The Brooklyn Sutras

It doesn’t interest me if there is one God
Or many gods.

I want to know if you belong — or feel abandoned;
If you know despair
Or can see it in others.

I want to know
If you are prepared to live in the world
With its harsh need to change you;
If you can look back with firm eyes
Saying “this is where I stand.”

I want to know if you know how to melt
Into that fierce heat of living
Falling toward the center of your longing.

I want to know if you are willing
To live day by day
With the consequence of love
And the bitter unwanted passion
Of your sure defeat.

I have been told
In that fierce embrace
Even the gods
Speak of God.

by David Whyte

When I read the Art Practice guidelines a some weeks ago, I was amused to learn we would be looking at stillness and motion. At the time I had already made the decision to move from my place in Sunset Park Brooklyn, but I hadn’t found a new place.

Now the day is here and boxes are filling and piling by the door. Even after all this time in Brooklyn, so much of my previous life in Philadelphia is still here in boxes, packed away in time. In some ways I can barely recognize it, so much has changed in fifty-two months. Who was that guy who packed it all away?

In the Art Practice guidelines my teacher asked us to pick one object and return to it again and again throughout the ninety-days of the Fall Ango. One week see the object’s stillness, and the the next week experience it’s motion. The object I chose to study was my move. It’s not an object like a bowl of fruit, but it’s “thingness” became clear as it loomed before me.

This week I’m in stillness mode, which is funny since the actual move is happening tomorrow, so I decided to light some incense and to sit a period of zazen before I started packing.

Five in the morning . . .
Rolling off my lumpy futon I literally drag myself to the cushion
So dramatic
Not really. Just sitting.
This is my still week, but motion is on my mind
Reaching out
Groping
Sesshin knees
Enter here . . .

Before I moved to Brooklyn, my experience of Adhan, the Muslim call to prayer, was as a movie plot point, something sinister and completely separate from my day to day experience. Living here in Brooklyn, so many things once distant and unknown are now simply a part of my walk to the subway.

Work on this particular Friday was extrordinarlily stressful, I’d spent most of the day struggling with a small group recalitrant computers at a Times Square tourist trap and it was just after 6PM when I finally admitted defeat. I decided to retreat until Monday.

I emerged onto a surreal street scene. Twilight had come early, and a soft rain cooled the steamy summer streets. Tourists running for cover cleared my way as I strode south on Broadway. The rain had an almost psychedelic effect on the towers of neon against the grey gloaming. I took in the moment as I strolled several blocks to the Yellow Line and a train home to Brooklyn. I caught an R train, leaned back, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the MTA air conditioning against my damp clothing.

Rising up the steps at 4th Ave and Atlantic in Brooklyn, the rain had slowed to a misty summer drizzle. I walked quietly along Atlantic Avenue looking to spot if the next B63 was headed my way. The traffic glistened in the long shadows of sunset as the Muslim call to prayer echoed mystically from loudspeakers hidden in the upper reaches of the Al Farooq Mosque. I don’t know what it is about it, there is an earnest, almost straining quality beneath the smooth haunting verse. It’s quite beautiful, and it calls me to question my preconceptions.

So much of what we think we know about Islam and those who organize their lives according to its ideals is so wrapped up in fear, anger and ignorance that there can be no clear understanding. I just know as I walk through those lilting words bouncing off the brownstones of Boreum Hill I don’t feel fear, nor anger, but wonder.

I don’t understand my own thoughts on the subject, but I’ve tried to educate myself. Karen Armstrong’s book, Islam: A Short History gives us a solid history, and as self-described history buff I was surprised how little I knew. I also enjoyed Fazlur Rahman’s Islam. Both books were written prior to 9/11/2001, but they don’t seem dated as they take a long view of the subject. There are thousands of books on this and related subjects written from every angle imaginable, and the ones I’ve read satisfy me intellectually, but they don’t inform my gut.

I get a definite feeling when I consume media on things Islamic, but it never jives with what I feel when I interact with my Muslim neighbors, and not at all what I feel when I hear the call to prayer here Brooklyn.

<< Audio Clip >> The Muslim Call To Prayer

Subway station at rush hour, sprawled out dramatically. Seeming unhurt, his eyes become responsive through a pharma glaze. Two young women are concerned, involved, others simply step over.

You okay brother? His street savvy prevails, it’s time to get up. Balance elusive, he half leans on me. I’m good, he keeps saying. You look really good, I joke. You’re feeling good. We laugh. People stream past.

Girl one calls 911. The stairs will kill him, she urges him to sit. Her shrill harshes his buzz. I’m good mami, he assures her. Girl two hovers, receptive, waiting as he gropes to gather his bags. People brush by.

Girl one’s stair fears erupt as he approaches the turnstile. I move to guard the steps. But no metro card. Girl two talks to him, gentle, sweet. Metro card vending is complicated.

Some inner clock clears, determined he pulls it together. Through the turnstile, onrush commuters. Girl two smiles softly thru the bars and disappears.

Down we go. Bump, stumble, sit, slide. Girl one steers, I brake. I’m goooooooood, he says as we all stumble on the last step, relief becomes laughter. Something shifts, the crowd passes three.

Girl one hops the C as an Uptown A arrives, an older woman helps him in. I watch the doors close. Down to the D train and home to Brooklyn.

Times Square 5:30
Dark already
Not here
Now you call me back
Sorry
Under the gun since 8
Are you in the office tomorrow
Am I ever?
Friday I got caught up
I’m so behind
Caught up?
I don’t get it
I’m buying lettuce

D train 36th to W4th standing randomly. My coffee from Pamela’s sits loosely in my black pack pouch freeing my hands to Tweet witty about the moment.

Grand Street exodus, I move to sit. I spill some coffee, a four inch puddle, Brazilian Roast, two splenda.

Feeling bad I focus on my err, watching as it moves with train rhythm, becoming. Surface tension holds an edge, doing, no intent, no obvious sentience, and then a drop breaks free only to return in response to braking.

Broadway & Lafayette rush to the door, thirty itinerant shoes come and go. Disturbing.

In the fall of 2008 on becoming a formal Zen student I took part in a small private ceremony where over tea and light conversation my teacher, Daido Roshi, presented each of us with our grey student robes, and our oryoki bowls. Items linking us in the long line of Zen practitioners back to the time of The Buddha.

It is customary for the student to offer a small gift of appreciation to the teacher at this time, but what do you give to the man who has everything? It had to be something personal, something with history, something with a story.

Back in the 90’s I began spending vacations in a little town on the western tip of Jamaica. I’d often stay in the same small hotel, and became friendly with the families, restaurateurs, and shopkeepers in the little neighborhood around the hotel. In these years I also began to explore eastern philosophy and to practice various forms of meditation. Mornings in Negril became synonymous with deep introspection peppered with ganja and robust coffee while gazing into the void of the great Caribbean Sea.

Several months after I began to study with Daido Roshi I took a trip to Negril with my Dad. On our first day my friend Elvis called me over to his wood carving stand just outside the hotel’s gate. HIs first questions was, “How are the brothers doing?” It was as if the brothers were old friends who’d emigrated to the States a few years earlier. Actually “The Brothers” were a beautiful pair of crescent moons with expressive Jamaican faces carved from planks of pimento wood. He’s carved them for me as a birthday gift for my daughter. Elvis is a gifted artist with the ability to get right to the heart of the matter.

He held up a block of wood, ironwood he told me, and as he held it he began to ask in a mystical sort of way, “What can I show you in this block? What do you see?” Along with being a wonderful carver Elvis was no slouch as a salesman, but I was in a hurry to get back to my Dad so I blurted out, “Have you ever carved a Buddha?” This got him. He looked at me puzzling images through his mind until a light went on, “The fat one, wit ‘im big belly?” “Not exactly,” I replied and began to speak of the type of Buddha I was referring to. He listened with rapt attention and finally replied, “I’ll look on the internet and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

The next evening Dad and I returned from a day of sightseeing and I stopped by to see Elvis who showed me a catalog of some kind containing several Buddha images. As we looked at them he said, ” ‘im like Rasta men in the mountain praying on Jah Rastafari.” He turned the rough-hewn block in his work worn hands, placed the it on the workbench, and crouching down he began to describe the finished sculpture which he could clearly see. I didn’t interfere, he got it, he got it in a way that filled the whole room. I thanked him, and said I’d see him in a few days.

A few days later Dad left for the states, but I still had a few more days in town, and I was getting worried since I hadn’t seen Elvis all week. On the last morning of the trip I was returning from Millie-the-fruit-lady’s place with some freshly squeezed orange juice when I saw Elvis’ smiling face waving me over.

The statue was wrapped in some kind of oiled cloth and Elvis was rubbing it furiously as if to whet my appetite. When he unveiled it, I was blown away. The statue was so much cooler than I could have ever imagined. Imagination tethered to experience simply limits possibilities, but in this statue Elvis’ world met mine. I paid the first price he mentioned with no attempt to haggle.

I knew that one day I’d donate this treasure to Zen Mountain Monastery, so when the subject of a gift on becoming a student came up, I knew exactly what to do. I was so happy to let go of this unique piece of art that held such strong meaning for me, but with Daidoshi’s illness seeming to be taking hold at the time I went through this process, I never had an opportunity to share what this item actually was.

My next trip to Jamaica was in the Spring of ‘08. I’d hoped Elvis and I could collaborate on another unique carving, but several months earlier he’d stepped on a nail and was having serious health issues. Routine health care isn’t routine in a country as poor as Jamaica. Later that year I became a formal Zen student and I gave the Rastaman Buddha to my teacher.

I didn’t return to Jamaica again till September ‘09 where I found Elvis’ carving stand abandoned. I asked around and was heartbroken to hear that my friend had passed away in the same month I offered his work as a gift. He’d lost his foot to the nail, and weakened by tetanus he succumbed to “flu”, probably pneumonia, a month or so later.

I spent a little time sitting in the dilapidated old carving stand sharing beers with Elvis’ brother who was working to sell off what carvings he could. Sadly in their weathered state they were not appealing to the passing tourists who would never have the honor to know the sweet man I knew as “Elvis The Carver.”

Preconceptions miss
The road winds
An edge gleams
Family farms and falling leaves
Faded moon beyond golden mountain
Red maple siren across the endless stream
Rushing freely over static stone
Loosened
Tumbling
Polishing
Knowing ageless fearless practice
Bodhisattva

John Daido Loori Roshi 1931-2009

I knew Roshi’s illness had gained ground in recent days, still I was shaken last Friday morning when the dedication of The Heart Sutra was offered to the body of Muge Daido Daiosho.

It was quiet as the service ended. I put on my street clothes, hung my robes in the zendo closet, and walked back into the world. All day my mind was in turmoil. I didn’t know how to react. Should I react in a certain way? Am I supposed to react in a certain way? Is there a Zen way to react?

As the days unfurl I see what others write, I hear what others say, and I wonder where I fit in. Where can my words meet this moment? I see judgments arise that bounce off understandings to form interpretations that may never be fully understood, but here I am.

John Daido Loori, Roshi first entered my consciousness back in 2002 when I read a book called “Waking Up: A week inside a Zen Monastery” by Jack McGuire, and for several years I planned a trip to Zen Mountain Monastery, but I never got there. In 2007 I moved to Brooklyn and began to frequent The Zen Center of New York City, a branch of ZMM. Daido Roshi loomed large my first few months of more serious practice, though I had yet to meet him.

Thanksgiving ‘07 I finally made my way up to the Monastery for the “Introduction to Zen Training Weekend.” I was not prepared for the bigness of what Daido Roshi had created, and I felt I hadn’t given the folks I’d been working with back in Brooklyn their due.

I first met Daido Roshi in a group setting, and I was at once taken by his candor and his gently imposing presence. I don’t know what I expected, but his humor was disarming, his words powerful, yet he held it all effortlessly.

I asked him that weekend, “What does it mean to follow the breath?” He kind of looked me over for a second or two and answered, “Sometimes you’re with the breath; other times you’re not. When you find you’re not with the breath, come back to the breath.”

And that’s what I try to do.