Practice - The White Owl

Good evening, everyone.

Hello to Ellen joining us on Zoom. I'm guessing that we're quiet tonight because everybody's coming on Saturday. I'm going to begin this evening with a reading from— it's actually a Christian writer called Christian Wyman, but it's a poem in his book by Mary Oliver, and it's called White owl flies into and out of the field, coming down out of the freezing sky with its depths of light like an angel or a Buddha with wings. It was beautiful and accurate. Striking the snow and whatever was there with a force that left the imprint of the tips of its wings 5 feet apart, and the grabbing thrust of its feet, and the indentation of what had been running through the white valleys of the snow. And then it rose gracefully and flew back to the frozen marshes to lurk there like a little lighthouse in the blue shadows. So I thought, maybe death isn't darkness after all, but so much light wrapping itself around us as soft as feathers, that we are instantly weary of looking and looking and shut our eyes, not without amazement, and let ourselves be carried as through the translucence of mica to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow that is nothing but light, scalding, aortal light in which we are washed and washed out of our bones.

Ahatu sama sambuddhasa namottasa bhagavato. Aha, to sama sam Buddha, Satya Robyn, Namotasa, Satya Robyn, to Bhagavatu Bharato Samasambuddhasa Nam Tassa.

For refuge I go to the Buddha, the one who is awake and full of love.

The one who is awake and full of love.

Namo Buddha. For refuge I go to the Dharma, all that guides us to wisdom and compassion. Namo Dharmaya. For refuge I go to the Sangha, those who live in the Buddha's light. For refuge I go to the Earth, the holy ground of awakening. Namo bum yi. With faith in the Three Jewels and in light of our human tendencies and enlighten our human tendencies. We pray that we may become aware—

we pray that we make you aware of when we take life— of when we say no—

we pray that we may become aware— we pray that we may come away from when we take what is not freely given—

or when we take what is not really given—

we pray that we may become aware—

we pray that we might be somewhere of when we fall into sexual misconduct— of when we fall to sexuallness conduct—we pray that we may become aware— We believe it will come around—

Of when we fall into wrong speech—

When we call you to run scene—

We pray that we may become aware—

We pray that we need somewhere— When we become intoxicated—

On my own account I'm talking about it! No blame. Be kind. Love everything.

Innumerable sentient beings, we vow to save them all and exhaust all our diluted passions We vow to transform them all.

Immeasurable are the Dharma teachings.

We vow to master them all. Infinite is the Buddha's way. We vow to fulfill completely.

I'm going to read the poem again in the dying light. White owl flies into and out of the field, coming down out of the freezing sky with its depths of light, like an angel or a Buddha with wings. It was beautiful and accurate, striking the snow and whatever was there with a force that left the imprint of the tips of its wings. 5 feet apart, and the grabbing thrust of its feet, and the indentation of what had been running through the white valleys of the snow. And then it rose gracefully and flew back to the frozen marshes to lurk there like a little lighthouse in the blue shadows. So I thought maybe death isn't darkness after all, but so much light wrapping itself around us as soft as feathers that we are instantly wary— weary of looking and looking and shut our eyes, not without amazement. And let ourselves be carried as through the translucence of mica to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow, that is nothing but light, scalding, aortal light in which we are washed and washed out of our bones. So Pure Land Buddhism tells us that when we die, we'll be met by Amida. And I've got no guarantee of that. I don't know what will happen. And what I love in this poem by Mary Oliver is this, is this maybe. She doesn't say when we die it's definitely going to be like this. She says, 'What if rather than darkness, we're swept into this river of light?' And there are many things that religions tell us, that spiritual teachings tell us that there's no way for anyone to prove. But what they offer me is that maybe they offer me an opportunity to live as if these things are true, to live as if When I die, I'll go to the Pure Land, whatever that means, whatever that looks like. To live as if there is a being of infinite compassion and wisdom that's always available to us. To live as if we can take refuge in something that is just as real as the, the actual statue of the Buddha on the shrine. And I think poetry and spirituality occupy the same kinds of spaces. They're these spaces where Language kind of fails us, really. Language is pointing us in a direction, but we can't really talk about it, the things that poetry and spirituality are talking about. Um, it goes beyond words, beyond language, beyond our conception of things, but it does point the way. It points the way, like the light of the candles on the shrine is just lighting up, uh, Angie's flowers, and the way that the light is slowly seeping away, and the way that we're gathered in this room together. For this strange reason. And my own experience is that if I allow these what-ifs, if I feel my way into, uh, trusting and opening and not knowing but a not knowing that has a kind of comfort to it somehow. Then I'm happier, I'm more grounded, I'm more able to be kind to myself and to other people, and I'm also more able to appreciate the blessings that are all around me all the time.

Namaste.

Namaste.

Buddha's and Bodhisattva's space and time. May it be fragrant as the earth herself, reflecting our careful efforts, our wholehearted awareness, and the fruit of understanding through refuge. May we and all beings be companions of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. May we awaken from forgetfulness and realize Blessed by Amitabha's light, may we care for all living things. Namahariya.