Celestial Night

Calm celestial Night,
graciously wearing the moon as your gem,
intrigues me with all your genteel essence.

Radiant celestial Night,
children sleep under your star-clustered blanket.
Lovers brazenly kiss under your indigo sky
as if a ritual to give thanks
to the soothing hours of your twilight.

Only in your refined silence
do I enjoy my reflective solitude.

It is not the sun that moves me,
with its mocking nature,
flailing its blistering light,
blinding whoever looks at it.

But it is you, humble Night
with your musing spirit
that I write this ode to.
You: calm, radiant, celestial Night…

Writing Teacher: Okay, did any of you go to the Mike Tidwell speech yesterday?

(a couple of students raised their hands)

Writing Teacher: Good, what did you think about it?

Student: I think he made a valid argument about global warming.

Writing Teacher: Nice, I remember when someone asked Tidwell about him writing his book, and he described writing as a mysterious art form where only a few in the general population can tap into. What you think about what he said?

Student: I think that he discussed how writing can has a sort of aesthetic value to it.

(long pause)

Writing Teacher: You know what I think about what he said?

Student: What?

Writing Teacher: I think that he's full of shit.

Zen Calander

Today I was reading Zen 24/7 by Phillip Toshio Sudo, a deeply philosophical book that helps the reader incorporate basic Zen practices and meditative thoughts into modern life. I came across this one section called “Zen Calendar.” In this chapter, Sudo discusses the futility of measuring time and pleas for simplicity. “We rely on concepts such as ‘Monday’ and ‘February’ to organize our complex schedules and mark the passage of time. But we should remember the monk in the monastery, who regards the past and future as an illusion. To the monk, there is no yesterday or tomorrow; there is only the moment.”

When I read this passage, I think about the notion of the moment. The moment itself, as Sudo describes it, is the time we spend in this existence. This moment, in itself, is formed by a series of moments: the moments we wake up in the morning, the moments we eat breakfast, the moments we decide not to go to work and go back to bed. One may ask how we will organize ourselves in time without measuring it. Sudo says, “In the same ways as the ancients: Through the rise and fall of the sun each day, the cycle of the moon each month, the cycle of the seasons each year. The more we attune ourselves with that timeless rhythm, the closer we live to nature.”

This timeless rhythm is the primordial cycle that all natural things abide by. The human body itself is dependant on the sequence of cycles: the breathing in of air and the breathing out of air, the phases of the body as it wakes and sleeps, blood pumping in to the heart and blood pumping out. In each cycle, the first action is the catalyst for the next action. Hence, with every action there is an equal reaction.

This explains the Buddhist idea of rebirth. The physical body dies and, as part of the chain of causation, the mind-body is reborn in a new form. It is like the passing of a flame from one candle to the unlit wick of another in a long row of candles (the flame being the mind-body and the candle being the physical body); and the attainment of nirvana can be seen as the blowing out of the flame, as it is no longer part of the series of action/reaction in this existence, also known as the cycle of suffering of Samsara.

To appreciate fully the richness of life, I try not to let the man-made observance of time dominate my life. Oftentimes I see people constantly stressing and rushing to save time, constantly trying to complete as much as they can with little time that they can. I admit that I sometimes let it get to me as well, especially when deadlines are close, or when I forget to post a blog at a certain time. Even though this entity is deep-rooted in modern human society, I try not to make it apart of me. Besides, I never took time seriously in the first place.

The Poet

Blessed with the company of the night,
illuminated by the moon’s eerie light,
the mute bard plays his song
to any who listen.

The guitar of cheap wood and nylon string,
is simply the medium between the poet
and the external world,
allowing him to tell his story.

Each warm pluck, each sombre note
is derived from his passion and torment;
passion for love,
torment of life,
until the notes begin to illustrate
the poem that is his life.

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