One Sky Music - Poetry

Oba-chan's House

I had just finished giving a concert in a small Japanese city called Shizuoka. Some friends invited me to stay in their house for the night. They lived outside the city in a large, traditional-style Japanese farmhouse made of wood with paper walls. In one part of the house, their grandmother had been living with them. She had died one day before.

The musicians I was traveling with were each given a choice which part of the house they would like to stay. Our host turned to me and offered Oba-chan's room (oba-chan is the Japanese word for 'grandmother') saying she said she thought I would have more space to rest there as long as I felt comfortable with the situation. So I graciously accepted her offer.

Stepping through the door to Oba-chan’s room, I couldn’t help notice the official certificate of death tacked over its entrance, having been placed there by the local Shinto priest. I assured my hosts I would be fine and we all said goodnight.

Alone in the room, I could sense the presence of death still hanging in the air. It was tangible, like a vibrating stillness I felt I was on sacred ground and bowed to the shrine in the corner. Lighting some incense sticks, I placed them carefully next to the buddha statue in the shrine. A small mirror had been placed strategically at the shrine’s center. It is one of the Zen influences of Shintoism has absorbed, its significance being: Whoever seeks God by looking in the shrine will see their own face in the mirror.

I lay awake a long time that night before finally drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning, I woke up feeling refreshed, and grateful to Oba-chan for the opportunity to have participated in the mystical experience of her death. Taking a pen and piece of paper, I wrote the following poem in her honor, just to thank her.

In the corner of my small house
An altar with a mirror shines
Empty and clear
Reflecting ripples on the lake

This house where I lived a life
Where only moments before
I laughed in the sun alive in this

Kind people come today
They sing and play their instruments
As is their joy
Their laughter carried by the morning breeze
Echoes through my empty rooms

Someone lights to burn
Fragrant sticks in the room
Where only yesterday I laid
Sick and dying.
Nothing much has changed, only
This is not my house

And with each passing day
Soon the memory of me will fade away
Until the mirror at the altar shines
Empty and clear again
Reflecting ripples on the lake

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Poem and a Hat for Osho

Pune, India, August, 1989
printed in the Osho Times International at Osho's request

Beloved Osho,
A hat for you and a small poem I wrote after last night's video. In deepest gratitude.

This evening!
Silence descends on Buddha Hall
Like soft monsoon mist;
And from here I listen to
Your voice
The words
The gaps . . .

A crow calls,
And the bamboos creak.
"Who is giving these commentaries," I ask?
The silence deepens
And ecstasy overwhelms me.
Again I ask, "Who is giving these commentaries?"

Then,
Your voice
The words
The gaps . . .

A crow calls
The bamboos creak

And no answer
Becomes my answer

I love you, Beloved Master . . . Swami Anand Milarepa

An enlightened master's love radiates like the sun, its healing rays equally available to everyone irrespective of who they are, for there is no hierarchy in the eyes of existence. How warm one experiences the sun is directly proportional to how much one is prepared to open and expose himself to life.

This particular poem taught me a valuable lesson. I wrote it in the monsoon season in India, during a time when Osho had been getting progressively weaker and weaker, coming out for the discourses less and less. Because he could not be with us so often, he suggested we start meeting each evening in Buddha Hall at 7 pm to watch videos of previous discourses. He said this would create an opportunity for us to meditate together and celebrate as a commune; that listening to his words would inspire us in his absence. This was the beginning of a meditation known as the White Robe Brotherhood.

During the rainy season in India the days are long. On this particular evening, it was still light when the video discourse ended. I had been lying down, listening to Osho's words, the rain, and the small sounds all around me. I was in one of those magical spaces I’ve often experienced with Osho: my mind far away, yet something inside still present and alert. Like being asleep, but not. A poem had been composing itself, deep-down in my being, as if my unconscious mind was trying to give voice to something I was experiencing in meditation. When the discourse suddenly ended, the sound of people leaving the Hall startled me and disturbed my trance. The spell had broken, and the poem vanished without a trace from the canvas of my mind.

I ran to my room and tried to write it down. I grasped for the words, but they were no longer there. In that moment, I experienced the angst of all creators. Sometimes a window opens for a brief instant, giving a glimpse into another dimension, another world. Then just as mysteriously, it closes again. I had heard Osho speak about it many times and his guidance was always don't grasp and try to hold on. Accept it as the nature of things.

Remembering this, I let go. There was nothing more to do now other than move on and be grateful for the glimpse existence had provided me with. The poem, like a perfect dewdrop sparkling in the sun, had disappeared forever and I knew it. Something in me relaxed. Closing my eyes, I began retracing my steps in the meditation. Only the metaphorical wetness of the grass of my mind indicated it had just been raining in my inner world. I could still sense the fragrance of the unknown lingering in the absence of the vanished poem. With only this faint fragrance to guide me, I started writing, knowing the poem I was composing would at the most be a faraway echo of the original.

I finished the poem. And because my experience had been so strong, I felt compelled to send it into Osho, along with a beautiful hat to express my gratitude. The next day, I was told Osho wanted the poem and my accompanying letter published in the Osho Times. I took this as a confirmation of my insight. I lost a poem, but received a blessing: The master’s love. His poetry.