Partial view from our deck.
Those
familiar with chaos theory may be thinking that’s what this post is about: how
something so small as the flutter of a butterfly in one part of the world may
cause dire weather elsewhere. This was a metaphor used in a paper by Edward N.
Lorenz for the notion that one slight event can affect a complex system. Chaos theory was the theme of one issue when I edited Open Hands. (Click on the highlighted phrase and scroll down to my
opening essay. Note designer Jan Graves’ creative arrangement of the columns.)
But if the flutter of a
butterfly may have disastrous results, a butterfly that is still can have
peaceful effects.
I
learned that the morning I write this during my reading and prayers on our
deck, which blessedly looks out at a ravine verdant with shrubs, kudzu, and
very tall, leafy trees on either side of a narrow creek.
A
small butterfly or large moth landed on the other side of an arm of a wooden
chair beside me. I saw it land, but had to peer over an edge of the arm to see
the tips of its wings and large round eyes. Otherwise it was hidden. I liked
that it made no difference if it was a moth or a butterfly for its effect on
me.
The
motionless creature prompted me to remain still, lest I scare it away. (Wade
has noted how still I can remain in bed at night, even when I lie awake, my brain
going at full speed. Sometimes I silently do the verbal part of my morning
prayers, which may return me to a peaceful sleep.)
My lack of movement gave
me opportunities to observe:
+the
gently creeping fingertips of light on the leaves of trees as the sun rose;
+the
flicker of moisture in the mulch beneath the bird bath, then the rare drops
that created it dripping from a crack in its basin;
+Luna the cat hanging on to the top of a neighbor’s fence while batting away at
something on a shrub;
+a
majestic hawk flying overhead in the blue sky, wings spread wide;
+the
humid and warm stillness of air suddenly becoming a gentle, cooling breeze;
+the
wisps of clouds moving swiftly above me;
+the
unusual hush of the cicadas.
My
very long pause seemed a proper preparation for resuming my reading of Thomas
Merton’s Mystics and Zen Masters,
which I referenced three weeks ago. I began by re-reading phrases and sentences
I had underlined the previous day, and decided to share them in this post, as I
did when I wrote of reading the mystical Cloud of Unknowing, leaving the reader to relate it to your own experience.
Merton
describes the Tao Te Ching written by
the mystic Lao Tzu. What follows are Merton’s words; but words in quotes are
from the Tao. I’ve made the language inclusive, but their
relevance stands on its own:
+ The sage and the wise
ruler are those who do not rush forward to aggrandize themselves, but cherish,
with loving concern, the sacred reality of persons and things which have been
entrusted to them by the Tao.
+
In the Tao, “which is queer like
nothing on earth,” are found three treasures: mercy, frugality, and not wanting
to be first in the world.
+One
of its most astute sayings is that in a war the winner is likely to be the side
that enters the war with the most sorrow. “To rejoice over a victory is to
rejoice over the slaughter of others… Every victory is a funeral.”
+ “Heaven arms with love
/ Those it would not see destroyed.”
+
One “reaches” the Tao by “becoming like” the Tao, by acting, in some sense,
according to the “way” (Tao). For the Tao is at once perfect activity and
perfect rest.
+
The way of the Tao is…the way of supreme spontaneity, which is virtuous in a
transcendent sense because it “does not strive.”
+
As soon as a human being becomes aware of doing good and avoiding evil, he or
she is no longer perfectly good.
+
For Lao Tzu, if one were to be righteous, that one should first of all fly all
thought of righteousness, and put out of one’s mind any ideal image of oneself
as a “righteous person.”
+ The way of the sage is
the way of not-attacking, not charging at one’s objective, not busying oneself
too intently about one’s goals.
+
Taoism is not complete non-action but rather non-activism. It is supreme
activity, because it acts at rest, acts without effort. Its effortlessness is
not a matter of inertia, but of harmony with the hidden power that drives the
planets and the cosmos.
As
Merton understands the Tao, it is neither
quietistic nor a doctrine but a “wisdom” and a “way of life.” He concludes of
the West, “It is absolutely essential to introduce into our study of the
humanities a dimension of wisdom
oriented to contemplation as well as to wise action.”
Reflecting
on these words underlined yesterday, I felt no need to go on to the next
chapter of the book. The butterfly was still there; I was there, still.
I
pulled out my phone to take a picture of the butterfly for you, the reader of
this intended post, but the moment I stood, it flew away.
Its flutter may wreak
havoc elsewhere, but its rest had kept me in the tranquil eye of the storm.
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