REGISTER

One day Changsha went wandering in the mountains. When he returned, the head of practice met him at the gate and asked, “Where have you been?”
“Wandering in the mountains.”
“Where did you go?”
“I went out following scented grasses and returned chasing falling blossoms.” “That’s so much the feeling of spring,” said the head of practice.
“Still, it’s better than autumn dew dripping on lotus flowers,” said Changsha.

Xuedou comments: “Thanks for your reply.”

—Blue Cliff Record, Case 36

Barefoot, bare-chested, he walks into town.
Dusty, spattered with mud, how broadly he grins!
He has no need of magic powers. Near him
The withered trees again come into flower.

—Ox-Herding, verse from Tenth Picture, “Entering the Village with Gift Giving Hands,” Lewis Hyde, trans.

On Sunday, the groundhog, the proverbial groundhog, Punxsutawney Pennsylvania’s claim to fame—call him Phil, left his tree stump, took a look around and saw his shadow. Through human handlers he proclaimed 6 more weeks of winter. That’s the ground hog’s take. On the other hand, I awoke on February 2nd, opened my eyes, sniffed the air, heard the bird song—I did not even search for my shadow. I knew the feel of spring. The feeling of an intimate aliveness as the air warms, the crow caws, the tiny buds on the peach tree emerge from the branch. And something awakes. Perhaps it is the springing of the heart, heart’s opening to verdant hues. The old hymn comes to mind,

Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world

The feeling of spring. Awakening on Groundhog Day, a veiled celebration of the Celtic celebration of Imbloc (the day halfway between winter equinox and spring solstice), I embrace the smell of the warming earth, the blooming, the budding, the greening, earth’s invitation, a gateway into vitality, diversity and blessing. Ah, the feel of spring! A good day for a stroll into that feel, into the liveliness of spring.

One day Changsha wakes up, catches the feel of spring and goes a’wandering, a’roving in the hills. His is an aimless gait, a saunter, with no destination nor purpose. He holds on to nothing at all. He is wandering. First here and then there. What is that lovely fragrance? And on the way back, “Oh, the flowers are falling in the apple orchard.” Having stepped off, out of his sense of self, Changsha steps fully into the hills and into life, finding no distance between himself and his surroundings. Strolling, in the wild, budding, blooming warmth of spring, he is engaged with it all. In the words of another koan, he has taken a step off the hundred foot pole and everything in every direction is his body! Everything. In. Every. Direction. Bees work the clover. The pear tree buds and blooms. All one body

We awaken in the budding, the teeming, the clustering of life. We can trust spring, our trusting itself becoming that which we trust. No separation at all. We awaken to the warm body next to us as we garden, frolic and work. No separation. We offer our love to the one we once called other. Why? Well, could it be any other way?

Yes, spring. This is good. Though I’d say not different but still better than the autumn dew falling on the lotuses or the bare branch cold against the winter sky. Spring, the flowering of our awakening.

—David Parks