Stand Still

By David Wagoner

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

Note: David Wagoner (1926-2021) was a prize-winning poet, considered the leading poet of the Pacific Northwest.

Keeping Quiet

By: Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

This one time upon the earth,
let’s not speak any language,
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be a delicious moment,
without hurry, without locomotives,
all of us would be together
in a sudden uneasiness.

The fishermen in the cold sea
would do no harm to the whales
and the peasant gathering salt
would look at his torn hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars of gas, wars of fire,
victories without survivors,
would put on clean clothing
and would walk alongside their brothers
in the shade, without doing a thing.

What I want shouldn’t be confused
with final inactivity:
life alone is what matters,
I want nothing to do with death.

If we weren’t unanimous
about keeping our lives so much in motion,

if we could do nothing for once,
perhaps a great silence would
interrupt this sadness,
this never understanding ourselves
and threatening ourselves with death,
perhaps the earth is teaching us
when everything seems to be dead
and then everything is alive.

Now I will count to twelve
and you keep quiet and I’ll go.

Note: Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), a Chilean poet, has been called the greatest poet writing in Spanish during his lifetime.

Don't Cling to Stillness

By: Ta-hui Tsung-kao (Dahui Zonggao)

From a letter to Layman K’ung Hui:

Once you have achieved perfect stillness of body and mind, you must make earnest effort. Do not immediately settle down in peaceful stillness—in the Teachings this is called “The Deep Pit of Liberation,” much to be feared. You must make yourself turn freely, like a gourd floating on the water, independent and free, not subject to restraints, entering purity and impurity without being obstructed or sinking down. Only then do you have a little familiarity with the school of the patchrobed monks. If you just manage to cradle the uncrying child in your arms, what’s the use?

From: Swampland Flowers: The Letters and Lectures of Zen Master Ta Hui, translated by J.C. Cleary. Ta Hui (1089-1163) is a central figure in the Rinzai (Chinese, Linji) school of Chan. He stressed koan practice and was a critic of Silent Illumination practice (or at least certain ways in which that practice was manifested). Despite his criticism of Silent Illumination, he had a close relationship with Hongzhi, the most prominent exponent of Silent Illumination.