With the frigid, icy weather that blew across the country this week, I found myself thinking of Cold Mountain, one of the classic volumes of Zen poetry. It was written by the T'ang Dynasty poet called Han-shan (believed to be 9th century). He is a legendary figure, with various tales of surrounding him, a recluse who wrote his poetry on rocks in the remote mountain area he roamed. There are several English translations of his work. Today I am quoting from Burton Watson's, published by Columbia University Press,1970. His poems give glimpses of his youth, his time as a father and family man, working as a bureaucrat for the government, and struggling with personalities, social classes and religious hypocrisy.
"I'm not so poor at reports and decisions--Why can't I get ahead in the government? The rating officials are determined to make life hard. All they do is try to expose my faults. Everything, I guess, is a matter of Fate; Still, I'll try the exam again this year.
A blind boy aiming at the eye of a sparrow, Might just accidentally manage a hit."
As he ages, he leans more and more to leaving the world behind and eventually does so, finding his mountain retreat: "Thirty years ago I was born into the world. A thousand, ten thousand miles I’ve roamed, By rivers where the green grass lies thick, Beyond the border where the red sands fly. I brewed potions in a vain search for life everlasting, I read books, I sang songs of history, And today I’ve come home to Cold Mountain, To pillow my head on the stream and wash my ears."
But he now he faces the challenge of loneliness and sometimes painful reflection on his past. "How cold it is on the mountain! Not this year but always. Crowded peaks forever choked with show, Dark forests breathing endless mist: No grass sprouts til the early days of June; Before the first of autumn, leaves are falling. And here a wanderer, drowned in delusion, Looks and looks but cannot see the sky."
But the seasons change and he continues in his inner pursuits. We now find him with new depth, and growing illumination and peace. "Today I sat before the cliff, Sat a long time till mists had cleared. A single thread, the clear stream runs cold; A thousand yards the green peaks lift their heads. Moon rise--the lamp of night drifts upward; What cares could trouble my mind?" And at last, "...All that remains is the core of truth." ..."Like a doctor prescribing a medicine for each disease, I use what remedy is at hand to save the world. Only when the mind is free of care, Can the light of understanding shine in every corner."
This is a reminder this Sunday, that our lives follow the lives of all that have come before, hardship and times of wonder, struggles with the natural order and insights into nature's unceasing gifts, separation and belonging, and great leaps forward even when we collectively regress. Winter passes, spring is born. Whatever the weather, this day is here to lead you to your "core of truth". (Susan Nettleton)