A Shambhala teacher once told me to hold my place. I’d
gone to him for help in a matter in which I felt confusion and
uncertainty. It was year’s ago, when I’d first been put to the task of
founding and teaching a local Zen Sangha, and I felt fearful and
overwhelmed with the responsibility of it. I told the Shambhala teacher
of this, and he simply said, “Hold your place.” “Yes,” I said, “but…”
And the teacher cut me off in mid-sentence, saying once again, “Hold
your place.” He meant “right now.” We both of us sat cross-legged,
facing each other. I felt then the ground beneath me. I knew that
regardless of fear and confusion I could always trust the patch of
earth beneath my feet
XXXVIII
Tuco loved to scan the web, online news and opinion.
He wasn't sure what blogs
would become
but he tracked several RSS
feeds.
Still, books and magazines ate into his self imposed allowance.
"Hold your place." What a complex field
to place the "self" in! Tuco pondered the implications.
Yes, despite fear and confusion one must trust
the patch of earth beneath one's feet.
There is no other place to stand
or kneel
or sit,
just sit.
The world turns
and each day brings
a new place.
Each moment
is a new place.
Arlu would understand.
Tuco hoped.
Yet he knew she'd laugh lightly, maybe say,
"We can know things most directly
when we lay no claim to knowing anything at all."¹
Tuco had to admit, "She has no opinion to put forth.
She has learned not to acquire answers,
and so holds her question open
wherever she goes."¹
Yes, he thought,
she'd understand.
Each moment
is a new place.
Hold
your place.
Hold
your question
open.
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