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A Disappearing Act

As we gaze upon the seventh picture in the Ox-herding Series, as we read the verses, there is no future contemplated, no past held apart. The heart/mind finds rest. Regret does not enter in, goals recede.

The traditional seventh picture has a person sitting alone in a hut or on the mountainside. I am thinking of Soren Kierkegaard, his tombstone inscribed with “That Individual.” The person occupies her mountain home, in-dividual, in-divided—not divided.

There is no separation between the person and the ox, none between you and your awakening, you and your practice, between Zen and not-Zen, spiritual and not spiritual. To practice is to live, nothing apart or special.

Sitting, you just sit. Cutting brush here on the farm is just that. Washing the dishes is a gift, here and now: warm water, soap suds, dishes squeaking as you handle them, the glass singing. Life cares for itself and you are simply part of that flow, at ease and at rest. You realize that this was always the case, what has changed? Your presence, your welcome to life itself.

Here is the preface and poem, from Lewis Hyde’s “American” translation:

Riding the ox, he has already arrived at his mountain home.
As for the ox, it is empty. As for the person, he is at rest.
Late day’s red sun, and still he is lost in dream.
The whip and the rope lie idle under the thatched roof.
He could not have gotten home without that animal,
but oh, the Ox has disappeared and the man sits by himself, content.
His reverie does not bear the red mark of solar time.
The rope and whip lie idle under the cabin thatch.

 

Come join us Thursdays, for koan meditation, a dharma talk, and conversation. Register to participate. All are welcome.

I hope you will join us.

—David Parks Roshi, Director of Bluegrass Zen