Five Haibuns by Stefan Sencerz
Five Haibuns by Stefan Sencerz
“An animal or bird enjoys samadhi every moment. When it grazes in the meadow, it is a grazing samadhi. When it flies up at the sound of a gun, it is a flying samadhi. Mellowed by the evening sun, standing quietly for a long time motionless in the meadow, it is in what we might call a ‘mellowing samadhi’ – a beautiful picture and a condition to be envied even by a human being.” - Katsuki Sekida, Zen Training: Methods and Philosophy (Wheatherhill, 1985), p. 92.
“Not that it’s necessarily the same thing as samadhi, but I think that animals in nature tend to live in perfect balance. Too bad that we infect them with our neuroses and fears. I have seen too many messed up dogs.” - A friendly dog-whisperer met on a beach.
“Dog troubles”
Every dog loves the beach and so do all children. No matter how busy they are building another sandcastle, they stop whatever they do and look at us roaming through the wet sand. So, we stop, too, look at them. “Mister! Mister! Do they bite?” they ask. So, I say, “Sure, but only someone like a dark wizard, or an evil goon from out of space.” “Or a thief trying to sneak into your house?” “Yeah, a thief, too, but not a kid like you.”
They smile, “Mister! Mister! Can we pet them?” I show them how to make the Ladies sit before giving them a treat, “One little piece in each hand so the dogs can get them together.” We play for a while and then take off again.
The beauty of this part of Texas is that you can let them off leash from time to time, at certain places. Sure, you’ve got to be careful, teach them what you want, learn what they will do, develop this elusive trust and respect. So they will not run into the dunes chasing after the wild geese but encountering a rattler; so they will not stroll too far chasing sanderlings. I’ve let them loose many times and yet still make mistakes. Like that morning maybe two years ago when I decided to give them breakfast tacos a bit too close to an access road. You see, Sappho is a half Dalmatian; for hundreds of years and many generations Dalmatians have been bred to follow moving objects. You can still find old European paintings showing their ancestors running between the wheels of a moving coach.
At first, she was timid, always following me a step or two back. But once she settled with me, once she relaxed, she started to explore the world on her own and act on her genes, sometimes taking off and chasing a noisy truck like a cruise rocket. That morning, she went into a narrow access road. The banks were too steep and too soft after an extended drought. I think she must have slipped sliding and rolling over straight under the truck. The driver should have seen her, must have. I guess, some people lack compassion...
Ultimately, my fault entirely, I should have foreseen all of this, should have kept them on leash, never should have fed them so close to the bottleneck of the access road. I felt guilty and depressed for days, like a total fuck up and failure and idiot. The wound on her paw was deep. The vet said another quarter inch and the tendon and artery would have been severed which would mean an amputation. 700-800 bucks from my pocket, too, but she recovered perfectly.
They never grow through these experiences, the vet said, never learn to associate a distant pain with the immediate danger. Ladies they are, for sure. But, after all, they are basically dogs, perfect exemplification of “dogness,” always perfectly in the moment, learning from each other so well. So, now the little one has developed the same vice and both learned to chase the cars. Like I said, you have to be careful with the dogs. Fortunately, there is hardly anyone here on the beach, when we come. Just us, the dunes, the ocean. You can see every car and truck from miles away.
a breezy walk
far away
dogs barking
“They Say Animals Live in the Now”
They say, “Animals live in the now.” Yet, my black dog Molly recoils when I raise my arm in a rapid motion. “How did she learn it?” I wonder. Perhaps this is that heavy armor she carries like the armor once carried by someone I knew. She would block each and every move of mine, every attempt to come close. Some nights I still wonder what would have happened if I were to write my love letters in blood and tears? Or, if I did not write any letters? Would it change anything? What could have been?
But we are humans; we hardly live in the now. That’s why we carry armors. Sometimes our armors grow into our bodies, boundaries between us and the armors dissolve, and we become our armors. So, what about dogs? Where do their armors come from? Is it their genes? But Sappho, my bigger dog, has never recoiled like Molly; neither did our new puppies Sheba and Kitty. Then again, when my partner’s son visits us, Sheba will not approach him for a few days, not at all, and only then slowly will start opening up. But when her daughter spends time with us, they play like best buddies from the get go.
So, if it’s not genes, what is it? Maybe something stored in alaya-vijnana, the deep “storage-house” consciousness that, according to some Buddhist sources, we all carry from our previous lives since time immemorial? Be it as it may! The fact is she has been with us for so many years and we have always been kind to her, never spanked her, not once, not even lightly. And yet she still recoils when I raise my arm in a rapid motion.
When Sappho plays with her too rough, perhaps nips her a bit too hard, Molly cries. They stop for a second or two, Sappho embarrassed, looking with remorse as if trying to say “I am so sorry, sister, I did not mean it.” A moment later all is forgotten, they play again as if nothing has happened at all. Yet, after all these days, all these years, all these roams on the beach, and all these nights of falling asleep in the nook of my elbow, she still recoils in fear when I raise my arm in a rapid motion. So, I wonder, is it true that animals live in the now?
walking straight into full moon
our long shadows
crawling behind
“The Chief”
Bob crisscrosses the country in his motor home never settling anywhere for too long. A free spirit, you might think. But I feel something inside is driving him. Maybe the memories of bombs he was disarming during the Vietnam war; maybe the memories of those he did not disarm. Sometimes he returns here, to South Texas, for the winter months. I sense he still considers this land to be home.
Tall and broad, looking like the chief from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” one day he tells me there is Lakota blood in his veins. Just drops it causally in the midst of one of his endless stories about fishing for shrimp in Corpus Christi Bay but catching sharks, fighting Viet Cong, handling dogs while still a military man, and about his best friend who, after the war, was murdered by a cocaine addict in my old neighborhood of Flour Bluff. That’s perhaps why he does not want to settle here, I think.
I just let him speak, listen to his stream of consciousness, sometimes planting a question or two and waiting patiently for an answer. So, I can learn something new from a pro. His boys, wow, so laid back and sweet as any dog can be, even more balanced than my ladies. After all, he adopted them when they were still pups and he’s a pro.
Today, something serious on his mind, he looks at me, “Tomorrow I will be gone.” “What has happened, Chief? I thought you’d be staying here for the Winter.” “I thought so, too, but things changed.” “What has happened, Bob,” I repeat and he say, “You see, I’ve been keeping my grill outside of my motor home. Yesterday, it was taken so today I am shaken.” “Don’t worry, Chief,” I say. “There is an ass-hat everywhere. Don’t lose your sleep about something like that. I have an extra grill at home. I’ll bring it here tomorrow and you can keep it.” “Meh! I don’t feel it, man. I stayed here long enough. Tomorrow I’ll be gone.”
So, we just shake hands and move on. Until the next time, Bob! Until the next time boys! Maybe something will thaw one day and we’ll go for a longer roam…
a gust of cold wind
still the dogs keep playing
with the moon
“Garbage on the Beach”
It was an evening at their favorite roaming place on Mustang Island, right by the State Park where the dragons sometimes smile to us, right where we chant “Namu Dai Bosa – Homage to the Great Compassionate One” into the ten directions, for the benefit of all. My heart was high up in my throat and fists clenched too, when we arrived, and the first thing I heard was – “I caught a stingray, a really big one, too. It lays over there by the poles.”
If I had more courage, I would have asked him – “Why did you destroy a living being in this way?” If I only had more guts, maybe I would have returned the fish to the ocean right then and there, right in front of him and his children. But I did not. I hovered around for several minutes waiting until they packed their crap into their gigantic oversized SUV and took off. Only then I returned the stingray to the ocean, where she belongs. It did not survive. Thinking about it, perhaps it was too late anyway. One thing for sure, there was no garbage on the beach once they left…
salt on my cheeks
chanting for the fish
in the sand
“Chasing the Birds Blues”
Having noticed that Sappho again missed catching any of the birds she chased, I suggested to her a remedy, “Why won’t you use a tool?” “A tool?” “Yeah, like a trap or a bait or something.” “It would be way too much hassle to carry so much crap on the beach”; she immediately nixed the idea. Besides, bait is much better eaten at home.” Then, always a lady, she added with a kind of smirk, “I suppose you would not allow us to use a gun.” “A gun?” “Yeah, like maybe Remington or something.” For a moment I was totally dumbfounded. But then I recalled that time, few months ago, when during the breakfast I read to the dogs this story:
(Associated Press) “A man showing off a turkey he thought he had killed was shot in the leg when the wounded bird thrashed around in his car trunk and triggered his shotgun. ‘The turkeys are fighting back,’ said the county Sheriff. To make matters worse, Larry Lands, in his early 40s, and his 16-year-old son, Larry Jr., were hunting a week before the start of season and will probably be fined.”
So, I glanced at them and said, “We don’t even have a gun; we are not hunters.” “Speak for yourself!” my other dog Molly interjected, “I’m definitely a hunter.” “Then why won’t you join me for a chase sometimes, dear,” Sappho spoke calmly but through her teeth. Then, directing herself to me, she continued, “First off, we could easily get a gun; it’s Texas. Plus, hypothetically, what if we had a gun?” “Well, we surely would not hunt carrots or potatoes.” “Nor would we hunt heroes,” she nodded, “heroes should have a chance to escape.” “It’s not heroes, sweetie, it’s herons,” I kind of smirked, “and, by the way, so far their chances have been like 100%.” “With time, this will change, too,” Molly interjected again, “for, as the Buddha says, all things are impermanent.”
This really freaked me out. For it is one thing to have a dog or two who have the Buddha’s Nature; that’s quite normal. But to have a dog who quotes the Buddha, that’s a different story. Besides, it was usually Sappho who was bringing out this whole spiritual crap…
a blue dawn
birds on the wires too
keep note of this blues
- Stefan Sencerz, born in Warsaw,
Poland, came to the United States to study philosophy and Zen Buddhism. He
teaches philosophy, Western and Eastern, at TAMUCC. His essays appeared in
professional philosophy journals (mostly in the areas of animal ethics,
environmental ethics, philosophy of religion and mysticism, and metaethics).
His poems and short stories appeared in literary journals. Stefan has been
active on the spoken-word scene winning the slam-masters poetry slam in
conjunction with the National Poetry Slam in Madison Wisconsin, in 2008, as
well as several poetry slams in Corpus Christi, San Antonio, Austin, Houston,
and Chicago.
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by Stefan Sencerz. All Rights Reserved.