ཡིན་པའི་ཚིག་རྐང་འཕགས་མ་ཉི་ཤུ་གཅིག་མཚོན་པའི་གྲངས་ལྡན་འདིའི་མོས་པའི་ངང་དུ་གང་རྟོག་བྲིས་པ་ལ་ཡིད་རངས་པར་འགྱུར་རོ། མེ་བྱའི་ཟླ་བ་༩་པའི་ཚེས་པ་༡༥་ལའོ།
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