True Expression

Somewhere in my documents is a pronouncement that I'll be ready to die when I can no longer express myself. When I wrote it the line between expression and not seemed more clear to me than it does now. What is expression? What is myself? Zen koans are often simple at the absolute level but entangled at the level of detail.

Sure, I am expressing myself now, but since my right hand gives out quickly I use my brain to edit before I type. And sometimes I leave a stupid sentence as it is instead of polishing. Can you tell which sentences don't meet my standards? Are my standards an important part of what I express? They used to be, but now I've decided they're not as important as the essence of things. 

Two of my defining strengths are getting to the essence of things and seeing the relationships between things. Today I made it to the park where the glorious post-hurricane post-tornado-warning post-flooding sunshine invited life to hum and sparkle. Cicada song rose in waves then faded. In the distance a tuba. 

A tuba?

I see a neighbor whose husband is ailing. She looks tired, shows mercy when I croak "weak weak" upon inquiry, moves on quickly after we nod in solemn commiseration. I'm having a panic as I head home. Each day I walk less, fear falling more. Every few feet I stand to let my breath return; every few yards I look for a bench. I'm almost home when I find a lovely bench mottled with sun, and there they are! Two practicing tubas caressed by two humans who chat, then play, then chat, then play. 

A metronome keeps the rhythm. First, sustained pitch in staccato, then just lips buzzing the same rhythm, which amuses the toddlers wobbling by. Cicadas enter the composition. Then a scale or two. No one can hear me but I try to hum along. Then a little selection of music, repeated and perfected. A woman stops and asks is it Mahler or Strauss and, yes, she is a musician too. Another musician stops and they talk about their loss of work. Someone films. I film. My fingers get in the way. Obstacle is path?

The Village Zendo, where I still practice online, has a Japanese name, Dotoku-ji, which means True Expression. It refers to a text by that name written by Dogen many centuries ago, and it was that text we studied in detail during my stint as head monk back in 2018 when this disease began its infusion into my already beleaguered body. True Expression. Here it is. 

September 3, 2021

p.s. next week I might try a simpler beach. see ya when I see ya.