The moon lights up my door
the wind blows open my robe
sit down on a rock my friend
hear my mountain song
black hair turns to snow
dawn light to evening shade
everything is dew on the grass
nothing stays the same

— The Mountain Poems of Stonehouse (trans. Red Pine)

I’ve been writing poetry for some time now. My journey as a meditation practitioner has been going on about as long as I have been writing, so the two have naturally influenced one another. I’ve always had an affinity for poetry in particular. In my first poetry class in high school I remember discovering many amazing poets, but the old Chinese poet Li Po (also known as Li Bai) really stood out. The simplicity and depth of his images really resonated with me. One poem I read in that class is called “At Ching-men Ferry, A Farewell” (trans. David Hinton):

Crossing into distances beyond Ching-men,
I set out through ancient southlands. Here,
mountains fall away into wide-open plains
and the river flows into boundless space.
The moon setting, heaven’s mirror in flight,
clouds build, spreading to seascape towers.
Poor waters of home. I know how it feels:
ten thousand miles of farewell on this boat.

The last two lines ring out in my mind like a bell. The ability to observe one’s feelings as well as one’s environment is an important piece of meditation practice. I would argue that to be able to translate these observations into words and images is also a key part of practice as well. Being able to express ourselves authentically and mindfully is a part of our practice in the world, where we bring our meditation training to bear on everyday situations. The act of writing is really one of deep listening: as you wait for the words to come you observe your shifting feelings and thoughts until you settle in some sort of clarity. Then you put pen to paper.

Another one of my favorite Li Po poems directly deal with zazen, a Zen form of Buddhist meditation:

The birds have vanished down the sky.
Now the last cloud drains away.
We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains.

— Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain (trans. Sam Hamill)

The brevity of this poem in concert with its precision makes this one a powerful one for me. It speaks to the experience of meditation in such a striking way. There are at first two objects “the mountain and me” and then there is one: “only the mountain remains.” The play of duality, oneness, and non-duality (which is neither duality nor oneness) is a fundamental teaching in Buddhist traditions. A famous Zen saying from the Sōtō Zen founder Dōgen speaks to this play:

Before one studies Zen, mountains are mountains and waters are waters; after a first glimpse into the truth of Zen, mountains are no longer mountains and waters are no longer waters; after enlightenment, mountains are once again mountains and waters once again waters.

In my understanding this saying speaks to the movement from duality to oneness to non-duality. In the final way of being there are mountains and waters, but since one has moved through the preceding stage there is a different significance to them. There is a lightness of awareness, a sense of equanimity in the world that does not take these mountains and waters to be so solid and isolated.

A key part of writing practice that I find interesting is when to translate observations into written words. There is a never ending stream of perceptions, emotions, and thoughts. As we observe these with a meditative clarity when does one draw up the bucket from this well of experience to collect some water? There are no formulas or easy answers here, and this inflection point is really the essence of practice. Though I think that there are some helpful guideposts one can use. Before you write a word, are you grounded? Do you have a sense of clarity on what you are experiencing? Even if the emotions are turbulent, can you perceive them and their impact on you distinctly? This is where your meditation practice can aid your writing.

I aim to continue exploring this topic in the future but for now I’ll end this post with a poem from Cold Mountain, an old hermit monk from China:

People ask the way to Cold Mountain
but roads don’t reach Cold Mountain
in summer the ice doesn’t melt
and the morning fog is too dense
how did someone like me arrive
our minds are not the same
if they were the same
you would be here

— The Collected Songs of Cold Mountain (trans. Red Pine)