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 

 

ON ST. PATRICK'S DAY, GRIEF AND JOY OBSERVED

I am surrounded by churches in the village where I live. Samwise and I turned right today, and walked down to the church past the railway line. It's a quick decision, and the sun seemed to be calling us thataway. We made a nifty getaway from his nemesis, a tiny dachshund with war on his mind, and made it to the church. Sitting outside on a bench with two crutches propped beside him, was a man eager for a chin wag. He was John, ex police officer, 57 years in England and still in possession of his County Kerry accent. "I'm Catholic,' he said, 'but I believe there's only one God and I come to this church for the peace.' His mobile phone was lying beside him - he'd been trying to get a hold of his sister to wish her a happy St. Patrick's Day. I asked him to explain the origins of the day, and we both commiserated over the tragedy befalling Ukraine.

Two days ago, I was approaching the other church (Sammy and I had turned left this time), and I saw a man praying his namaz on a prayer mat on the tiny triangle of green outside the church. He had stopped his car, and was observing the evening prayer. I couldn't believe it! At this very church, twenty-nine years ago, my father had been pointedly informed by the choice of words in the sermon that he would only be welcome if he converted from his unwelcome religion. And now, the namaz. I wanted to applaud the man for his... courage? Defiance? Simple observation of prayer? I wasn't sure. So I dawdled with Sammy until the man rolled up his mat, and I waved in a friendly fashion at the companion in his car. They waved back. And onwards we all went. If only it could always be this way.  

Grief, Observed

 

‘The act of living is different all through. Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.’

 

I settle into the graveyard with C.S. Lewis,

observing grief together.

 

All my childhood I was accused

of being too sensitive. 

And make no mistake, 

it is an accusation.

 

No one ever declares it worthy of praise. 

Not in a girl.

For how will she cook and clean and submit easily,

if her mind dissects and discerns?

 

When they say too sensitive,

they mean too knowing. 

 

It’s a Sunday and the church doors are open. 

I walk into the incense. 

Mary greets me, I like to think, 

and Jesus invites me closer. 

 

I approach. And see the candle tree, 

electric lighter awaiting me.

 

Every night we light a divo, my mother and I, 

keeping going the Zoroastrian fire. 

Here, the lights are blood red, not white. 

I place one like a star atop the pyramid wire.

 

I recite, out loud, a gatha and a surah,

binding myself to as many of the prophets 

as will have me. Come now rain! 

Come now thunder!

 

Why do I fear? The fire 

tree protects me. 

© Shaista Tayabali, 2022 (linked to this evening's dVerse Poetry)

To end in hope then, with news of another mother and daughter, Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe and her daughter Gabriella, finally united in freedom, back in England, thanks to the determined, relentless efforts of her husband Richard. A long road ahead, of course, but a little corner of peace begun.

 

PAUL FARMER, KING, GANDHI AND THE STRUGGLE OF NON-VIOLENCE

On the 21st of this month, Dr. Paul Farmer, infectious diseases physician and ambassador for the democracy of public health, died of a cardiac arrest in his sleep. With his death, we lose another giant oak under whose shade many small trees were trying to bloom. They are shaken, but we can only hope the roots are strong and the seeds are many.

As the grimmest of news swirls around our homes (are we not once again united by consciousness of a global storm brewing?), the work of Farmer in Haiti and Rwanda must not be forgotten. The grotesque healthcare inequities that characterise our modern world steered Farmer’s moral compass; compassion and charm did the rest. This month also ends Black History Month…

In March 1959, when Dr. King disembarked on the shores of Delhi, he said, 'To other countries I may go as a tourist, but to India I come as a pilgrim.'

King was besieged by villagers for his autograph and spent a night at Mani Bhavan, Gandhi's residence in Bombay, on a mattress on the floor beside the charka. Among the many elite persons he dined with, he also met with Dalit students in Kerala.

The five weeks King spent in India expanded his thoughts on race, the caste system, and land use discrimination.

The struggle to remain non-violent in the face of tanks and shells and every other instrument of war, cleverly crafted by the brilliance of the human mind, continues. Two peaceful leaders have died, and a non peaceful leader has re-awoken. What next? It is up to each of us to decide.

ZITRONENMELISSE AND RAINER MARIA RILKE

One of the special teas sent by Sister Linh Bảo, my friend and student at Plum Village, is Zitronenmelisse, otherwise known by the equally soothing name, Lemon Balm.

I have taken to drinking a herbal tea every night - another favourite is Twinings Digest in the flavour of 'Spearmint, Apple and Rooibos with Baobab'. I think about my monastic friends and the mindful significance of brewing and then drinking a cup of tea, alone or together. Alone, we are still together. 

Last night, I wept after reading about the reality of American evacuations in Afghanistan, simultaneously thinking about the Ukrainians trying to decide whether to stay, fight or flee. Today, I spoke with my dear sister, who took her phone, and via the magic of zoom, showed me around the outside of Thây’s hermitage in Lower Hamlet, specially pointing out the Fragrant Stream in the middle of the Bamboo Forest. Then suddenly, by Thây’s favourite swing, three giant Ukrainian pine trees. Thây had brought them back to France to plant in his beloved space. The sight gave me so much comfort. The timing was so beautiful. 

Tonight I, like so many others, find my way to this poem of Rilke, translated by Joanna Macy...

Let This Darkness Be A Bell Tower

Quiet friend who has come so far,

feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

(from Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29)

Sofiis'ka Square, Bell Tower, Kiev © Michele Ursino

FRODO AND SAMWISE, DOG DAYS

Who am I? Where am I? What day is it?

There are hailstones flinging themselves against my window pane and the wind sounds more like a hurricane, tunnelling between trees and rushing down these village lanes. Storm Eunice is here. 

Sometimes Samwise and I stare down country lanes that lead into the unknown, but having had one experience of being ‘lost’ in a field, with no end in sight, I steer my little pooch away from mysterious scents that beg to be followed. We chase sunsets and friendly scarecrows instead... 

Mum and Dad celebrated their wedding anniversary at the end of January, and Mum had a birthday a few days ago. The house is full of flowers, scents of freesia and mimosa, vases rarely used had to be found. A freshly baked chocolate cake arrived the day before Ma's birthday, via our friend Joan, and Irfan sent mithai - from Gupta’s - gifts can arrive this way these days - Singapore to London to Cambridge…

    

                                   

                                           

Who am I? We have lived so many lives already. The bell of mindfulness on my Plum Village app sounds every fifteen minutes, bringing me back to my present moment, which is quiet and safe and peaceful enough. My book is out in the world and being read, and I am learning that it takes Time to approach another piece of work while your heart and mind are still engaged with your first. I am tired, there is no doubt of that. Pops has had many sleepless nights, and I have been his aide-de-camp in matters of tea and biscuits… posh ones, Cartwright and Butler…

My fourth booster must be organised soon, I have taken my pre-infusion covid test in preparation for tmorrow’s infusion… and so it goes… do your days and months have a pattern? Do you experience the funny swoop? The little flutter that reminds you these are still strange times, and we must take care of ourselves and each other. The bell of mindfulness sounds again. 

                             

                                                 

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.