Just Snow, Just Now

This is an old Japanese haiku from 1864. It is the only poem of Hashin’s that has survived. You may think, “Isn’t that nice; the snow is always falling.” But, let’s change that a little bit. Suppose I’m sick, and this poem went, “There is neither heaven nor earth, only illness pounding steadily.” Or, “There is neither heaven nor earth, only old age approaching steadily.” 

Sometimes people come into the Zen Center and ask me if I know the meaning of life. 

Well, of course, I do: only snow falling constantly. There is only illness, only separation, only clouds. Happening and happening and happening. Life isn’t miserable or terrible. It’s just what it is, and that can take the form of severe misery at times, tremendous joy at other times, or some feeling between the two. “There is neither heaven nor earth, just poached eggs sitting on the table.” Whatever it is, right here. 

I sometimes see old friends who are, like me, approaching what we call old age. Some of them are watching the years go by with increasing bitterness. The bitterness, the resentment comes when we think life should be other than what it is for us. Each of us could describe our lives in such a way that they would seem miserable. 

See, there’s a difference between being in the illness or in the snow and being miserable. 

I was sick for many months over the winter. Do you think I liked it? No way! I didn’t pretend to like it one bit, but I wasn’t miserable. The “miserable” would come from the belief that I shouldn’t be sick. How come I shouldn’t be sick? If I’m sick, I’m sick. Of course, we do what we can to stay well. But, when life is what it is at this second, we have to abandon the never-ending judgments that we tend to make about everything. As soon as I was getting better, I made a judgment about my future: I thought “I’m never going to get sick again!” That was an illusion popping into my head: “I’ll do this and this and this and this, and I can control my health.” You know what? It won’t work. Sooner or later, I will get sick again. 

Enlightenment is the ending in yourself of that hope for something other than life being as it is.

In real old age, bitterness is obvious: it’s in the mouth, the way the face is, the way the body is held. When you’re young, the seeds of bitterness can hide as hope in something outside of yourself. Someone is going to take care of me, that wonderful person I just haven’t found (yet). Or that perfect job, if someone would just see how good I am for it. Or, perhaps you think you will find the perfect practice that is going to make you enlightened if you just stick with it. Then you get disappointed or resentful when it doesn’t appear or doesn’t work. Of course, we can, and should, change things that don’t work for us. But when we have an agenda that it must work for us, the disappointment and resentment arise, and therein lie the seeds of bitterness. 

Do you think your meditation practice is going to make you happy? It’s not. Is it going to change things? Probably in some ways, but maybe not in ways you like. Is it going to keep you from getting sick? It helps, over the years, because you don’t rip yourself up quite as much. But I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t get sick. Does it keep you from getting old and eventually falling apart? No. I haven’t met anyone yet who doesn’t do that, eventually. 

There is neither heaven nor earth, only __________. Only you know what you fill in here. People sometimes bring up the word “enlightenment.” But enlightenment isn’t something we march toward, and one day, somehow, we grab it. Enlightenment is the ending in yourself of that hope for something other than life being as it is. 

Giving Up Hope 

None of us want to give up hope. Being hopeful, and then losing hope, then gaining hope—this is another form of the snow falling. 

There is a film called Dead Man Walking about a Catholic nun who’s working with a man on death row. At the end of the film, someone says to her, “I wish I had your faith.” And she says, “It’s not faith really; it’s work.” I thought that was a very insightful line. What is the work? You could see her struggle with herself and her own reactions as her relationship developed with the person on death row. It wasn’t easy for her. He was obnoxious and unkind. There was neither heaven nor earth—only, in the case of this man, nastiness and arrogance appearing constantly. The film showed the work she had done that had enabled her to care for him as he was. Some people are not easy. We don’t want to care for people as they are. We want to care for them after they’ve made a few changes. You know, just a few. Then we might consider it. 

The snow falling constantly is the great mystery. The person we live with is the great mystery. There’s nothing that isn’t the great mystery.

The Catholic nun had to give up hope that the man on death row would be different than he was. If you hope, you’re thinking. The reality of practice is just to be. Hope is really a thought that maybe it will be different someday. 

The snow falling constantly is the great mystery. The person we live with is the great mystery. There’s nothing that isn’t the great mystery. And we say there is neither heaven nor earth because there is just this moment, whatever it is: snowing, raining, being sick, being well, being inspired, being bored. If you want your life to be what I think you know it already is, then doing the work is your only choice. It’s not easy. There isn’t some magic in Zen practice. It’s not going to change you the way you expect. It will not give you anything you think you deserve. But when you do the work of being with exactly what is, slowly, unexpectedly, transformation happens.

♦

From Ordinary Wonder by Charlotte Joko Beck, edited by Brenda Beck Hess. © 2021 by Brenda Hess. Reprinted in arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boulder, CO