{"id":23090,"date":"2020-07-10T09:30:18","date_gmt":"2020-07-10T13:30:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=23090"},"modified":"2020-07-10T09:30:22","modified_gmt":"2020-07-10T13:30:22","slug":"when-you-meet-the-buddha-on-the-road-wave-and-walk-on","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2020\/07\/when-you-meet-the-buddha-on-the-road-wave-and-walk-on\/","title":{"rendered":"When You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Wave… and Walk On"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

[Image: “Figure and Two Grounds,” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page<\/a> at <\/em>RAMH.) This was #994 in my series of 1,000 consecutive “everyday black-and-white” posts at Instagram. I blogged here<\/a> about the series, as it approached its exhausted (ha!) conclusion.]<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

From whiskey river<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Exhibit<\/strong><\/p>

My uncle in East Germany
points to the unicorn in the painting
and explains it is now extinct.
We correct him, say such a creature
never existed. He does not argue,
but we know he does not believe us.
He is certain power and gentleness
must have gone hand in hand
once. A prisoner of war
even after the war was over,
my uncle needs to believe in something
that could not be captured except by love,
whose single luminous horn
redeemed the murderous forest
and, dipped into foul water,
would turn it pure. This world,
this terrible world we live in,
is not the only possible one,
his eighty-year-old eyes insist,
dry wells that fill so easily now.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Lisel Mueller [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe learning how to be out in the big world isn’t the epic journey everyone thinks it is. Maybe that’s actually the easy part. The hard part is what’s right in front of you. The hard part is learning how to hold the title to your very existence, to own not only property, but also your life. The hard part is learning not just how to be<\/em> but mastering the nearly impossible art of how to be at home.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Meghan Daum [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Lama of the Crystal Monastery appears to be a very happy man, and yet I wonder how he feels about his isolation in the silences of Tsakang, which he has not left in eight years now and, because of his legs, may never leave again. Since Jang-bu seems uncomfortable with the Lama or with himself or perhaps with us, I tell him not to inquire on this point if it seems to him impertinent, but after a moment Jang-bu does so. And this holy man of great directness and simplicity, big white teeth shining, laughs out loud in an infectious way at Jang-bu’s question. Indicating his twisted legs without a trace of self-pity or bitterness, as if they belonged to all of us, he casts his arms wide to the sky and the snow mountains, the high sun and dancing sheep, and cries, “Of course I am happy here! It’s wonderful! Especially<\/em> when I have no choice!”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Peter Matthiessen [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What We Believed<\/strong><\/p>

Down the prickly cow path to the creek
we journeyed as if we were insects
making our way along scars
in the hide of a buffalo whose fur brushed us

when the wind passed like a tide across the high grasses
down the prickly cow path to the creek
in chigger-shade where thoughts of time
making our way along scars

lost what they meant up at the house
when the wind passed like a tide across the high grasses
we pulled from our pockets matches swiped
in chigger-shade where thoughts of time

tasting of sulfur at the tips
lost what they meant up at the house
listening to bug-hum and bird-chatter and watching bubbles
we pulled from our pockets matches swiped

the surface of the water trembling
tasting of sulfur at the tips
once by the creek we found rocks with shells in them
listening to bug-hum and bird-chatter and watching bubbles

then carried the rocks back for Uncle Ralph to examine
the surface of the water trembling
the prairie had been a giant sea he told us
once by the creek we found rocks with shells in them

Grandma June says everything was sky not sea I said
then carried the rocks back for Uncle Ralph to examine
none of us sure what we believed
the prairie had been a giant sea he told us

we journeyed as if we were insects
Grandma June says everything was sky not sea I said
in the hide of a buffalo whose fur brushed us
none of us sure what we believed<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Debra Nystrom [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What’s Written on the Body<\/strong> <\/p>

He will not light long enough
for the interpreter to gather
the tatters of his speech.
But the longer we listen
the calmer he becomes.
He shows me the place where his daughter
has rubbed with a coin, violaceous streaks
raising a skeletal pattern on his chest.
He thinks he’s been hit by the wind.
He’s worried it will become pneumonia.<\/em>
In Cambodia, he’d be given
a special tea, a prescriptive sacrifice,
the right chants to say. But I
know nothing of Chi, of Karma,
and ask him to lift the back of his shirt,
so I may listen to his breathing.
Holding the stethoscope’s bell I’m stunned
by the whirl of icons and script
tattooed across his back, their teal green color
the outline of a map which looks
like Cambodia, perhaps his village, a lake,
then a scroll of letters in a watery signature.
I ask the interpreter what it means.
It’s a spell, asking his ancestors
to protect him from evil spirits —<\/em>
she is tracing the lines with her fingers —
and those who meet him for kindness.<\/em>
The old man waves his arms and a staccato
of diphthongs and nasals fills the room.
He believes these words will lead his spirit
back to Cambodia after he dies.
I see,<\/em> I say, and rest my hand on his shoulder.
He takes full deep breaths and I listen,
touching down with the stethoscope
from his back to his front. He watches me
with anticipation — as if awaiting a verdict.
His lungs are clear. You’ll be fine,<\/em>
I tell him. It’s not your time to die.<\/em>
His shoulders relax and he folds his hands
above his head as if in blessing.
Ar-kon,<\/em> he says. All better now.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Peter Pereira [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Figure and Two Grounds,” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.) This was #994 in my series of 1,000 consecutive “everyday black-and-white” posts at Instagram. I blogged here about the series, as it approached its exhausted (ha!) conclusion.] From whiskey river: The […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Lisel Mueller, Peter Pereira, et al.: 'When You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Wave... and Walk On'","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[183,247,1393,4701,250,5,251,4159],"tags":[793,2314,2827,4153,4675,5096,5175],"class_list":{"0":"post-23090","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-everyday-life","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-my-photography","10":"category-art","11":"category-06_writing","12":"category-poetry-writing_cat","13":"category-essays","14":"tag-attention","15":"tag-lisel-mueller","16":"tag-peter-matthiessen","17":"tag-peter-pereira","18":"tag-no-choices","19":"tag-meghan-daum","20":"tag-debra-nystrom","21":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-60q","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23090","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=23090"}],"version-history":[{"count":18,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23090\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":23113,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23090\/revisions\/23113"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=23090"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=23090"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=23090"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}