THIS HAPPENED

A student, a young woman, in a fourth-floor hallway of her lycée,
perched on the ledge of an open window chatting with friends between classes;
a teacher passes and chides her, Be careful, you might fall,
almost banteringly chides her, You might fall,
and the young woman, eighteen, a girl really though she wouldn't think that,
brilliant as she is, first in her class, and Beautiful, too, she's often told,
smiles back, and leans into she open window, which wouldn't even be open if it were winter,
if it were winter someone would have closed it (Close it!),
leans into the window, farther, still smiling, farther and farther,
though it takes less time than this, really an instant, and lets herself fail. Herself fall. 

A casual impulse, a fancy, never thought of until now, hardly thought of even now . . .
No, more than impulse or fancy, the girl knows what she's doing,
the girl means something, she girl means to mean,
because, it occurs to her in that instant, that beautiful or not, bright yes or no.
she's not who she is, she’s not the person she is, and the reason, she suddenly knows,
is that there's been so much premeditation where she is, so much plotting and planning,
here's hardly a person where she is, or if there is, it's not her, or not wholly her,
it's a self inhabited, lived in by her, and seemingly even as she thinks it
she knows what's been missing: grace, not premeditation but grace,
a kind of being in the world spontaneously, with grace. 

Weightfully upon me was the world.
Weightfully this self which graced the world yet never wholly itself.
Weightfully this self which weighed upon me,
the release from which is what I desire and what I achieve.
And the girl remembers, in this infinite instant already so many times divided,
the sadness she felt once, hardly knowing she felt it, to merely inhabit herself.
Yes, the girl falls, absurd to fall, even the earth wiith its compulsion to take unto itself all that falls
must know that falling is absurd, yet the girl falling isn't myself,
or she is myself but a self I took of my own volition unto myself.
Forever. With grace. This Happened. 

-C. K. Williams
THE NEW YORKER
FEBRUARY 5, 2001

The two swords cross points,
neither can turn away
The skillful hand is like lotus in the fire
Just as it is,
the spirit ascends to the empty heaven,
from within itself.

In Memoriam
Koun Yamada Roshi
Sambo Koryukai 1997

I'll go right back where the bullets fly
and stay on the cow until I die.
William S Burroughs 2/5/14 - 8/2/97

There is a reality even prior to heaven and earth;
Indeed, it has no form, much less a name;

Eyes fail to see it; it has no voice for ears to detect.
To call it Mind or Buddha violates its nature,

For it then becomes like a visionary flower in the air.
It is not Mind, not Buddha,

Absolutely quiet, and yet illuminating in a mysterious way,
It allows itself to be perceived only by the clear-eyed.

It is Dharma, truly beyond form and sound;
It is Tao, having nothing to do with words

Wishing to entice the blind,
The Buddha has playfully let words escape his golden mouth;

Heaven and earth are ever since filled with entangling briars.

Oh my good, worthy friends gathered here,
If you desire to listen to the thunderous voice of the Dharma,
Exhaust your words, empty your thoughts,
For then you may come to recognize this one essence.

DAIO KOKUSHI: ON ZEN

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SageBush Cooking is Highway 50 Zen's email newsletter. It lets you know about the new stuff on hwy50zen.com. It includes links to items or sites Bushy's ferreted out of the net. A little poetry and some humor to keep the zen juices flowing.

Check the SageBush Cooking archive http://www.hevanet.com/almabill/SBC-zen.html

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