When I wash my feet ...

"When I wash my feet
May all sentient beings
Attain the power of supernatural feet
With no hindrance to their practice"

Jiko's prayer in A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki

The influence of a good re-read toasted my dreams to a delightful state. Crisp, satisfying even without the garment of clarity: I don't maintain the details but remember how I felt. The prayer here is from Ruth Ozeki's novel A Tale for the Time Being. The Japanese school girl Nao has written a journal. The details of her summer with her Great grandmother Jiko are part of her journal. Jiko is a hundred and four year old Zen nun. Part of what young Nao learns is every experience is an opportunity for gratitude, and ceremony.

The girl writes to a stranger she knows will become an intimate friend, across time. The reader, Ruth, Ruth Ozeki, steps into the novel to become the time being to become that intimate friend.

As I re-read, and re-member how to walk again it was a gift to find the prayer above. A way to thank the writer, the Zen Nun, and the dreams that remember my name when I forget. A way to recognize I am a time being.

Walking

My son is with us in the woods.  He has moved himself off the mokupuni o Hawaii (left Hawaii) and is transitioning.  He and I went into town and shared a plate of buttermilk pancakes and conversation, and before heading back to the woods I cruised the street overlooking Saratoga Pass and saw the extremely low tide.  "Walk?"  Yes, he was agreeable to a walk. 

The beach walk along the Langley shore is one of my favorite places to connect with the moment.  Spring has definitely come to Whidbey Island though the cool breeze is still lean in temperature the blue sky and promise of more sun warms me.  The silty shore flowed to a substantial skirt owing in large part I think, to the clay banks crumbling from the seeping fresh water above.  Huge caves are carving hollows at the base of the Langley village above.  We walked north after climbing down the barnacle encrusted cement steps leading to the beach.  The feathered clans were every where, crows, gulls and a solitary Blue Heron all at work finding things to eat.  Anchored just past the skirt of silt and sand was a boat with motored sounds coming from it.  From our initial perspective long blue hoses hung over the rail and into the hands of three people on the sandy spit.  It didn't take much to realize we were watching commercial clammers.  But what we both were seeing was something new to us.  When my son was a boy we lived now far from this Saratoga Pass beach, where we had a life very much involved with what goes on with Washington maritime life.  We shoveled uncountable holes over twenty plus years seeking out the bivalves that would feed us in chowders.  The enterprise was manual and it mattered that we covered up the holes when we were pau, and only took what we would eat.  Commerical clamming? 
The hoses were like an extreme power washing that blew the clams out of the holes and harvested as a result.  We didn't stay long enough to see whether they covered up the holes after. 

Walk, chat, silence.  Walk, chat, silence.  Time was spent in this simple and appreciative form of being together and nourishing.  Noticing life being lived by barnacles, mussels my son and I speculated on what we saw and made connections with our own lives.  Stepping on the irregular surfaces of rocky shore and mudflats my body exerted energy and moved the stale pockets of mana left from the long sedentary winter.  Transitions are like that:  irregular yet somehow expectantly familiar as one moves from that place over there, to the next space between, on the way to a new here. 

Keep a keen sense of observation … NOTICE

Late yesterday afternoon after a full day of writing I bundled myself in all the clothes I have to keep me warm and dry. "I'm going to the water, honey," I told Pete. It was a blustery day, the air filled with damp, the rain thick. There are two different beach walks I love to take. Both of them edge the same shore of Puget Sound, and yet the seascapes and exposure to the elements are different. The beach walk along Lincoln Park offers three paths: an asphalt road, a grassy path and the gray sand-pebble/rock shore line if the tide is not at full flood. My other favorite walk is just slightly north of Lincoln Park and is a much shorter walk. Like Lincoln Park though, it offers options to a walker or beach comber. The sidewalk stretches along a railed bulkhead on the south end of Alkai Beach in West Seattle. Below the bulkhead though is the rocky shore and shelf of tide pools where the crows, shore birds and wintering ducks, geese and resident sea gulls hang out. That is a place where water life happens with abandon.

I reached the railed bulkhead shortly before 3pm in the afternoon. The wind was blowing in from the south. The water churned dull ... a color I'm not sure of: green-blue-gray? The heavens were emptying and the air was fresh. I wore two hats, long underwear, a sweat shirt, tights, my winter coat, gloves, wool socks and my trusty boots. Once out of Scout, I felt the sharp wind, which I had to admit and appreciate, was not icy. After 20 degree December, the nearly 50 degrees was almost comfortable. Is this acclimating? Probably. As soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk I hear it. A low constant tone sang in the wind. Adjusting to the outside air I simply noticed the tone, and felt the tone change, the sound was constant and yet it had a melody. As I walked I looked out across the rain-blown water. Ferry horn? My head was clearing from the muddle it accumulates when I am not able to exchange inside-only air with the ions of a fresh outing. As I stretched my legs, I lost myself in the breathing of that glorious, rich fresh air.

There was a little bit of rock beach shoreline below I considered going down to be with it, walk it. Decades earlier when I lived along the water in Mukilteo, the shoreline of Puget Sound was home. I made the adjustment away from Hawaiian Island life living along Puget Sound. One of the sea truths reinforced by living near ocean is to respect her power. There was not enough shoreline to walk without danger of a rogue wave. I wasn't so much concerned a wave would pull me into the water, as much as knowing the floating logs and debris was more dangerous if churned up. The sidewalk was close enough to inhale beautiful air, and the mournful melody of those tones kept me company. Finally I connected with the source of that strangely beautiful sound. The railings stretched along the sidewalk are pipe, small holes allow the wind to play the pipes like so many giant tin whistles. It was a Gaelic concert free for the noticing, and I had a front seat. Blessed with the opportunity to notice the gods gave me time to clear my head, and refresh body and soul.

Malama pono, Mokihana

Here is a link to a wonderful post on the barometic character of the body. It's a lovely way to ponder the exquisite knowledge our body always knows. Kerry from Lemon-aide, thank you for this.