[music] Dharma Bites is brought to you by Free Buddhist Audio, the Dharma for your life. Our work is funded entirely by donations from our generous listeners. If you would like to help us keep this free, make a contribution at freebuddhistaudio.com/donate. Thank you, and happy listening. Sometimes when we're approaching truth, you have to let go of things. This morning, after breakfast, I had a crisis. And I have let go of the talk that I had written before I came here. Because it didn't fit, and it didn't feel right. And because of what apparently said, things were in a state of flux for me at the moment. And I felt that I'd written a talk that I would have given last year. But I'm not the same person I was last year. So, I'm going to begin with a poem, What I wrote. [laughter] What I am looking for is as elusive as the word for the taste of kiwi fruit. What I do or say will start a ripple. I drown in the responsibility for waves. The older I get, the more scars I have. Every line tells a story. I brush my hair, but my mind remains tangled. While my back was turned, the lilies opened. I chose that to begin because it sort of sums up that state of paradox that connects with our talk from last night. That's where I find myself at the minute. I'm not quite sure who I am. I'm not quite sure what I think about whether the arts can be a way of moving towards wisdom. I don't know what I think. I don't know if I'm going to be able to give a talk that covers everything I want to say to you. I don't know whether I'm going to be happy at the end of this talk that I have communicated something of what is very important to me. So I'm taking a risk here and I'm just going to launch myself based on the few scribbles I have in front of me. So Kula Prabha last night said to us, "Could we think of an image perhaps for the paradox that is perhaps at the centre of our lives?" And what came to my mind was a Turner painting. I don't remember the name of it, but I remember going to see it in the old Tate Gallery. It's a storm. I think it's a ship at sea in a storm. You might know it. It's, I think, a fairly square painting. It's like a swirling vortex of colour. It's sort of like a hurricane almost. But at the heart of it, it's very still. And I feel that that sums up the conundrum I find myself with ongoingly, which is being torn between my restlessness, my desire to engage with people, my love of activity. And my hunger for reflection, stillness, and a deeper relationship with myself. And that painting seems to just have it all. And yet I get lost. I end up off around the edges when I'm looking to move towards the middle. So in a way, the reason why I feel rather topsy-turvy at the minute, well, to a larger extent, I can blame the arts for that. It's the arts fault. If I hadn't engaged more wholeheartedly over the years with my appreciation of and my practice of the arts, I wouldn't be standing here feeling the way I do right now. Because I don't know quite what I think anymore. And my big question that I want to know the answer to is, can the practice of the arts take me all the way to wisdom? I think it can. I think particularly if you're a maker and you engage with it wholeheartedly, put yourself on the line in the same way that we do with our spiritual practice. I think it can. But I think even if we engage with it, say in the realm of appreciation, I think it can support our spiritual practice. I think it can take us in the right direction. But there are other questions connected with it. Is it a direct or an indirect method? And am I up to it? I've made a promise to myself that I'm going to prioritize writing in my life. I've changed the conditions in my life so that I can. And now I've got nobody else to blame if I don't do it, but me. And so only I am getting in my way right now. And that's part of a challenge I find myself faced with at the minute. So I'd like to say to you that I'm in recovery, I am a member of AAAA, the Arts Administrator Anonymous Society, whereby I have been somebody who has taken great delight in helping facilitate other people's creativity. I'm now trying to set up the conditions for my own, and I don't know, as I say, if I'm up to it. And what I want to commit myself to is the arts as a practice. Not a hobby, not just entertainment, although there's an awful lot of enjoyment that I'm also looking for, but actually as a practice, there's something that can change me because the arts have already changed me. And I want to see how far I can go with it. And I don't know, as I keep saying, I don't know. That's it, maybe that's what I should say, I don't know. So, I'm reading some roomy poetry at the moment, and I came across these lines a couple of days ago. Beauty surrounds us, but usually we need to be walking in a garden to know it. Now for me I think the arts are part of my garden. I love nature and gardens, but I also feel that with the arts I'm learning about beauty, and you can only learn about beauty from beauty. That's something that Kathleen Rain once said. But what is beauty? It's not a very popular concept, that's for a start. Not in the world of the arts currently, I don't think. I think that what beauty is, is a marriage between pleasure and meaning. You try to think of an experience of beauty that you've had in whatever way, in friendship, in nature, through the arts. There's usually something emotionally positive happens. You like, you enjoy what you see, it moves you positively, but there's also somehow a sense of your understanding being stretched as well. And I want beauty in my life. In fact, I want to be seduced by beauty. I'm hoping that through my engagement with the arts I'm going to render myself more and more receptive to truth, and I'm willing to be quite promiscuous for this to happen. I'm willing to experiment with different forms of art, and my practice of the art to help that happen. So sometimes the arts just give us an experience. We don't go looking for it, but we listen to a piece of music. I've had that experience of listening to a piece of music, or going to a play, or seeing a film, and it hits me with this experience of beauty, or something in that direction. But there's also a value in going looking, going seeking that experience of beauty. And it's not always in the obvious places. I think for myself as a whole range where I might find that, and that ranges from what you might call high art. So for example, before I ever saw a Rothko painting, I'd only seen reproductions on a postcard, and I didn't like them. They look boring and dull. Until again, I went to the Tate Gallery. I went into that room that they used to have there that was just all Rothko paintings. And I found myself sitting down and stopping, because it was like walking into a cathedral, and it had a very strong effect on me that I hadn't anticipated at all. It was very beautiful, very unexpected. And then there's the Terminator films. I didn't go to see the Terminator films, you know, Arnold Schwarzenegger and all that, when they came out, because I thought that's not my kind of a film. And then my good friend Abaya Shuri introduced me to the Terminator films. And I'm so glad she did, along with the Alien films, which I also like. Because although there's a lot of violence in those films, there is something archetypal going on in the stories that really engages me. And I want to dwell more in an archetypal realm. I want to have access to what lies beyond the mundane. So I find myself enjoying, of all people, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Who would have thought it? I want to be more receptive. I want to be more open, and my experience has been the arts of help that change. Most of all, at the moment, what I'm looking for is to be able to dwell in the present moment. I'm increasingly aware of how much I'm looking backwards or looking ahead. I'm too much in the past or too much in the future. And again, the appreciation of the arts and attempting to write poetry has helped me be more here, more now. And I'm thinking back to when I was in Montana. Last summer, I did a solitary retreat there, and it was a very, very beautiful experience. It's a beautiful place for those of you that haven't been there, but I would recommend it as a solitary retreat venue by the Blackfoot River. I had three weeks' experience of contentment, and I think it's because I'd reached a point in my life where I was able to really sit still. And so I'm going to take another risk and read you another poem, which is called Montana Flowers from that retreat. Restless at my desk and seeking the quiet moment, I want the red tulips to open, as if a crawl inside would give me rest. But this is not tulip country. Outside on the rocky hills and pasture, the flowers are intense, small spots of solitary colour. Dancing yellow glacier lily, vivid purple shooting style, and gentle lilac and yellow pusque make me stop and bend to beauty. High on the cliff tops, I could be carried away by the big skies, dwarfing of my little life. But smaller still, the tiny flowers on the ground remind me of my feet, and that when I stop reaching for it somewhere else, the quiet moment is always right here now. This is going all over the place. For me, having experienced, for example, reading a poem, or trying to write a poem, what I notice afterwards is that my experience becomes more vivid. I become more aware, more awake. So, for example, after I'd written the first draft of this talk, and I'd been browsing through my poetry books to find some good quotes for you, I went outside in the evening for a walk-in, sunny bow near Myland tube in the east end of London, and there was the most stunning sunset, purples and pinks, and below and behold, the archetypal realm descended, because the pearly king and queen of Stephanie walked down my road. I've never seen them, for those of you who don't know, pearly kings and queens wear a lot of sequins on black outfits and have feathers in their hats. I don't know what else they do. So, there's something that repeatedly might experience. If I've engaged in the arts appreciating or making, it makes my own awareness more vivid, more appreciative, and that appreciative awareness is Bodhisattva territory. Bodhisattvas don't get in their own way by wanting this and not wanting that. They just appreciate people and things for what they are, which means that they can just care, they can just love. And it seems to me that if I can engage with the arts increasingly wholeheartedly, I might gain that perspective of getting out of my own way just by appreciating more and more. So, I've been putting myself on the line recently and saying to myself and other people, "I would like to write. I would like to see if I can do it." And it's very like when I started learning to meditate, there are a lot of comparisons. For a start, I have to sit still. I don't find that very easy. I have to be quiet. I like talking. It requires serious effort and dedication and persistence. A blank sheet of paper is very scary. But I also need a light touch, the ability or the willingness to be flexible to play, see what happens. And also, again, as with meditation, a willingness to sit with tension. So, for example, trying to write a poem, there's the tension of the things that need to be done, the people that I need to see. And my desire to write a poem. Then there's also the internal tension of a form, for example, and a content. How do those things go together? And also, there's the aspect of learning to let go. As with meditation, if I come at things too willfully, in a too goal-oriented way, it won't happen and it's the same as writing poetry. So, writing, so far, I'm a novice, has already helped me find that still place that I've been looking for because I'm looking more closely. I've slowed down. It also helps me think more clearly. I don't think I'm very good at reflecting. But I find in the act of writing, not just in terms of poetry, that's how I do my reflection, is with pen and paper. And it helps me see more clearly because I'm looking more closely. I'm finding that I may learn to sit with paradoxes, not easily, but something's changed there. Let's put it this way. I'm less uncomfortable with conflict than I used to be. But most of all, I think engaging in writing has helped me be more authentic because if I, when anybody else tries to write a poem or paint a picture for that matter, or any other creative activity from their head, it doesn't communicate to the audience, whereas if we can come from the root of our experience and then, through whatever form we choose, find that more about it and then send it out into the world, I think we have more likely to communicate. I've done quite a few storytelling workshops with Jay Matty. I have some others here. And he's always patting and rubbing his belly and encouraging us on the workshops to come from there in the storytelling. I think it's the same with any creative actors. It's a bit like, for those of us who are inspired by Banti's vision and are involved in the arts, his book, The Religion of Art, is very important to us because he communicates in the essence of what we're talking about now. But it wouldn't work to try and, for me, to write my poem with Banti's religion of art in one hand and my pen in the other. I won't work because I'll be inauthentic then because I'll be trying to achieve an idea of whatever it might be. Whereas if I start from my belly or my heart, or just a detail that I'm giving my attention to, then I'm more likely to follow the thread through to effective communication. So, for example, in a poem that I wrote recently, which I'm not going to read any more poems because I don't have the time, but this poem about my dad, my real dad, died when I was two years old. So, I'm in the writing period and I've been struggling and I can't do it and I've been feeling despondent. Negative mental states have set in. I've gone to bed one night and I've decided that whatever happens the next morning is important. I just do it, like meditation, sit down with the blank sheet of paper. And I'd recently received a blown up picture of my dad when he was in uniform. He was in the fleet air arm which was the flying arm of the Navy. And I decided that was going to be my material. I wanted to write about my dad. But I sat down with the blank sheet of paper and thought, "I can't do it. I can't do it." I had no ability, no inspiration, etc. So, I thought, "No, you promised yourself." I picked up a book of poetry and I read someone else's poetry and I got very absorbed in this particular poem. I can't remember who it is by now, but then I noticed after my enjoyment of it that it was a sonnet and I thought, "Ooh, I'd like to write a sonnet." I've only tried once before and it wasn't very good. And it just felt like that was going to be the right shape for this poem that I didn't know what it was yet. So, I spent that morning sitting down with the picture of my dad in front of me and the idea of a sonnet in my mind knowing what the form was and worked. And it was one of the most absorbing, concentrated mornings I've ever had. Because I was dealing with material that was very close to my heart, very poignant, as you can imagine. And I had a form that I had to wrestle with. How was I going to say what I might want to say with that shape? And then there was another stage to it, which was I wrote it, I finished it, I thought, "Ooh, yes, I think that's almost sort of what I want to see." Showed it to a friend, she made a couple of comments and I thought, "Yes, she's right, I need to change this." And even though it's in this little book that I produce as a fundraiser and I probably don't change it. I've also had subsequently more feedback from some poet friends of mine and I can see there's still room for it to be improved. So these poems that I'm trying to engage with are ongoing processes where I meet myself, I wrestle with form, I sit with the tension of how to pull it all together. And something happens that I can then communicate with to other people. And this, perhaps, that poem, whether it's however good it is or isn't, I couldn't have said what I've said in it in any other way. It had to come out of that way. So if you're interested, sorry, if you're interested in reading it, it's the last poem in this book, "Five Pounds in the Dining Room." [laughter] Sorry. Also, another area for me to consider is ethics. For example, there's a poem in this book that's about my stepdad with whom I've not always had an easy relationship. When I was putting this little book together, I had to think about how would he find reading a poem that even though his name isn't mentioned, and even though it's done in a particular way, he might work out was about him. What do you do in that instance? What's the best thing to do? I had a conversation with my mum. She said he probably won't even think about looking at it because she bought a copy. When I talked with Marlika, who's one of my Kalemitrism, we had a very interesting conversation about whose property is a poem and so on. So what I decided in the end was it's in there. It's called "Let Sleeping Dogs Lie." And I talked with my mum and I said, "If dad does read it, I want you to tell him or put him in touch with me so I can tell that it's not about now. It's about then, you know, he and I have changed our relationship over the years, but I needed to express what my feelings were then and not done it in that poem to a certain degree anyway." There's also this area of paradox that we've been looking at. I find that, and this is a very interesting area for me at the moment, there's a particular poetic form called a gazelle, which I don't know much about. And I introduce some of us to it on a writing retreat, and that poem I read at the beginning is a gazelle. I believe there's Sufi, it's a Sufi style, and they're couplets that don't necessarily have any connection with any other couplets. And that unleashes something in me. It allows me to express what I don't know. If you have a series of couplets, you know, little two liners, or even within the couplet, where there isn't necessarily an obvious connection, I get to say what I don't know. I get to express my uncertainty, I get to express my confusion, and then I know it better. So, I found that very useful as well. So, the truth is, if we're talking about how the arts perhaps can lead towards truth, the truth is I'm scared. I've set myself on a path now, a particular aspect of a path I've been on for a while, that I don't know where it's going to take me. A bit like this talk, really. It's not neat and tidy, but I've got the wisdom of others to guide me. I've got the great works of art I can refer to to guide me as well. And also increasingly in the FWBO, there is more and more support and appreciation of the arts as a practice. Because although Sangrakstra is a writer and is a great appreciator of the arts, it's not always been the case in the FWBO that people have been encouraged to engage deeply in their arts practice, and that's different now. So, I'm interested in transformation, I'm interested in the truth, and I think that the arts can help that in the following ways. I think the arts can help transform me and other people because they speak to our emotions. Because they speak to our emotions and our minds through our imaginations. I think I would define an imagination, which we've all got, despite whatever some of you might think, you've all got an imagination. I think an imagination is like a heart mind, it's where they come together. And I think through the arts, which come from the imagination, speak to the imagination, we can strengthen the imagination. And interestingly, Sangrakstra correlates the imaginal faculty with strud, har, or faith. So that is a faculty we need to develop if we want to realize our goals. Also connected with that is the arts can transform us because they work on the level of desire. We are all desirous beings, we all desire and want different things, that's a fact of our human nature. I think because the arts appeal to our desires, we can actually use them, we can get utilitarian with the aesthetic. To refine and strengthen what our desires are and where they're pointing to. Gampopa's definition of wisdom is analytical, appreciative understanding. And I think that's lovely, that it's not just an hour sis, it's a Pranya, as I think we all know by now. It's wisdom and compassion in it. And I think the arts can help us cultivate that appreciative aspect. The other thought I've gotten noted down here is, I think there's a great potential in the arts for us to learn generosity. I think the arts are a potential way of communicating the Dharma very effectively. Those of you who've seen certain rupees by certain order members, or who have seen red certain specific examples. Ireland as poem to Vajrasattva has been a great source of inspiration to me, it's very beautiful. But they're also indirect things that after we've been practicing Buddhist art creating, which also connect with our hearts. Lalitaraja or Julia Clark's dance communicates interconnectedness. You can probably think of your own examples whereby we can learn through the arts where people could perhaps be connected with the Dharma, who haven't come across it before. So generosity and the practice of generosity of Dharma is important to me. I'm starting to realize that I might be starting to discover a different way to be generous, a different way to give. Because the world needs truth, I want to develop my ability to see the truth in myself so I can share it with whatever little glimmers and little mini insights I might get. I'd like to share those. We need the truth because of the suffering that's in the world. The fact of suffering is part of that truth. So I want to develop a more wise heart and a kind mind. I want to wake up basically. So I'm going to finish with a quote from the last verse of a poem by William Stafford. William Stafford is an American poet, again introduced to me by Manjuice for an armander, who proves to me, as if I needed any proof of it, that Buddhists don't have a monopoly on truth. And he has a wise mind, or a wise heart and a kind mind. And one thing I'd just like to tell you that he has said that I find very useful in terms of developing a writing practice is his idea of the golden thread. He talks about where do you start from in terms of making up. You start by picking up the end of a golden thread, which is any detail you give your attention to. Because that isn't necessarily squeaky, clean and shiny. Sometimes it's raw, sometimes it's painful, but if you pick up the end of the thread and just follow it through without pulling too tightly or letting go, it'll lead you through, I think he quotes Blake, the gates of Jerusalem, to use that quote. So he's talking about finding the way towards truth by following where our attention goes wholeheartedly. So the verse is from a poem called "A Ritual to Read to One Another", which some of you will know. For it is important that awake people be awake, or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep. The signals we give, yes or no, or maybe, should be clear, the darkness around us is deep. Thank you. We hope you enjoyed today's Dharma Bite. Please help us keep this free. Make a contribution at freebuddhistaudio.com/donate. And thank you. [music fades out] [music fades out] [music fades out] You [BLANK_AUDIO]
