Mind is Moving

Meditation for Wednesday, August 3: Let others renew you.

On my 6-mile run this morning, I met a die-hard runner with stringy hair in his late 50s-early 60s who had a very compelling, Easy Rider/Jesus look about him. As he passed by, he told me to lower my arms a bit, saying it would make things easier. He looked strong and fast (in addition to the Dennis Hopper-Jesus thing), so I did what he said. Instantly, my shoulders felt lighter and my chest opened up, allowing me to take deeper breaths. From taking his advice, I gained renewed energy.

As much as I enjoy the solitude of running, I needed this human interaction to help me improve. I may have figured it out eventually, but the change made such a difference in my running experience that I am very glad he found me when he did.

Renewal comes in many forms, and it's often unexpected. Sometimes, all that is required is a minor adjustment like moving your arms. However, it is possible to look at it another way. I'm reminded of a Zen Buddhist koan:

Two monks were arguing about a flag. One said: `The flag is moving.' The other said: `The wind is moving.'
The sixth patriarch happened to be passing by. He told them: `Not the wind, not the flag; mind is moving.'

Rather than my arms being the most significant factor in causing the change, a Zen analysis might be that my mind's opening to the master's advice is what made the difference.

We have to empty ourselves a little in order to receive the words of someone else, but that's a good thing. We know from the Tao Te Ching that it is the emptiness inside that makes the pot useful.

Here's a poem about emptiness, and what it means to hold it, by Jane Hirschfeld:

"A Hand" A hand is not four fingers and a thumb. Nor is it palm and knuckles, not ligaments or the fat's yellow pillow, not tendons, star of the wristbone, meander of veins. A hand is not the thick thatch of its lines with their infinite dramas, nor what it has written, not on the page, not on the ecstatic body. Nor is the hand its meadows of holding, of shaping— not sponge of rising yeast-bread, not rotor pin's smoothness, not ink. The maple's green hands do not cup the proliferant rain. What empties itself falls into the place that is open. A hand turned upward holds only a single, transparent question. Unanswerable, humming like bees, it rises, swarms, departs.
--Jane Hirschfeld