I'm in the middle of reading about the life of Alexandra David-Neal. A French woman who was one of the early Westerners to go to Tibet to study Buddhism. A remarkable person. Much more than I had realized. She was much more developed as a meditator in addition to her work transcribing and translating very important texts in the Buddhist teaching. And as an important person in the journey of the Buddhist tradition to the West. In the book that I'm reading there is a rather amusing and remarkable photograph of a group of monks sitting on the side of the road. And the blurb under the photograph says Tibetan pilgrims in traditional Tibetan greeting.

[01:32]

I don't know if any of you would be willing to join me in that traditional Tibetan greeting. I find it extremely amusing. It involves sitting comfortably with the left hand loose on the leg, the thumb up and your tongue sticking out. So I thought we could start our own style of greeting. Not bad. I couldn't think of a way of incorporating this practice into my talk this morning. So I thought I'd just throw it in as a little extra. A holiday extra. Excuse me, I couldn't resist. As you have noticed, unconsciously if not consciously, we are inching toward the shortest

[02:36]

day and the longest night. I think that the winter solstice is officially at dawn on Tuesday morning. This time between the fall equinox and the winter solstice has become an increasingly interesting time for me, noticing the transition into winter, into dormancy. Most particularly what I notice at this time of year is the quality of light. I don't think there's anything quite like the winter light. It is in some traditional cultures, or at least has been, a time when people hunker in for the winter, get cozy, study, meditate, allow themselves to turn in. A time in some cultures when there is more spending time with one's family and friends,

[03:45]

doing things like telling stories. It certainly is a time when the physical world goes through marked changes, when we begin to see the skeleton of the tree or plant that we may walk by frequently and not at any other time of the year see with such clarity, kind of essential form. I've been noticing it in particular with respect to two old crabapple trees that grow in front of the house where I live. At this time of year I can enjoy the silvery color to the bark and the shape of the trees. I remember the almost hysterical quality of spring blossoms when the trees draw the bees

[04:46]

and they're fairly humming with it all. But there's something special and quite beautiful about the trees in their bareness just now. And who knows what's going on underground in the roots and all. A time of transition and transformation. I find it rather ironic that this is also the time of year which is for many of us a time of unhappiness, of sadness and disappointment. When we have so much expectation about how it should be. Expectation about what we should do to make others happy. What we think Christmas should be like and our unhappiness when we don't measure up to

[05:49]

whatever that mark of perfection is. A time which is for many of us very busy with parties, shopping. I noticed this year that certain things I need to take care of for the house or for taking care of my mother, which involves shopping, I ask myself can I possibly put it off for a few weeks when the commercial world may calm down a little bit. I'm noticing, especially the last few days, the contrast between the quiet, the settling down, the bareness of the winter world and the level of activity out in the ordinary world of commerce in our culture. Twenty-six of us have been sitting together for the last couple of days.

[06:53]

It feels like an eminently sane thing to do. Being quiet, practicing the practice of noble silence, sitting and walking, letting our attention follow the breath, smiling, considering the myriad of ways that we can, in particular, be more rather than less awake. And of course what happens whenever any of us allows ourselves this kind of quiet is a deep settling. And with that stilling of language, of speaking, comes a stilling of thoughts, especially if we're patient. And with that, a kind of quiet and ease, which comes with settling.

[08:02]

We also have been eating together in silence. Finding out what it's like to eat a meal where we have one bite of food on our fork or spoon placed in the mouth, not racing to the next bite until we've fully chewed and swallowed what we have already begun to eat. Some experience of nourishment, which we sometimes do not enjoy. And the experience of an intimate connectedness with all that brings us this nourishment, and with each other. Someone said last night that she found herself feeling a kind of sadness in the midst of our silent meals.

[09:12]

But what I heard was her description of the nourishment of the food and the connectedness, intimate connectedness with the other people in the room. So I ask myself, how is it when we allow ourselves this simple, delightful way of being together, that what arises is sadness? I don't have an easy explanation for that, but I do know that I have some experience like that also. So how is it possible not to allow myself this deep happiness a bit more often? Yesterday afternoon we went for a long, silent walk up to the top of the ridge and over to the birdhouse.

[10:17]

We walked in silence. There is a lot of water running, little rivulets coming down into this valley. So part of what we could enjoy together yesterday was the sound of water running, sparkling and fresh. We saw some birds, lots of new growth, already many buds beginning to form. We sat together in silence around the house, the Hope Cottage, enjoying the delicious sunshine, the warmth in marked contrast to the chill when we would walk into the shadow of the hill. And as I looked around to the various of us sitting quietly, eyes closed, basking in the sun the way a cat or a lizard knows to do.

[11:25]

And then after a while we got up and began to walk slowly down the hill. We came upon a young bobcat who somehow decided that we were not going to interrupt his lunch. He let us come up rather close to him as he finished successfully his hunt. He went off with some rodent in his mouth, a beautiful, pointy-eared, big-eyed creature, not afraid of this strange body made up of twenty-five, twenty-six parts. Perhaps it was because we were quiet that he let us get so close. We walked on down the hill through the sunlight and shadow to have a cup of tea.

[12:30]

This time of year we associate with generosity, with gift-giving and receiving. It is a time to remember light that dwells not just in the clarity of the winter afternoon, but some inner light. And I think that in the process of settling in the way that we have been doing the last couple of days, what seems to arise is some inclination for generosity. As some of you know, I'm quite interested in finding expressions of those attributes which are discussed and cultivated in the Buddhist tradition, to find some expression of those same qualities out of our own Western culture and background.

[13:37]

So what I'd like to do this morning is to read a story to you from Ovid, which is a story about generosity. It's also a story about transformation. And there is a moment in this story about that moment at the end of one's life when two people who love each other and have lived together do not want to be separated prematurely. This is a story of Baucus and her husband Philemon. And I decided that I'd like to actually read the story to you because the detail of the story is so lovely. Not far from the place I speak of is a marsh, once a habitable land, but now water,

[14:42]

the haunt of divers and coots. Sounds like the lower fields of Gringotts. Hither came Jupiter in the guise of a mortal, and with his father came Atlas, grandson. This would have been Hermes. He that bears the caduceus, his wings laid aside. In other words, not looking like a god. To a thousand homes they came, seeking a place for rest. A thousand homes were barred against them. Still one house received them, humble indeed, thatched with straw and reeds from the marsh. But the pious old Baucus and Philemon of equal age were in that cottage wedded in their youth, and in that cottage had grown old together. There they made their poverty light by owning it, and by bearing it in a contented spirit.

[15:51]

It was of no use to ask for masters or servants in that house. They, too, were the whole household. Together they served and ruled. And so, when the heavenly ones came to this humble home, and stooping entered in at the lowly door, the old man set out a bench and bade them rest their limbs, while over this bench busy Baucus threw a rough covering. Then she raked aside the warm ashes on the hearth, and fanned yesterday's coals to life, which she fed with leaves and dry bark, blowing them into flame with the breath of her old body. Then she took down from the roof some fine split wood and dry twigs, broke them up and placed them under the little copper kettle. As she took the cabbage, which her husband had brought in from the well-watered garden,

[16:55]

and lopped off the outside leaves. Meanwhile, the old man, with a forked stick, reached down a chine of smoked bacon, which was hanging from a blackened beam. And cutting off a little piece of the long-cherished pork, he put it to cook in the boiling water. Meanwhile, they beguiled the intervening time with their talk, and smoothed out a mattress of soft sedge grass, placed on a couch with frame and feet of willow. They threw drapery over this, which they were not accustomed to bring out except on festal days. But even this was a cheap thing and well-worn, a very good match for the willow couch. The gods reclined. The old woman, with her skirts tucked up, with trembling hands, set the table.

[17:56]

But one of its three legs was too short, so she propped it up with a potsherd. When this had leveled the slope, she wiped it, thus leveled with green mint. Next, she placed on the board some olives, green and ripe, truthful Minerva's berries, and some autumnal cornel cherries, pickled in the lees of wine, endives and radishes, cream cheese and eggs, lightly roasted in the warm ashes, all served in earthen dishes. After these viands, an embossed mixing bowl of the same costly ware was set on together with cups of beech wood coated on the inside with yellow wax. A moment, and the hearth sent its steaming viands on, and wine of no great age was brought out,

[18:57]

which was then pushed aside to give a small space for the second course. Here were nuts and figs with dried dates, plums, and fragrant apples in broad baskets, and purple grapes just picked from the vines. In the center of the table was a comb of clear white honey. Besides all this, pleasant faces were at the board, and lively, and abounding in goodwill. Meanwhile, they saw that the mixing bowl, as often as it was drained, kept filling of its own accord, and that the wine welled up of itself. The two old people saw this strange sight with amaze and fear, and with upturned hands they both uttered a prayer, Baucus and the trembling old Philemon, and they craved indulgence

[19:58]

for their fair and meager entertainment. They had one goose, the guardian of their tiny estate, and him the hosts were preparing to kill for their divine guests. But the goose was swift of wing, and quite wore the slow old people out in their efforts to catch him. He eluded their grasp for a long time, and finally seemed to flee for refuge to the gods themselves. Then the gods told them not to kill the goose. We are gods, they said, and this wicked neighborhood shall be punished as it deserves, but to you shall be given exemption from this punishment. Leave now your dwelling and come with us to that tall mountain yonder. They both obeyed, and propped on their staves they struggled up the long slope. When they were a bow shot distant from the top they looked back

[20:59]

and saw the whole countryside covered with water, only their own house remaining. And while they wondered at this, while they wept for the fate of their neighbors, that old house of theirs which had been small even for its two occupants was changed into a temple. Marble columns took the place of the forked wooden supports. The straw grew yellow and the earth turned to earth. There were gates richly carved. A marble pavement covered the ground. Then calmly the son of Saturn spoke. Now ask of us, thou good old man and thou wife, worthy of thy good husband any boon you will. When he had spoken a word with Baucus, Philemon announced their joint decision to the gods. We ask that we may be in your temple. And since we have spent our lives

[22:00]

in constant company, we pray that the same hour may bring death to both of us. That I may never see my wife's tomb nor be buried by her. Their request was granted. They had the care of the temple as long as they lived. And at last, when spent with extreme old age, they chanced to stand before the sacred edifice. Talking of old times, Baucus saw Philemon putting forth leaves. Philemon saw Baucus. And as the treetop formed over their two faces, while still they could, they cried with the same words, Farewell, dear mate, just as the bark closed over and hid their lips. Even to this day, the Bithynian peasant in that region points out two trees standing close together

[23:00]

and growing from one double trunk. These things were told me by staid old men who could have had no reason to deceive. With my own eyes, I saw votive wreaths hanging from the boughs. And placing fresh wreaths there myself, I said, Let those beloved of the gods be gods. Let those who have worshipped be worshipped. This afternoon, we have a gathering of the members of the Tibetan Sangha to remember our founder and great teacher Shunryo Suzuki this afternoon. And some of us will be joining together

[24:01]

at the Congregational Church in Tiburon for an interfaith service for people with AIDS and their families and friends and caregivers. Tomorrow at 5.15 to mark the winter solstice we will set loose onto the pond some boats with candles lit to set out into the evening darkness. This is the time of Hanukkah and of Christmas and of celebrating the New Year. Someone said yesterday, I think I understand what I want to ask from my family from those I live with at this holiday and giving time. I don't want

[25:01]

presents from them. But absolutely what I want is their presence. I thought how nice, what a nice way to put it. So I would hope that we can all give ourselves the gift of our own presence in our lives in such a way that allows us to be present consequently for others as well. When we can be awake in our lives with ourselves and with others in this way what arises is truth and generosity. Certainly what this holiday time is meant to be about. I would like to offer to you a practice which you might do

[26:02]

during this holiday time a gift we can give ourselves to others. When we breathe in we can breathe in the spirit of Buddha the one who is awake. And in the out-breath we can expel pride anger possessiveness and laziness. And with the next in-breath on the awakening of the Buddha spirit and on the exhalation expel pride anger possessiveness and laziness. Even if we do this practice just for a few breaths each day

[27:05]

we can allow ourselves this gift of being with the breath in and out allowing the dissolving of those negative states of mind and accepting the gift of our own capacity to be awake and present. I would like to wish you all on behalf of those of us who are here at Green Gulch a very happy and joyful holiday time. I hope that you will join us in the new year and perhaps even come and welcome the new year on New Year's Eve. But certainly know that you are welcome to be with us in the new year as we proceed with our journey together to be as awake

[28:07]

as we can be in each moment. Please let us help each other remember the gift of settling and calmness and joy which each of us knows so fully if we can just remember. Thank you very much. May our intention

[28:36]

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