Offerings from the Zen & the Arts Retreat, September 11-13
Meditation is the art of not creating anything. It’s the art of letting the sound of rain replace you, of letting the smell of incense be all that sits on your zafu as the breath moves on its own. It’s the art of letting the stillness catch up. It’s the art of seeing stillness in the shuffling aspen leaves, in the flick of a dog’s tail, in the spin of a bike wheel. It’s the art of finding silence in the gargle of a raven floating overhead, in the long moans of a cow, in the clang of an old dinner bell. It’s the art of finding intimacy with the world of woodpeckers, the shadows sliding across a forest floor, and dancing under a tent.
– Hoag Holmgren
Photo by Holly Gayley
It has always been like this, for me, autumn
a time of loss, of endings, leavings
But also of shedding, a giddy freedom
to strike out anew,
to wander in amber light
to forget, to remember
feel the deep heart ache and wonder
Living is a harsh lover
with no sympathy for second thoughts
or “if only’s”
The barely contained panic of the flesh
to breathe, to touch and be touched
The fever of shortening autumn days
Fallen leaves floating in the pond
a boat for the dragonfly
– Rick Merrill
Photo by Eden Marquis
Aspen leaves fallen
more each day –
gold coins in the wet grass
– Rick Merrill
Painting by Julie Meyers
One day my heart broke wider
But it never left me.
It simply expanded…
Outward. Outward.
– Eden Marquis
Sitting upon the mountain
we all began
to disappear
– Eden Marquis
Creation
When you really understand
a sunflower
or any aster
A seed
A plum
or other fruit
you begin to see
the absolute
majesty
of this world
– Eden Marquis
Photo by Eden Marquis
Coming Around
Spit to the skillet like fireflies swarming
Shattered glass on mirror pond.
Toiling.
Spinning weary.
Forgotten words fall from pages tattered
The playbook worn, the tale scattered.
Cracks in lenses smudged truth revealing
Cool hand of night, arresting, awakens
The clouds
The moon
The stars
Rays of light splinter winter’s icy grip
Fragile shell, split open and melt
Old friend.
Remember?
– Baird Morrish
Painting & Photo by Eden Marquis
He sliced the tomato into quarters, then quarters again. He wished he had the wooden cutting board he remembered making at summer camp the year he turned 14. It was the first time in five years of going to the same camp tucked deep in the Indiana woods, that he was allowed to use the jigsaw and wood burners. He remembered he had made it for his mom, who, believe it or not, rarely cooked or spent any time in the kitchen at all. She had opened the gift on her 45th birthday that August. Carefully untaping the heart-print wrapping paper, she slid the board onto her lap. On one side he had emblazoned a single flower, an amateurish poppy, the flower she was named after, although when she stared down at it, she hesitated before asking him what it was. “Fool,” he had muttered to himself, immediately wishing he had carved her name under the flower, maybe even the date to make it more of a keepsake than a piece of misshapen wood splintered along the edges and marked up like a cat with sharp claws had walked back-and-forth on it for hours.
After his mother left home that winter he never saw the cutting board again. And now, tonight, alone in his own kitchen, he was left with an oozing red pile of juice and seeds to clean up.
– Martha Lockwood
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