Dew on the Grass is the coming together of four Dharma friends who wish to express their lives as Buddhists through their writing, photography, art and other projects
A dying man asked photographer Erwin Olaf to make a farewell portrait. He died a couple of hours after this final picture was taken, photographed at home as he was already too ill to come to the studio.
What strikes me is the powerful presence and the unflinching peace that is emanating from the face, shining brightly through the frail body that is about to give way. The artist managed to capture both the impermanent and the transcendental.
I was interested to catch, on BBC Sounds recently, a programme made by William Miller about his father Jonathan. (Radio 4, Archive on 4: Lost Memories). Jonathan Miller was fascinated by the human brain and in particular the workings of memory. It was a cruel irony that in the end his own brain was destroyed by Alzheimer’s. Making the programme was clearly cathartic for his son, who was trying to come to a better understanding of his father’s life work. And it was, of course, of particular interest to me as I watch my partner struggle with the same disease.
While listening to a talk on the Throssel website, I wrote down the following quote by Reverend Jishin. (These may not be her precise words). “We are inextricable from all that’s gone before. Our sense of being as an individual is based on that. (…) There is no separated off and permanent me.”
And in the programme, William Miller says that ‘Memory is what makes us who we are. Our memory of our lives is what ties us together.’ (I think he meant into a coherent personality.)
I think, until watching someone else struggle, I had not fully understood the enormity of this; that ‘There is then nothing more than this.’ Hearing quotes from a string of academics, I learned that memories do not in fact exist per se; that memory is a suite of different systems which our brain organises into recognisable recollections. Memories themselves are processes or actions and have no separate existence in the brain. The brain is constantly editing memory and this edited version becomes the story of our lives. And, of course, we have all experienced instances when even shared events will be remembered differently by different individuals, leaving us to ponder whether there can be such a thing as verifiable ‘reality.’
And so, with the loss of the sense of our own past, what is left? The answer of course must be ‘nothing.’ The body will persist, maybe for quite a while, but that which made the recognisable person is no more. What I think we do is to project onto that body our own memories of how the person used to be. It is so hard really to comprehend and to accept that the person has ‘checked out’.
William Miller asked his mother, in an interview before his father died, whether she felt that she still had a relationship with him. Her answer was that they did have a relationship. ‘He is able still to recognise me as someone who is different (from the carers). But it is not a proper relationship. It is not a meeting of minds in any way.’
That’s a good description. Slowly the person, this unique collection of memories, recedes. My partner remembers almost nothing of anything we have done over the five years that we have been together. He still remembers a lot about life well before that and is therefore able to establish some sort of conversation with his family that he cannot do with me. But what he does say, and this fits with what William Miller’s mother said, is that he remembers love and happiness, in the abstract, even if he can’t remember anything about the things we have done, places we have been, trips we have had.
And so I often remind myself of the famous Larkin poem “An Arundel Tomb’ whose much quoted last line ‘What will survive of us is love,’ offers some modicum of comfort. Perhaps that awareness of love, however it is formed, is one of the last parts of the brain to disappear.
I loved this book and would like to share with you some thoughts and points which jumped out of the pages and inspired me greatly. Robin Wall Kimmerer is a Teaching Professor of Environmental Biology and also the founder of the Centre for Native Peoples and the Environment in Syracuse, New York. It is a beautiful book that illustrates a synergy of survival, a reciprocal relationship between the earth and its peoples. Kimmerer offers a unique blend of her factual scientific training and her knowledge and experience of indigenous people.
I felt a sense of reverence and humility after reading this book and it sparked a heartfelt wish to understand more about the natural relationships between plants, animals, people, and the earth. Scientific evidence and the events happening on our planet today are at a ‘tipping point’ towards climate change. With fossil fuels diminishing, it is the beginning of resource depletion, this book points to ways of living more harmoniously with nature.
The author illustrates a number of ways learned from native people about reciprocal relationships between plants, animals, and people. I will start with the ‘three sisters’ a way of reciprocity between growing plants. This was a result of their observations and respect towards plants and what they can teach us. The ‘three sisters’ are corn, beans, and pumpkin or squash, the corn is planted first and grows to knee-high becoming strong and stiff. The second sister, climbing beans, are planted to grow and entwine with the corn and spiral upwards. The third sister, pumpkin or squash, steadily grows at the base of the corn and beans, sheltering the soil, keeping moisture in and other plants out, each giving and receiving in mutual support.
Another example from this book of how plants teach is the bitter taste of sour wild strawberries sampled before they ripen (often by impatient children), a lesson of patience and a capacity for self-restraint, an important lesson for us all in these days of short resources.
Research by settlers into traditional harvesting methods revealed natives had guidelines and protocols aimed at maintaining the health and vigour of plants and other species. The long-term observations of native people harvesting wild rice shows they spend 4 days filling their canoes with rice, then they stopped gathering long before all the rice was harvested. At first, the settlers thought this was due to laziness or lack of industrial machinery. Later they understood this was a land-care practice, the natives knew they weren’t the only ones who ate rice, what they left behind was not wasted. Ducks and other birds would not have stopped there if there was no rice left and seeds were spread by the birds to other areas. Similarly, berries spread their fruits on the earth for birds, animals, and humans and the seeds were spread by all to flourish in other areas. This reciprocal life sows richness for all, today, this kind of mutual support is rare with our modern farming methods.
Ceremonies of gratitude after harvesting were a part of life in indigenous communities. In a culture of gratitude, there is a deeper meaning for this gratitude, it is knowing that gifts follow a circle of reciprocity and flow back to you again. The act of generous giving and the humility of receiving are necessary halves of the equation. During the thanksgiving ceremony, the natives always dance in a circle in gratitude for this way of reciprocity, as I understand this, the circle gives us a metaphor for everyone and everything. After the dance one big wooden bowl of berries is passed around with one big spoon, so everyone can taste the sweetness, remember the gifts and say thank you. The author explains how the natives ‘know’ everyone is fed from the same bowl Mother Earth has filled for us and it’s not just about the berries, but about the bowl. How do we refill the empty bowl? Robin Wall Kimmerer offers this lovely poem in her book, it embraces ways of life towards enriching and sustaining our planet.
Know the ways of the ones who take care of you, so that you may take care of them.
Introduce yourself. Be accountable as the one who comes asking for life.
Ask permission before taking. Abide by the answer.
Never take the first. Never take the last.
Take only what you need.
Take only that which is given.
Never take more than half. Leave some for others.
Harvest in a way that minimises harm.
Use it respectfully. Never waste what you have taken.
Share.
Give thanks for what you have been given.
Give a gift, in reciprocity for what you have taken.
Sustain the ones who sustain you and the earth will last forever.– Robin Wall Kimmerer.
As I read Braiding Sweetgrass familiar quotes and verses from Soto Zen training came to mind, especially these two:
The Five Thoughts
We must think deeply of the ways and means by which this food has come.
We must consider our merit when accepting it.
We must protect ourselves from error by excluding greed from our minds.
We will eat lest we become lean and die.
We accept this food so that we may become enlightened.– The Mealtime Ceremony in Scriptures and Ceremonies at Throssel Hole Buddhist Abbey
And
When we try to teach and enlighten all things by ourselves, we are deluded. When all things teach and enlighten us, we are enlightened.
– Dogen Zenji
Braiding Sweetgrass is sacred, full of enriching and inspiring wisdom, I feel blessed a friend recommended it to me and to pass this on to you.
Mo Henderson
Dew on the Grass has been a presence, on the internet, for over two years now. The purpose of the blog has always been to provide a creative meeting space, not only for the four Buddhist friends who founded it but for a wider community of people, not necessarily Buddhists, who wish to capture the essence of the lives they live in photographs, artworks, and words that express the path that leads to the Heart. Whilst we never intended to post every day or even every week, we must admit it’s been a little quiet around here, lately. That could be because we simply don’t have anything to say, right now, and that, of course, is just fine but blogs, like any other area of life, can sometimes suffer inertia that needs further investigation.
For my own part, I have asked the question of myself,’ Why am I not writing?’, without any particular expectation of a reply. I am aware that days get ‘eaten’ by distraction: some necessary, like the practicalities of putting meals on tables (or lap trays, if truth be told), of cleaning, taking care of business, and the like, and some that arise from within myself, like the voice of a chattering child, bringing disruption to ‘flow’; shaking the calm stillness of mind.
I am not alone in this, apparently. A recent edition of Maria Popova’s, Brain Pickings, draws attention to Mary Oliver’s essay, from her book ‘Upstreaming’, entitled “Of Power and Time”. In this essay, which explores the need to give space for the creative, Oliver observes that whilst there are practical interruptions to creativity, ‘ …. just as often, if not more often, the interruption comes not from another but from the self itself, or some other self within the self, that whistles and pounds upon the door panels and tosses itself, splashing, into the pond of meditation. And what does it have to say? That you must phone the dentist, that you are out of mustard, that your uncle Stanley’s birthday is two weeks hence. You react, of course. Then you return to your work, only to find that the imps of idea have fled back into the mist.’
Popova comments that: ‘Oliver terms this the “intimate interrupter” and cautions that it is far more perilous to creative work than any external distraction, adding: ‘There is no other way work of artistic worth can be done. And the occasional success, to the striver, is worth everything. The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.’ Of course, the Buddhist reader will recognize this ‘interrupter’ or ‘distracter’ as ‘monkey mind’; the mind that swings and jumps and causes mischief, rather than ‘settle’. It has been experienced by meditators and creatives alike since the dawn of time and recognizing the ‘mischief maker’, looking it in the eye, significantly reduces its power and energy.
At the same time, there is, I think, a difference between what can be identified as the ‘intimate interrupter’ and the ‘inner daydreamer’. The interrupter is a saboteur of peace, clarity, and creativity, whilst daydreaming, in my experience, is a much more helpful, creative, and meditative state, whereby thoughts and sensations are allowed to drift in and out of consciousness, like dragonflies resting and drinking on the surface of a pond, drawing from it and then departing.
We called this blog site, ‘Dew on the Grass’, partly because of its association with Dogen’s ‘Rules for Meditation’, which is dear to our hearts but, as our ‘About’ page describes: ‘The nature of dew is that it appears in the morning, glistens for an instant and then disappears. Yet it always raises the spirits when you catch sight of it and it will always appear again’. Dew, dragonflies, the analogies are endless but all need the right conditions to develop, delight, and inform us. All are born of a state of natural solitude and harmony, which requires a certain personal effort to protect it.
Without judgment, without harshness, I keep these images in mind, and whilst there may be many practical interruptions that keep me from posting as regularly as I would wish – and are, to a large extent, out of my control – I think I very much owe it to myself, as well as to our loyal readership, to practice a little more diligently, the silencing of the ‘intimate interrupter’ and the development of the ‘inner daydreamer’. Recognition is always the first step, application is the second – on this last rainy Saturday of July, perhaps I have made a start.
If you have something that you would like to post – artwork, photography, or writing- simply contact us, using the ‘ Contact’ button.
If you would like to read more of Maria Popova’s blog, here is the link:
https://www.brainpickings.org/2016/10/12/mary-oliver-upstream-creativity-power-time/?fbclid=IwAR2HY69CyGCwyu8PjK5l3k6ZB8Po_-0J-GV0c-XMJclzHf3Kzj7bQtmRQl8
At the twilight, a moon appeared in the sky;
Then it landed on earth to look at me.
Like a hawk stealing a bird at the time of prey;
That moon stole me and rushed back into the sky.
I looked at myself, I did not see me anymore;
For in that moon, my body turned as fine as soul.
The nine spheres disappeared in that moon;
The ship of my existence drowned in that sea.
– Rumi
Divan, 649:1-3,5
Had this book just been published today I would highly recommend you buy it. But it wasn’t, written in 1954, it tells the story of ‘Strongheart’ a famous actor-dog and his relationship with the person looking after him. It tells of a bond of friendship which formed between them, an extraordinary ménage of curiosity, observation and study by the carer which was quickly mutually reciprocated by Strongheart. An attitude of curiosity, openness, patience and humility became a catalyst to forming a connective bridge between the human and the animal, a universal ability many ‘modern humans’ have lost.
The author describes receiving a lesson on how humans connect with dogs by an American Indian Mojave Dan:
‘There’s facts about dogs and there’s opinions about them. The dogs have the facts and the humans have the opinions. Get the facts straight from the dog, opinions from the humans’. 1.
This information was invaluable to him and led to the ability to detect motives and intentions, a sense of ‘mind reading’ between Strongheart and himself, a synergy, bridging silent questions towards an intuitive ‘knowing’. This Indian philosophy of recognising mental and physical communication as universal and natural between humans and animals is expressed in the book with this quote:
Ask the very beasts, and they will teach you;
ask the wild birds-they will tell you;
crawling creatures will instruct you,
fish in the sea will inform you:
for which of them all knows not that this is
the Eternal’s way,
in whose control lies every living soul,
and the whole life of man. 2.
Job 12:7-10
From his friendship with Strongheart he goes on to describe his relationship with other sentient beings, including ants, earthworms and his fascinating relationship with ‘Freddie the fly’. The latter by changing his attitude, from finding flies irritable and wanting to swat them, to ‘right see’ with an ‘all good heart’. His practice of a loving attitude towards even a small fly resulted in a sense of friendship. Freddie the fly used to sit on his typewriter as he worked, follow him from room to room, until eventually he sat on on the palm of his hand getting his wings stroked. Freddie was transformed from a ‘worthless little bum’, a nuisance who deserved swatting, into an intelligent lively companion. All this happened with the offering of a loving attitude.
For anyone who has the opportunity to live or work with animals this book is a must for understanding the principles a loving connection with others. It illustrates how fellow members of nature’s own family communicate with others who understand them, whether a person, dog, earthworm, ant or fly.
‘To behold all beings with the eye of compassion, and to speak kindly to them, is the meaning of tenderness. One must speak to others whilst thinking that one loves all living things as if they were one’s own children.’ 3.
Mo Henderson
Note:
For those who wish to read this book it is still possible to buy on Amazon or Waterstones.
Karen Richards
At 65 years old, I have travelled far less than the average Westerner, of a similar age. It’s not that I have an aversion to travelling, far from it, but both the cost and the lack of opportunity have prohibited me from going very far and certainly not often. And yet, I do not feel that I have missed out on the richness of human experience.
Travel may broaden the mind but everyday experience surely deepens it. Or, more accurately, opens us up to that which is Universal, if we approach each day, openheartedly. I count myself fortunate to have experienced the many joys of living an ordinary life, right here, on my doorstep.
I first came across this poem by Simon Armitage, now our Poet Laureate, around twenty years ago, when I was teaching GCSE English in a local secondary school. I heard him recite it live, at The Grand Theatre Wolverhampton, when I accompanied my class to a special poetry reading, based on the anthology for the course. The truth of it struck me, immediately.
It Ain’t What You Do, It’s What It Does To You
Simon Armitage
I have not bummed across America
with only a dollar to spare, one pair
of busted Levi’s and a bowie knife.
I have lived with thieves in Manchester.*
I have not padded through the Taj Mahal,
barefoot, listening to the space between
each footfall picking up and putting down
its print against the marble floor. But I
skimmed flat stones across Black Moss on a day
so still I could hear each set of ripples
as they crossed. I felt each stone’s inertia
spend itself against the water; then sink.
I have not toyed with a parachute cord
while perched on the lip of a light-aircraft;
but I held the wobbly head of a boy
at the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.
And I guess that the tightness in the throat
and the tiny cascading sensation
somewhere inside us are both part of that
sense of something else. That feeling, I mean.
*Armitage was formerly a probation officer, in Manchester.
After I had written this blog piece, I happened upon a quote from Virginia Woolf’s, The Common Reader. In essence, they are saying the same thing, if differently. I love both. What do you think?
“Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance, which each sight or incident scores upon the consciousness. Let us not take it for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.”
As I go on in training it seems to me that acceptance and gratitude are deeply intertwined. In coming to accept all that comes into my life, I am more easily able to feel gratitude for whatever happens. Recently one of my neighbours made the comment to me of how horrible this wet and misty weather is. I did not contradict her but that is not at all how I see it. Actually, I think the misty mornings with that lovely half-light are exceptionally beautiful. But the weather is something we cannot change and having lived in hot dry countries; I know only too well how blessed we are to have rain here.
In not simply accepting something (especially something so much beyond our power to change) we cause ourselves great suffering – complaining, feeling fed up at the weather, frustrated at being unable to go outside. Finding acceptance of whatever is, brings inner peace. From that place of peace, it is natural to feel gratitude for whatever comes our way. As our acceptance and gratitude deepen, so an inner warmth and love for all beings is fostered.
2000 years ago, the Roman philosopher Seneca wrote:
“I am grateful, not in order that my neighbour, provoked by the earlier act of kindness, may be more ready to benefit me, but simply in order that I may perform a most pleasant and beautiful act.”
Surely Seneca is describing what we would call the way of the Bodhisattva. We give because it is natural to give without thought of return in trying to follow the Bodhisattva path. Indeed, if we give with an ulterior motive, the act of giving is debased. As the American author Annie Dillard says:
“Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes.”
When we give to our fellow beings, we can face a conundrum, particularly when undertaking voluntary work or doing charitable acts. It is natural to feel good in the act of giving; one may well receive thanks in return but the extent to which these are part of the driving force can devalue the spiritual value of the acts, even though they may benefit other beings on some level. Giving from a place of gratitude is of paramount importance.
I have experienced much learning and also much heart searching in some voluntary work I do. I go into a primary school every week (though sadly not at present due to covid) to help 6- and 7-year olds with their reading. The teachers are so overworked that it is hard for them to find one on one time with the children.
The work is important and of course my prime reason for being there is to help with the reading. However, there are other benefits in that the children can develop a relationship with an adult (inter-generational contact is valuable) and I can offer them love and acceptance simply for who they are, no matter their reading ability and especially for those struggling who may feel inferior.
I am grateful for my life; I have time now that I am retired and giving to these little ones feltlike a good thing to do when I started it. Since then I have been amazed at the love and warmth that has blossomed with these wonderful little ‘teachers’ – so honest and open in their interaction with me. Not having had children, this has been an eye-opener for me. Sometimes I worry that I might be tending towards being there because of what I get from them. I constantly try to remind myself that my focus is on each child, not on me. I worry that selfishness is creeping into my being there.
However, dealing with this is made a little easier by the fact that at the end of my 2 days I disappear from their lives till the next week. I can then focus on other things.
And even in the worry and concern that I have, there is the lesson of acceptance. This worry, self-questioning and concern are what I have to deal with. I must accept them and not push them away. Indeed, if I can sit with these feelings and go behind what brings them up, then I am sure that I will be able to take another small step in training. So, I am grateful to my little ‘teachers’ not only for the love they give me but also for the heart searching they cause me.The cycle of acceptance, gratitude and love continues.
Charlie Holles
Living, as I do, with a partner whose brain is deteriorating is fruitful territory for reflections about life, training and relationships. My husband and I got together six years ago but he has, now, no memory of anything much of that whole time.
On a minor level, his condition makes daily living challenging. He can’t actually change what he does, since to change your behaviour means that you have to remember what it is that you wanted to do different. So he goes on making the same ‘mistakes’ in small things, like for example where to put things away. But on a more important level (or it seems more important to me), he actually doesn’t retain much information about me either and regularly asks me things about my past life that I have told him a lot of times. This makes me feel ‘not known’. And yet he is certain (and I do accept this as a truth) that he knows me very well. Which raises the question – what or whom is it that he knows? It’s certainly not the sum of my history, not my ‘stories’, and he seems to have a ‘knowing’ that is separate from my stories. Which is a surprise to me as I would normally say that, without our stories, we are not the people we believe ourselves to be.
So J doesn’t know any of my ‘stories’, but, more than that, of course he doesn’t know any of ‘our stories’ either. He knows this is a loss for him and he feels sad about it. And it is a loss for me, as I realise more and more what comfort and pleasure there is in looking back at good times and re-living shared moments. Thus a walk with J very often starts with the words ‘I have never been here before in my life’. It all becomes a new source of pleasure for him. But for me, walking beside him, it is also a palimpsest of all the other times we have done that walk together, and inevitably that includes the sadness of remembering how different it was, maybe two or three years ago.
For me these days, much of life is a return to familiar and loved places, and for him it is a host of new experiences. Except that it’s not as easy as that, as he is aware of all that is lost in terms of memories. As well as being sad, it also makes me reflect, and raises for me the question of why we do things at all. Big events – our wedding, his 80th birthday party, holidays, trips, visits – have all gone. I guess they were pleasurable for him at the time, but they have now simply disappeared for him. And it so often comes to me to recognise how much of our everyday conversation refers back to a past event. I trip and stumble, trying to start a perfectly innocuous exchange, to talk about something and then suddenly I am asked ‘Do I know her?’ ‘Who is that?” Even trying to make future plans runs into the same challenges. ‘Have we been there?’ ‘Did we do that before?”
And so I try to sit still, breath slowly, think ‘This is the moment. This is all we have.’ And who can deny this? Except that as humans, in our minds at least, we do have memories of the past and they do inform our future. And life without memory of that past is a challenge to all of us.
The stillness of this scene surprises me. So much not in view. The clouds’ cover being blown, hide-and-seeking sun, me chasing shadows, and, roots. Here the bright field and dignified tree. And I wonder what part have walls to play.
The photograph was taken on a short walk not far from Lancaster, in the direction of the Yorkshire Dales – I was really struck by the tree’s rootedness, the fast-changing light, the illumined and cloud-shaded field, all flowing with the wind, and a quality of stillness within it all. I was fortunate the wind, clouds and light were as they were. How to do it justice, if indeed possible? How to catch the wind, as Donovan, a singer-songwriter when I was young, would say.
Paul Taylor