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In the dream, I am floating on my back off the coast of the Big Island, in Hawai’i. There is a gentle swell, and the water is clear and warm, and very deep. I look around me, and the waters are alive with schooling fish and diving birds. I fall asleep in the dream for a time and, when I awaken, I realize no sharks have come, though most of the fish and birds have moved on. The feeling of the dream is warm, vast and inviting.

In recent years, this is the kind of feeling that has visited me, and I am sure you too, when I keep company with “not knowing” in my life and practice. It is a greater appreciation for the vast and clear sea of life, sea of love, sea of light, sea of uncertainty, with both immediate gifts and infinite possibility. And pain, as well.

There are a number of well-known koans that return us again and again to the sea of uncertainty:

“Why are you going on pilgrimage?” asked Dizhang. “I don’t know,” replied Fayan.
“Who are you, standing here before me?” inquired Emperor Wu. “I Don’t know,” responded Bodhidharma.
A student asked Zhao Zhou, “If you don’t dwell in clarity, what do you live by?” “Again, I don’t know,” said Zhao.

—The Book of Serenity, 20; The Blue Cliff Record, 1&2

Last week we were having a holiday glass of wine with friends, one of whom was recently diagnosed with cancer, underwent chemotherapy and had his bladder removed. He said the doctor had found him to be cancer free, and we all gave him a hearty toast. He then wryly added, “At least until my next checkup in six months.” I thought, “None of us can see beyond six months. We can’t even see beyond a week.” Another acquaintance, extremely fit in his mid-80s, broke a wrist playing tennis a couple of weeks ago, developed sepsis and died on the first day of Hanukkah. Floating on the sea of uncertainty.

In some mysterious way, the universe is constructing and deconstructing itself moment by moment. We are part of that construction project. Yet by the time we recognize our vital role, the moment has passed and the universe has changed, made wholly new once again.

This process of deepening, of appreciation, is without end. Many years ago, sitting in sesshin at the small SanUn Zendo, I was surprised to hear Koun Yamada start his teisho with the simple statement, “In the past ten years, my understanding of this koan has deepened immeasurably. A decade ago, I would not be giving the same talk.” We are continually knowing not-knowing. And then not knowing that.

This morning we received a video clip from a friend whose house is in Altadena, in Los Angeles. Driving down her neighborhood block is house upon house, gutted and burned out, with many of them still smoldering. She was certain her’s was lost, but she comes to it and finds it still standing, and exclaims, “The turquoise lawn chairs survived. Amazing!”

Hunger for Something

Sometimes I long to be the woodpile,
cut-apart tree soon to be smoke,
or even the smoke itself,

sinewy ghost of ash and air, going
where I want to, at least for a while.

Neither inside nor out, 
neither lost nor home, no longer
a shape or a name I’ll pass through

all the broken windows of the world.
It’s not a wish for consciousness to end.

It’s not the appetite an army has
for its own emptying heart,
but a hunger to stand now and then

alone on the death grounds,
where the dogs of the self are feeding.

—Chase Twichell, The Snow Watcher 

—Jon Joseph

COME JOIN US on Mondays for koan meditation, dharma talk and conversation. Register to participate. All are welcome.

Jon Joseph Roshi, Director of San Mateo Zen Community