Author Archives: Genju

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knots

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Knots are easy to get into. This enso started with the intention of being what I call a “spatter” enso.  You know, the kind with all that energy thrown across the page.  Chi gone native.  I probably should not be so irreverent because Kaz Tanahashi does some amazing work with “chi gone native.”

My spatter, on the other hand, would bore a CSI field tech.  Yup, looks like the brush dropped here in one collapse of hair and ink.  Nope, nothing in the reservoir.  Seems the alleged artist didn’t fill it up before doing it in.

The reservoir of the brush, by the way, is the thick body of the brush where the ink is absorbed into and “stored” to be released on its path through the brushstroke.  I tend not to fill my reservoir up much; sometimes I claim it’s deliberate – to get that “flying white-dry brush” effect.  Sometimes, I lie.

So I will continue to work on my spatter patterns.  But in the meantime, I should look into this malady of empty brush syndrome.  Empty as in lack – à la David Loy.

Now, I make no claim to understanding Loy; his is one of those minds and thus one of those who can string words together that annoyingly point out all the books I need to read before I can “read” him.  Nevertheless, there are snippets I pick out that I get, if somewhat superficially.  One of those is the idea of constantly chasing after something without any idea of why.  In fact, the chase is so intense that the end is obscured by the means.  Loy’s chapter “Preparing for something that never happens” in A Buddhist History of the West lead me into this thick part of the forest of craving.  Loy argues that we’ve lost sight of the “end” to which the “means” is dedicated.  We study for grades not understanding; we seek merit at work for salary benefits not contributions to community.  And so on.

No wonder I get tied up in knots.  This “endless-means” takes away the ground of practice, of living.  Losing sight of what drives practice makes it tough to track the fuel gauge, to know how and when to replenish.  And when the tank is filled only with fumes and the engine rattles, it’s not long before everything stalls, knots up, ceases.

The solution: Loy says it’s in learning how to play.  This reminds me of my shodo teacher’s ardent plea to my stiff handed brush wielding:  Play!  Play with the brush!  And, playing in circles makes letting go of those endless-means easier.

A good idea – load brush, play in circles.

 

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quiet failings

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Gardens give us wonderful practice in enjoying the fruits of our failure.  The weather here over the weekend was astonishing and much of the time was spent over weeds and under shrubs.  The walkway was rescued from a variety of growth and I took the decisive steps in pruning the Nishiki which was bullying the azalea.  The Anemone looked a little lost but is sure to find its way again.  The Kniphofia however have gone the way of all organics as has the calla lilly.  I had little hope for the latter, being a tropical plant and all.  But the Kniphofia?  It’s lasted for years.  It appears some vagary of cold, wet, and a butterfly flapping in Mongolia has knipped off its mortality!  Too much sun.  I will be better tomorrow.

That does remind me of failures though.  I don’t fail.  I disintegrate.  Oh, over the years I’ve learned to mouth the psycho-politically correct things about failure being good for you, motivation to get up one more time, etc.  I’ve re-framed failure for others as another opportunity to be creative, a chance to re-invent oneself.  Oh yes, and when it seems like you’re invisible to those who hold the reins of power over your life, why, just take a different stance to their cruel ignorance of your worth.  These ministrations seem to work for everyone – really, people get better at being one with their failing.  Pas moi.

Apparently, not only do I fail at failing well, I fail at rehabilitating from failure too.  (No happy ending to this state of mine will be attained by the end of this post, btw.)  ‘Tis a conundrum.  I do try.  I try my hardest at failing well, gracefully, with insight and a realistic stance to owning what was mine and not turning on the flamethrowers in the direction of what might be the owners of what was not mine.  I don’t know how well I do with that because I’m too busy plotting success – which apparently is the best form of revenge.  I suck at that too.

So, I’ve been observing how the garden fails.  It seems rather effortless.  There is this intense blossoming at the start and then things seem to just fade away.  Quietly.  No fuss.  No gnashing of kniphofias.  No bungling of bee balms.  Silent absorption into its original state.  What is the original face of the flower before it bloomed?

I might try that.  I think I could be rather good in quiet failings.

Some failure is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failure at something – unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all. In which case you’ve failed by default.

JK Rowling

(Rowling gave the commencement speech at Harvard.  It’s an amazing talk on the power not only of failure but of wisdom and community.  You can see it here.)