The third characteristic of Japanese art is “the ability to go to extremes,” write Addiss & Seo.  An artist may paint an intricate scene one day and, in the next, dash off a line or a splash in a split second.  It is not a contrast of content or style, really.  It’s more that the arc of the pendulum is so wide.  More than that, Addiss & Seo add, there is no competitiveness between extremes.  They are all equally contained in the broad canvas of creativity.

I wandered through the house looking.  The extremes, if they exist in my life, may not be apparent to me in this unenlightened state.  But I did note the variety of materials that tend to come home with me.  Acorns, twigs, stones, sand – all have followed me from various parts of the North American continent.  I don’t think I could experience the world differently.  The stick in the lower part of the picture above sits on my altar.  It is the Wood Dragon of practice, creative, inquisitive, imaginative.  I heard in another dharma talk that in order to transform our fears we must be willing to enter the cave of the Blue Dragon.  There we come face-to-face with our despair and all aspects of mind (read a great talk by Geoffrey Shugen of Zen Mountain Monastery here).  The twig in the upper part of the picture is from the root of a giant maple tree we cut down last summer.  Interestingly, that maple had no trouble with the extremes of its being: from broad crown to the finest hairs of its roots.

The two dragons together are an interesting contrast of determination and delicacy. They challenge the conventional concept of going to extremes in practice.  We already know that deprivation isn’t going to work simply because the Buddha went there, came back, and offered a different t-shirt.  Yet we do just that.  Serial retreats, restricted diets, intense scrupulosity.  I wonder if that serves more to avoid the gaping maw of the cave of the Blue Dragon.  Frank pointed out in his talk on Tuesday night that standing at the mouth of the cave of the Blue Dragon and yelling, “I’m not afraid!” is not the same as entering it with compassion for who we will find.

The extremes that we find in the sensibility of Japanese art is not about living with disregard for our mortality or disrespect for our limits.  It is not one of deprivation but of delight.  Delight in the grossest brushstroke and the finest line of ink.  Delight in the fragility of the plum blossom and the coarse boulder in the garden.  Delight in the raucous Ikkyu and the determined Hakuin.  These are the extremes of experience that are meant to be tumbled into, fearless of the edge.  And, here’s what we may find in the cave of the Blue Dragon: there is no edge.

What might happen if I am not the extreme I thought?

Thank you for practising,

Genju

The third characteristic of Japanese art, according to Addiss & Seo, is “empty space allied with asymmetrical compositions.”  Within this space, there can be movement and a sublime expression of emotions.  It asks of us a willingness to forego the safe and secure.  It evokes a sensation of vastness and the possibility of everything.

This aspect of practice challenges me most.  I have a love, an obsession, with symmetry.  Of course, it’s all only an illusion of balance.  Yet, it served me well when the world was chaotic and unpredictable.  The idea that I could force a sense of equal weight on either side of the axes that ran through the desk, room, house, and surroundings acted as a mental force field, keeping the Wild away.  Each time it failed, I would desperately try to find the right axis which could hold a balanced distribution of emotions, thoughts, feelings, sensations.  I’m not sure I’ve learned to live with the uneven distribution, the mis-allocation of energies but that’s likely tied to my belief that the accounting will even out – or as my father used to say, “It will all come out in the wash.”  Sometimes, however, like the painting I practiced on the left, the weight of the effort is intended to unbalance the frame so that what is fragile or delicate can rise.

Recently, I was listening to a dharma talk about fearless compassion.  It struck me that compassion is always uneven and, being that, it requires fearlessness to embody it.  There is no quid pro quo; there cannot be because that renders compassion ineffective or, at worst, misguided.  Compassion is asymmetrical.  And if I look closely I think I would see that the other three bhrama-viharas are also asymmetrical.  There is beauty in the off-kilter though I may never appreciate it to the degree it deserves.  The ear is given a real test of generosity in allowing the lines of haiku to wobble 3 – 5 – 3.  The eye must open with equanimity to the wabi-sabi simplicity of ladle and clay.  The weight of fearlessness grounds the experience and, in that space, synchronistic joy rises.

If I take away the grid lines that order my life, what might fill the unrestrained space?

Thank you for practising,

Genju