HOW TO RECONCILE

I write my experience in sand this time,

wanting it forgotten.

Not like last time, every day recorded

in verse and flower, a memory scripture, 

a treasure.

 

Older now, none the wiser now.

Just swimming in the sea of me,

a current of one, in the ocean of all.

More scared now, knowing how far 

the fall.

 

In some ways, it is all the same.

Gold dust on white blossom, still plump. 

And yet, already, the slow drift

to green grass, to soft earth,

to winter down.

 

The nuns have so much to remember, 

like nurses, saving lives.

They need the bell even more than we do,

we, temporary retreatants – fleeing our worlds,

escaping to theirs.

 

Breathing in, I breathe with my father’s back.

Breathing out, I breathe with my father’s lungs.

 

I invited my father to join, 

but he declined, knowing I would 

bring him in anyway. 

It’s harder for some, no light or ease,

but the bells toll on.

Drepung Monastery, Xizang, Tibet

The birds are here, the birds are there.

My cup of tea grows cold, again.

Mother breathing in with me, 

mother breathing out with me.

I want both things at once.

 

To choose is to lose. Something. Sometimes.

Can anything stay a secret?

And still, we try so hard to hide.

Suddenly, the flood gates open.

Everyone cries.

 

The gold is gone now. Soon, 

Sister Tea Cake will sound the bell

for final goodbyes.

Everyone cries.

Sometimes. 

 

Present moment,

wonderful moment. 

Thây is still alive. Smile. 

Be still and heal. 

Reconcile.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2022

Thây, Tu Hieu Temple, Hue, Vietnam

poem linked to Dverse Poets OLN 

 

FOOTSTEPS OF THÂY NHAT HANH

This morning, a huge procession left Tu Hieu temple in Hue, Vietnam… thousands of people had traveled from all over the country, lining the path around the half moon pond where Thây had washed his feet as a young novice after taking care of the buffalo in the fields. The great temple gates were opened for the funeral cortège to pass through, and almost thirty pall bearers lifted and carried the heavy chrysanthemum laden casket on to the streets. The crematorium was miles away, so across the world, thousands of us witnessed the greenery and local scenery of Thây’s hometown, as the walking procession took to cars and motorcycles. I was filled with writerly thoughts, which I hope to make sense of someday.

But for now, I wanted to share a little book of poems I wrote for Thây one night, many years ago, when my dear friend and acupuncturist, Dr. Ly, told me that the Plum Village entourage were arriving the next day. I worked all night to put together some of my poems, flowers, leaves and bark from the Silver birch tree in our garden, while my mother sketched Thây as a boy. Dr. Ly told me later that Thây read my poems out loud to the monastics and lay friends at the table, and then seemed so surprised to see himself as a boy, ‘How did she know I looked like that?’ 

THICH NHAT HANH, CONTINUED

A life in images... because Thây - Thich Nhat Hanh, Zen Master and friend - gave us all the words... and now, in this quiet silence of the last week of his earthly body, we give thanks for his continuation in us. At the same time as he was passing... midnight in Vietnam... I was in evening conversation with my Vietnamese nun-student... I was speaking of the inevitability of the passing happening someday, and yet, if only we could will it otherwise. She offered up the hopeful wish of the monastics that Thây might somehow give adequate warning... so that planes could be caught, travel arrangements made in time... but it doesn't work that way. Suddenly, one midnight, it is time.   

JEONG KWAN

There is a nun in South Korea
who walked up the side of a mountain
to Baekyangsa temple, when she was
seventeen, and her mother had just died.

You have come here to live,
said the nun who opened the door,
not asking a question, just telling
a truth that had yet to manifest.

Jeong Kwan unpins her freshly
laundered robes and whispers them
around her shoulders. How old is she?
Only the mountain knows.

But the taengja tree outside her window
is 500 years old. Hardy orange, it still
bears fruit, and Kwan uses the sour juice
in her cooking.

She pickles lotus root three different ways,
then checks on jars of kimchi. She never
uses garlic, onions, scallions, chives, leeks.
Too distracting for a monk.

But soy?
Soy excites her.

Sometimes I agree with the world
that to be a mother is everything. Is the key
and the lock. Jeong Kwan vowed at seventeen
to not burden children with the pain of her death.

There is something in that,
for me.

We can't all choose to opt out
or the world would stop spinning
around humans. Bees might take over. Or
rats. Or better still, dust motes of light. Or dark.

Jeong Kwan unfurls petal after petal
of the lotus flower, soaking the skirt
in water. Later, she will pour the water
into a pot and you will want to gulp the tea

as though you are parched. You are parched
and this is the tea of enlightenment. The tea
that rings the bell of truth. Life can be this
way. An art. A craft. A discipline. A dance.

Three slices of lotus root, pickled
in an heirloom of soy sauce.

(c) Shaista Tayabali, 2017

Jeong Kwan is considered one of the finest chefs of this world by the finest chefs of this world, who are almost exclusively male. Life can be this way. Women can be this way. Happy Women's Day today and every day to all my friends and sisters, my mentors and teachers and heroes. We can be anything. We can do everything. Certainly, we can.

(Poem linked to Dverse Poets for Open Link Night)