Happiness Springs

Happiness springs from hidden sources, 

bubbling up in ordinary places 

gently abducting us into realms of delight and 

uncovering wondrous worlds in plain sight.

First Sighting of 'This Truth'

One of the chapters of my new book has just appeared on line in elephant journal.com  Here is the link:
                                     http://wp.me/pWVFb-1gLN

and a preview.      Please visit it and make a comment.

Wanting to Be William. ~ David Rynick

          

Photo: David Webb

This is an essay excerpted from David’s forthcoming book, This Truth Never Fails, A Zen Memoir in Four Seasons (Wisdom Publications), available this June.

~

"I woke up this morning wishing I were William James."

Book Launch Party June 11th

Mark your calendars: 

Monday evening, June 11th at Boundless Way Temple in Worcester, MA.  We're having a book launch party for my new (and first) book, This Truth Never Fails: A Zen Memoir in Four Seasons. 

It's been a long and amazing journey and I'm looking forward to celebrating with friends, colleagues, and sangha.  As an extra bonus, I have convinced Josh Bartok, my editor at Wisdom Publications, to come and be part of the festivities.       

I'm scheduling other readings at bookstores, churches, and meditation groups and would be happy to talk with you about arranging an event to support the book if you've got an idea.

This Truth is now available for pre-order at BarnesandNoble.com and Amazon.com and will be released on June 10!

Dream After Dream

            My week in paradise is almost over. 

I sit here on the third floor veranda of the Blue Spirit Retreat Center in Nosara, Costa Rica.  It’s still dark and I’m in my special place—a corner I’ve claimed in the early morning darkness.  I look north toward the ocean a ½ mile down below and east to the horizon over the dark hill nearby.  The curve of the ocean bay is barely visible—a dull oval jutting into the inky black mass of the land.  But the sound of the crashing surf is unmistakable.  Later this morning those waves will be dotted with surfers of all shapes and sizes who are mostly visitors in paradise like me.  Guiones beach is a surfer’s Mecca with its consistent waves and two-mile sandy beach.

In the northern sky, over the sound of the surf, the big dipper hangs.  Handle pointing directly up as if it had been hung on a hook in God’s kitchen.  As a New England boy, I’m used to seeing the big dipper in Vermont in the summer where it appears in the early night sky just a little over the northeastern horizon.  It’s is always—every year of my life—at a slight angle.  Handle a little higher than the cup.  And the two pointer stars describing the far end of the handle reliably led to the less dramatic but much more dependable north star and the related little dipper.

But I’ve never seen the big dipper standing on its head.  Not until this week on a hill by the blue ocean in Costa Rica.  It’s the roosters' fault.  They begin their full throated call to the universe at around three a.m.  At first it’s just a few malcontents, proclaiming the coming day though the darkness is still full.  But soon they are joined by others.  If you listen carefully you can imagine the shape and size of the body of each of these amazing beings when they call.  Some quite scrawny and half-hearted.  Others colorful and proud.  The pitch is higher or lower, the volume varies, the rhythm of the crowing changes, each one a brief solo in the symphony of God. 

Of course, most of us here at the resort complain about their inconvenient cacophony.  This is not music, this is merely irritating sound. 

But the roosters are nothing compared to the howler monkeys who join in as the sky shows its first light.  These relatively small black-faced monkeys live in the trees around the retreat center and beyond.  During the dawn and twilight you can actually see them traveling unseen roads in the tangled branches of the nearby trees.  The don’t really ‘swing’ from branch to branch, they go surely with an easy confidence—even the little ones.  They don’t mind the branches bending down under their weight, they simply reach out with a hand or a foot and grab another thin branch while their monkey tails hold on surely till the new perch is attained.

But I meant to talk about how annoying they are. 

These creatures with opposable thumbs on their feet as well as hands, make the most surprising and resonant sound.  Hearing them call out in the dark of the first morning here, most visitors assume they are surrounded by some form of lion or tiger—though someone did once guess wild pig too.  They make a roaring-howling sound with intricate variation.  One calls out for a few minutes, then goes silent.  Then another.  And another.  The sound is loud and weirdly arresting.  When they are close to the building we are staying in their call reverberates through the hallways and into our still darkened rooms.

And the birds, I almost forgot the birds' sweet calls.  They enter after the roosters begin the party and the howler monkeys have joined in.  Squawking and chirping and tweeting—a delightful wash of sound.  They are like the woodwinds coming in altogether in a trembling manner after the blare of the trumpet and the wild growl of the double bass.

Still, as I write, the sun is not yet up, though the light has come.  The green tree-covered hills have revealed the steep sides and white waves are visible on the still gray water that runs up toward the beach.  I clearly see my hands on the keyboard of my laptop and the glass of water resting by the base of the column that holds up the roof.  It’s quarter to six and six is when the coffee is put out.  Ten is when my shuttle leaves for the airport.

A soft breeze blows and all the animals of creation sing their hearts out.  I try to hear God’s voice in each one.  I am grateful that no one holds back, even that first annoying rooster.  Yesterday I was galloping down the white beach, past the surfers on a gentle and eager Costa Rican horse.  Tomorrow I’ll be groggily waking up in my unfamiliar own bed and walking down the cold wooden stairs to make my own coffee drink. 

The sun has risen once again over the eastern hills.  I squint my eyes and think about packing.

So it goes.  Dream after dream.  Life after life.  

Wheelbarrows, Woodchips and Curves

            On Sunday, I went out to work in the garden for the first time this season.  It’s only February, and it feels way too early to be out, but the sun was shining and no snow was on the ground.  A sweatshirt, hat and light pair of gloves were plenty to keep me warm.

            I used the green plastic wheelbarrow that is getting a lovely patina of scratches from its usefulness, to move wood chips from a pile by the compost, over to a path I first made last year.  It’s a path that goes off of the official brick walkway for about twenty feet to a clump of three trees on the eastern edge of the Temple grounds.  The three trees, all mature maples, have grown as a sturdy triangle.  When standing between them facing west, one tree is behind your back and one on either side.  It’s a natural ‘room’ – a place to be in the universe that has some orientation – not just floating in space – but the vertical presence of steady trunks guarding the flanks and protecting the back.

            I first put a bench there, but simple benches, while nice to rest on momentarily, are not actually very comfortable to sit on.  To be truly inviting, a garden bench needs a back of some sort – something to lean against – some relief from the insistent uprightness of our lives.  It’s hard to stand up all the time – though of course I love it – we love it – to be head toward heaven and to move through space – sitting, running, walking, standing – the postures of human aliveness.  But sometimes, I just want to sit back – to be held and supported – even a wooden back will do sometimes.

But back to the green wheel barrow with the scratches that demonstrate its happy service.  And back to the triangle of trees.  Last year, we made the path to those trees, put a small circle of crushed stone under the trees and then a bench there.  I have since replaced the simple bench with a cheap white plastic chair that looks to me like a throne between the trees.  Now it’s a place to rest and survey the kingdom from the safety of the redoubt.  We tried to make the curve of the path inviting to those walking on the main path.  We fiddled and got something OK, but it never felt quite right.

            But on Sunday, I took several loads of woodchips to refresh the path that was by now almost invisible – what with the weathering of the woodchips and their natural inclination to disperse.  My intention was just to add another layer, but as I worked, it occurred to me that the path needed more curve.  The most enticing path to the triangle throne needed more playfulness. 

Even though just a short distance, I saw clearly that it needed to start off headed due east, then swerve to the south, and then back to the east.  A simple curve was not enough, it needed more change to be inviting.  So I amplified what was there in possibility – made it stronger – more eccentric. 

And for me, some subtle delight in shaping the curves – getting the sweep of the outer edge just right and then the transition and change of direction.  Like the shaping the side of a voluptuous pot, the belly curving out in a fullness and then diminishing.  The swelling and the return forever moving—even in the finished piece.

            Then the inner elbows of the curves called for decoration – so I moved one sculpture ten feet closer – into the crook – as if it was the reason the path did not go straight.  Then the other elbow felt empty so I moved a broken cement pedestal that was languishing in obscurity by the shuffleboard court to fill the void.  And the obligatory round zen rock on top to mirror the shape of the sculpture. 

            Later that afternoon, I made two friends come out and see what I had done.  I felt like a little boy who wants to show off what he has done.  But my excitement outweighed my reserve and my pleasure was amplified in the sharing.

For the past two days, I’ve been looking out the window of my room at the back of the temple.  I can see the beginnings of those wood chipped curves and a piece of the white chair is visible between the trees.  I am filled me with a subtle delight and I smile.

The Morning After

            No wake-up bells this morning.  No footsteps sounding up and down the stairs.  Our three-week meditation period has just ended.  Last night the zendo was full of people.  This morning just a few of us remain.     

            I make my way downstairs to brew a pot of tea and am greeted by the spray of yellow daffodils that I last saw by the Buddha on the altar.  Their round glass vase with the fluted edge has been carefully place in the center of the wooden-topped kitchen table – the one with the slender and curvy white legs.  I notice and appreciate.

I think that’s the biggest thing about coming out of a long meditation period – or, I suppose, even out of a short one – the noticing and appreciating.  The simple things.  The everyday things. 

Of course it’s all a miracle – the way the sky gradually lightens with the coming day – the way the white stitching on my slippers winds around and around as it holds brown top and bottom together.  Ask any two-year-old and they will tell you.  The world is fascinating place – everywhere you look.

The past three weeks have been simple—sitting meditation alternates with walking meditation, dharma talks and chanting all happen according to a pre-arranged schedule announced with bells and gongs.  The daily routine is carefully planned to allow us to turn our full attention to each moment.  We practice the simplicity of noticing and appreciating – our breath, our life – everything that arises in the vastness of mind and body.  No need to plan.  When it’s time for lunch, the bell rings and we go to lunch.

But today I begin to re-enter the world of planning and scheduling and ‘getting things done.’  I feel as if I am picking up the clothes of my life that have been strewn about the room.  Life-coach, Abbot of the Temple, home-owner, husband, author of a book about to come out – all clearly ‘me’, but also strangely unfamiliar.  I re-dress my self slowly, noticing how easily I get lost in the detail and dizzy with the unfamiliar complexity of choice. 

But mostly I am happy to be back and curious about who I will be this time.  My prayer is that these clothes of my self may hang a little looser on my frame – leaving a little more room for noticing and appreciating in the midst of it all.  

Winter Pleasures

This is my favorite time of the year to be a gardener. 

I keep the plant and seed catalogues next to the toilets and use them for my daily reflective reading.  They supplanted the zen discourses of Huang Po as soon as they arrived after Christmas.  While I miss the inspiration of Mr. Po’s pithy responses to challenging questions, he’s no match for vivid photos of the razzle-dazzle of vegetative reproduction.  By now my copies of White Flower Farm and Johnney’s Seeds are well-thumbed with half-a-dozen or so pages dog-eared for further consideration.

            As I flip through the lush images and alluring descriptions, I imagine the Temple gardens in full bloom.  I don’t ‘see’ individual plants or even an overview of the whole landscape.  Everything is fuzzy and pretty—a sweet jumble of colors, shapes and textures—all alight in my mind’s eye.  I am tantalized with the subtle feeling of the delight in what might be.

            It’s a time of dreaming and gathering possibilities.  All instigated, I suspect, by the returning of the light.  The bitter chill of winter continues unabated, but the sun is rising earlier.  Through the southern window, I greet his fierce brilliance with downcast eyes from my seat in the zendo.  It’s not the timing I notice as much as the mounting evidence of his slow journey northward.  Each clear morning he summits the neighbor’s roof-top at a slightly different place.  Now no longer appearing next to the chimney, but nearly to the northern corner. 

I am quietly amazed at this whirling wisdom of space and time—this earthy sentience tilting, spinning, and revolving.  My mammalian brain grateful for the vision of possibility—even while everything appears still frozen solid.