The dharma is elusive. It speaks to us so plainly, then turns, shifts in its seat, and to me, seems complex again. In principle, the essential ideas are straightforward: keep it real, let things be what they are, be kind. But often, when you turn and actually look, practicing these principles is more difficult than it first seemed. And talking about them can prove even harder.
For me, writing, or right speech, is the thing. And so I am always seeking examples of fine dharmic writing, that is, writing that not only speaks of dharma, but literally embodies the teachings. I could begin to categorize what I mean by embodying the teachings—a certain spontaneity, a directness, a sense of humor and endlessly unfolding insight—but that would miss the point. Which is that when it comes to dharmic writing, I am always looking beneath the text to the performance of the author. Hence, since my immersion in dharmic waters six or so year ago, poetry had become more and more important to me.
John Ashberry’s My Philosophy of Life
My Philosophy of Life
by John Ashberry
Just when I thought there wasn’t room enough
for another thought in my head, I had this great idea–
call it a philosophy of life, if you will. Briefly,
it involved living the way philosophers live,
according to a set of principles. OK, but which ones?
That was the hardest part, I admit, but I had a
kind of dark foreknowledge of what it would be like.
Everything, from eating watermelon or going to the bathroom
or just standing on a subway platform, lost in thought
for a few minutes, or worrying about rain forests,
would be affected, or more precisely, inflected
by my new attitude. I wouldn’t be preachy,
or worry about children and old people, except
in the general way prescribed by our clockwork universe.
Instead I’d sort of let things be what they are
while injecting them with the serum of the new moral climate
I thought I’d stumbled into, as a stranger
accidentally presses against a panel and a bookcase slides back,
revealing a winding staircase with greenish light
somewhere down below, and he automatically steps inside
and the bookcase slides shut, as is customary on such occasions.
At once a fragrance overwhelms him–not saffron, not lavender,
but something in between. He thinks of cushions, like the one
his uncle’s Boston bull terrier used to lie on watching him
quizzically, pointed ear-tips folded over. And then the great rush
is on. Not a single idea emerges from it. It’s enough
to disgust you with thought. But then you remember something
William James
wrote in some book of his you never read–it was fine, it had the
fineness,
the powder of life dusted over it, by chance, of course, yet
still looking
for evidence of fingerprints. Someone had handled it
even before he formulated it, though the thought was his and
his alone.
It’s fine, in summer, to visit the seashore.
There are lots of little trips to be made.
A grove of fledgling aspens welcomes the traveler. Nearby
are the public toilets where weary pilgrims have carved
their names and addresses, and perhaps messages as well,
messages to the world, as they sat
and thought about what they’d do after using the toilet
and washing their hands at the sink, prior to stepping out
into the open again. Had they been coaxed in by principles,
and were their words philosophy, of however crude a sort?
I confess I can move no farther along this train of thought–
something’s blocking it. Something I’m
not big enough to see over. Or maybe I’m frankly scared.
What was the matter with how I acted before?
But maybe I can come up with a compromise–I’ll let
things be what they are, sort of. In the autumn I’ll put up jellies
and preserves, against the winter cold and futility,
and that will be a human thing, and intelligent as well.
I won’t be embarrassed by my friends’ dumb remarks,
or even my own, though admittedly that’s the hardest part,
as when you are in a crowded theater and something you say
riles the spectator in front of you, who doesn’t even like the idea
of two people near him talking together. Well he’s
got to be flushed out so the hunters can have a crack at him–
this thing works both ways, you know. You can’t always
be worrying about others and keeping track of yourself
at the same time. That would be abusive, and about as much fun
as attending the wedding of two people you don’t know.
Still, there’s a lot of fun to be had in the gaps between ideas.
That’s what they’re made for! Now I want you to go out there
and enjoy yourself, and yes, enjoy your philosophy of life, too.
They don’t come along every day. Look out! There’s a big one…
…
I love this poem. I appreciate its directness, its at once playful and serious musing, and its humor. I like how Ashberry says he wants to “sort of let things be what they are.” It’s the “sort of” that kills me. I like the simple declaration of trying to let things be what they are while “injecting them with the serum of the new moral climate.” To live like a philosopher, according to certain principles: without a doubt, this has always been my dream, my consuming, recurring thought as I walk down the street (trying, perhaps, to do a walking meditation), the reason I so appreciate the rigors of retreat, and the seed and motivation of all my dharmic work. And I like how Ashberry gets at it here, taking us from the boldness of the opening stanza to the parsing of the idea in the second to the seashore in the end.
That’s all I’ve got today. It’s too sunny out to write any more.
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