Leafstorm
03-25-2008, 07:33 AM
I saw a woman sitting on a bench, waiting for a bus or a subway train – I can’t remember if I was above ground or below, but just that I was tired and wanted to lie down. She was dressed in clothing that’s usually described with a single foreign name, and beside her was a leather handbag that was probably worth a year’s salary. She was reading a bestseller paperback. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p>
I asked her what she was reading and she told me it was a non-fiction account by a thirty-something divorcee who travels to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, and <st1:country-region><st1:place>Indonesia</st1:place></st1:country-region> on a spiritual quest. She said it was both funny and moving.<o:p></o:p>
“Simultaneously or alternatively?” I asked. <o:p></o:p>
“Well . . .”<o:p></o:p>
“And did she find enlightenment, or peace, or cosmic orgasms, or killer martinis, or – ” <o:p></o:p>
“I haven’t finished it yet,” she replied. “I only just started <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>.”<o:p></o:p>
I nodded. I asked her if she minded if I sat on the bench and she smiled and motioned that I was welcome to – at least I think that’s what the gesture meant – so I sat beside her. <o:p></o:p>
“I once went on a spiritual quest,” I said.<o:p></o:p>
“Really? To <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>?” she asked.<o:p></o:p>
“No. To the park in <st1:place>Chinatown</st1:place>. I hadn’t eaten since the day before. There was an old Chinese man, with a wispy gray beard, sitting on a bench like this one, eating a sandwich. Total stranger. I sat beside him, didn’t say a word, and he offered me half of his sandwich. Tofu on whole wheat.”<o:p></o:p>
“Maybe he heard your stomach growl,” said the woman. <o:p></o:p>
“Possibly,” I said. “He also had a bottle of wine. He offered so I took a swig. A pinot from <st1:place><st1:PersonName><st1:PlaceName>Napa</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType>Valley</st1:PlaceType></st1:PersonName></st1:place>, I think.”<o:p></o:p>
“Mm, I love a good pinot noir,” said the woman. <o:p></o:p>
“Really,” I said. “I had you pegged for a chardonnay lover.” <o:p></o:p>
“Well, I gave up chardonnay for awhile, but I’m starting to drink it again, now that they tend to be lighter and grassier and less buttery.”<o:p></o:p>
“Wow!” I said, “What a coincidence. That’s exactly how I feel about chardonnay.” I smiled and looked into her eyes. She blushed and averted them. <o:p></o:p>
“The old man told me his name was Li Fu,” I continued, “He said it wasn’t his given name, but a name he adopted because he admired the poetry of Li Po and Tu Fu, and wanted so much to write beautiful verses like both of them that he fashioned the name Li Fu in their honor.” <o:p></o:p>
“I’m not familiar with them,” said the woman.<o:p></o:p>
“Well, they’re dead. And they’ve never been on the New York Times Bestsellers List.”<o:p></o:p>
“Oh.”<o:p></o:p>
“When he’d finished his half of the sandwich I asked Li Fu if he would recite some of his poems for me. He smiled and nodded with so much delight that I thought he was going to transcend right there and then.”<o:p></o:p>
“The old man stood up, placed his palms together in front of his chest, and bowed to me. ‘First,’ he said, ‘in the manner of Li Po – in one of his rare sober moods.’ He then recited a poem he called Hoh River Dream, which goes like this:
<o:p></o:p>
Full moon<o:p></o:p>
over <st1:place><st1:PlaceName>Hoh</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType>River</st1:PlaceType></st1:place><o:p></o:p>
hanging moss sways<o:p></o:p>
green-gray phantoms.<o:p></o:p>
Awakened at night<o:p></o:p>
by a ghostly cry<o:p></o:p>
teenage campers<o:p></o:p>
elk in heat<o:p></o:p>
or my own weeping<o:p></o:p>
as a dream fades<o:p></o:p>
and I remember<o:p></o:p>
you, friend,<o:p></o:p>
your journey<o:p></o:p>
to the sea<o:p></o:p>
under a full moon<o:p></o:p>
and winter rain. <o:p></o:p>
Will I see you again<o:p></o:p>
at river’s end?
<o:p></o:p>
“It’s spooky,” said the woman. “And sad.” She closed her paperback, forgetting to mark her place with her bookmark. <o:p></o:p>
“Yeah, I suppose,” I said. “I told him I liked it, because I liked phantoms and holding onto fading dreams.” <o:p></o:p>
“Holding on,” she repeated. <o:p></o:p>
“Then Li Fu says to me, ‘Here’s a poem in the manner Li Po’s good friend Tu Fu, in one of Tu Fu’s. . . well, I’ll let you guess what mood he was in,’ he said with a wink.”
<o:p></o:p>
Seeing the White Fish
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
A grove of blue bamboo, snow falling softly sideways,<o:p></o:p>
red maple leaves and magnolia blossoms rise and return to the trees,<o:p></o:p>
a butterfly alights and plays a yangqin, the butterfly harp,<o:p></o:p>
while an egret flits from flower to flower, <o:p></o:p>
pokes its head in, and howls like a mad white ape.<o:p></o:p>
Moonlight on the river is still, while the moon herself<o:p></o:p>
jiggles and waves as if underwater.<o:p></o:p>
As if my feet are on the bank and my head underwater, <o:p></o:p>
sunpetals and moonflakes whirl about me, on my little pony, <o:p></o:p>
on this mountain trail where mermaids on unicorns pass by, <o:p></o:p>
from village to village I go, knocking on cottage doors, <o:p></o:p>
asking all if they’ve seen my dragon; they laugh and <o:p></o:p>
pummel me with old poems and peach blossoms. <o:p></o:p>
I flee to the river, rest my feet and my head in the sun and the rain, <o:p></o:p>
the cicadas quack, the tiger chirps, and high in the bamboo, <o:p></o:p>
a kingfisher finishes a jug, my jug, to the lees,<o:p></o:p>
while a white fish rises and hovers in front of my face. <o:p></o:p>
“Have you spent a lifetime trying to be drunk,” <o:p></o:p>
he inquires, “or a lifetime trying to know Tao?” <o:p></o:p>
“Yes!” I answer<o:p></o:p>
with a flourish that sends me tumbling in. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“‘Bravo!’ I shouted. Li Fu bowed with hands pressed together. I stood and did the same, and we both laughed. ‘Was the water cold?’ I asked him.”<o:p></o:p>
“Li Fu nodded. ‘So cold it made me howl like a mad white ape!’ he said.” <o:p></o:p>
The woman laughed, and glanced at her watch. She slid her book into her monogramed handbag. <o:p></o:p>
“The old man then did something truly amazing. He jumped high into the air as if defying gravity, did a forwards somersault in midair, and landed on his feet.”<o:p></o:p>
“Oh!” said the woman. “He didn’t fall and hurt himself? My mother fell and broke her – ”<o:p></o:p>
“No. Some old people don’t fall and break when they leap into the air and do a forwards somersault, apparently.” <o:p></o:p>
“What religion did he believe in? Did he say?” <o:p></o:p>
“All of them, I suspect. Or none of them. Or maybe the key for him was neither ‘religion’ nor ‘believing’. I don’t think he believed in believing. Kind of a Western thing to do, don’t you think?”<o:p></o:p>
“Well, one must believe in something,” she said. “God, or Truth, or Love, or something.”<o:p></o:p>
“Why spoil those mysteries by believing in them?” <o:p></o:p>
“But how can they exist if we don’t believe in them?” <o:p></o:p>
“Do you think it’s possible that God, Truth, Love, Nature, Life, Death, Time, etc. don’t need you and me?” I asked.<o:p></o:p>
“Not really,” she replied. “I mean, well, some of them – maybe Nature, Life, Death, Time . . .”<o:p></o:p>
“Do you think it’s possible that the universe doesn’t care about spiritual quests, gurus, thirty-something divorcees, pinot noir, chardonnay, and expensive handbags?”<o:p></o:p>
Her smile vanished and her hand went into her handbag, reaching for something. <o:p></o:p>
“Do you think the hungry shall inherit the earth while the rich inherit the park benches?”<o:p></o:p>
She stood up, her hand still in her handbag. “You can have this bench all to yourself now.”<o:p></o:p>
“Do you think the cow felt fear and pain?”<o:p></o:p>
She started to walk away – quickly. <o:p></o:p>
I waved. “Nice chatting with you. Ciao!” I said to myself, “There but for the grace of Gucci . . .”, and I stretched out on the bench and took a nap.
<o:p></o:p>
I asked her what she was reading and she told me it was a non-fiction account by a thirty-something divorcee who travels to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, and <st1:country-region><st1:place>Indonesia</st1:place></st1:country-region> on a spiritual quest. She said it was both funny and moving.<o:p></o:p>
“Simultaneously or alternatively?” I asked. <o:p></o:p>
“Well . . .”<o:p></o:p>
“And did she find enlightenment, or peace, or cosmic orgasms, or killer martinis, or – ” <o:p></o:p>
“I haven’t finished it yet,” she replied. “I only just started <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>.”<o:p></o:p>
I nodded. I asked her if she minded if I sat on the bench and she smiled and motioned that I was welcome to – at least I think that’s what the gesture meant – so I sat beside her. <o:p></o:p>
“I once went on a spiritual quest,” I said.<o:p></o:p>
“Really? To <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>?” she asked.<o:p></o:p>
“No. To the park in <st1:place>Chinatown</st1:place>. I hadn’t eaten since the day before. There was an old Chinese man, with a wispy gray beard, sitting on a bench like this one, eating a sandwich. Total stranger. I sat beside him, didn’t say a word, and he offered me half of his sandwich. Tofu on whole wheat.”<o:p></o:p>
“Maybe he heard your stomach growl,” said the woman. <o:p></o:p>
“Possibly,” I said. “He also had a bottle of wine. He offered so I took a swig. A pinot from <st1:place><st1:PersonName><st1:PlaceName>Napa</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType>Valley</st1:PlaceType></st1:PersonName></st1:place>, I think.”<o:p></o:p>
“Mm, I love a good pinot noir,” said the woman. <o:p></o:p>
“Really,” I said. “I had you pegged for a chardonnay lover.” <o:p></o:p>
“Well, I gave up chardonnay for awhile, but I’m starting to drink it again, now that they tend to be lighter and grassier and less buttery.”<o:p></o:p>
“Wow!” I said, “What a coincidence. That’s exactly how I feel about chardonnay.” I smiled and looked into her eyes. She blushed and averted them. <o:p></o:p>
“The old man told me his name was Li Fu,” I continued, “He said it wasn’t his given name, but a name he adopted because he admired the poetry of Li Po and Tu Fu, and wanted so much to write beautiful verses like both of them that he fashioned the name Li Fu in their honor.” <o:p></o:p>
“I’m not familiar with them,” said the woman.<o:p></o:p>
“Well, they’re dead. And they’ve never been on the New York Times Bestsellers List.”<o:p></o:p>
“Oh.”<o:p></o:p>
“When he’d finished his half of the sandwich I asked Li Fu if he would recite some of his poems for me. He smiled and nodded with so much delight that I thought he was going to transcend right there and then.”<o:p></o:p>
“The old man stood up, placed his palms together in front of his chest, and bowed to me. ‘First,’ he said, ‘in the manner of Li Po – in one of his rare sober moods.’ He then recited a poem he called Hoh River Dream, which goes like this:
<o:p></o:p>
Full moon<o:p></o:p>
over <st1:place><st1:PlaceName>Hoh</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType>River</st1:PlaceType></st1:place><o:p></o:p>
hanging moss sways<o:p></o:p>
green-gray phantoms.<o:p></o:p>
Awakened at night<o:p></o:p>
by a ghostly cry<o:p></o:p>
teenage campers<o:p></o:p>
elk in heat<o:p></o:p>
or my own weeping<o:p></o:p>
as a dream fades<o:p></o:p>
and I remember<o:p></o:p>
you, friend,<o:p></o:p>
your journey<o:p></o:p>
to the sea<o:p></o:p>
under a full moon<o:p></o:p>
and winter rain. <o:p></o:p>
Will I see you again<o:p></o:p>
at river’s end?
<o:p></o:p>
“It’s spooky,” said the woman. “And sad.” She closed her paperback, forgetting to mark her place with her bookmark. <o:p></o:p>
“Yeah, I suppose,” I said. “I told him I liked it, because I liked phantoms and holding onto fading dreams.” <o:p></o:p>
“Holding on,” she repeated. <o:p></o:p>
“Then Li Fu says to me, ‘Here’s a poem in the manner Li Po’s good friend Tu Fu, in one of Tu Fu’s. . . well, I’ll let you guess what mood he was in,’ he said with a wink.”
<o:p></o:p>
Seeing the White Fish
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
A grove of blue bamboo, snow falling softly sideways,<o:p></o:p>
red maple leaves and magnolia blossoms rise and return to the trees,<o:p></o:p>
a butterfly alights and plays a yangqin, the butterfly harp,<o:p></o:p>
while an egret flits from flower to flower, <o:p></o:p>
pokes its head in, and howls like a mad white ape.<o:p></o:p>
Moonlight on the river is still, while the moon herself<o:p></o:p>
jiggles and waves as if underwater.<o:p></o:p>
As if my feet are on the bank and my head underwater, <o:p></o:p>
sunpetals and moonflakes whirl about me, on my little pony, <o:p></o:p>
on this mountain trail where mermaids on unicorns pass by, <o:p></o:p>
from village to village I go, knocking on cottage doors, <o:p></o:p>
asking all if they’ve seen my dragon; they laugh and <o:p></o:p>
pummel me with old poems and peach blossoms. <o:p></o:p>
I flee to the river, rest my feet and my head in the sun and the rain, <o:p></o:p>
the cicadas quack, the tiger chirps, and high in the bamboo, <o:p></o:p>
a kingfisher finishes a jug, my jug, to the lees,<o:p></o:p>
while a white fish rises and hovers in front of my face. <o:p></o:p>
“Have you spent a lifetime trying to be drunk,” <o:p></o:p>
he inquires, “or a lifetime trying to know Tao?” <o:p></o:p>
“Yes!” I answer<o:p></o:p>
with a flourish that sends me tumbling in. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“‘Bravo!’ I shouted. Li Fu bowed with hands pressed together. I stood and did the same, and we both laughed. ‘Was the water cold?’ I asked him.”<o:p></o:p>
“Li Fu nodded. ‘So cold it made me howl like a mad white ape!’ he said.” <o:p></o:p>
The woman laughed, and glanced at her watch. She slid her book into her monogramed handbag. <o:p></o:p>
“The old man then did something truly amazing. He jumped high into the air as if defying gravity, did a forwards somersault in midair, and landed on his feet.”<o:p></o:p>
“Oh!” said the woman. “He didn’t fall and hurt himself? My mother fell and broke her – ”<o:p></o:p>
“No. Some old people don’t fall and break when they leap into the air and do a forwards somersault, apparently.” <o:p></o:p>
“What religion did he believe in? Did he say?” <o:p></o:p>
“All of them, I suspect. Or none of them. Or maybe the key for him was neither ‘religion’ nor ‘believing’. I don’t think he believed in believing. Kind of a Western thing to do, don’t you think?”<o:p></o:p>
“Well, one must believe in something,” she said. “God, or Truth, or Love, or something.”<o:p></o:p>
“Why spoil those mysteries by believing in them?” <o:p></o:p>
“But how can they exist if we don’t believe in them?” <o:p></o:p>
“Do you think it’s possible that God, Truth, Love, Nature, Life, Death, Time, etc. don’t need you and me?” I asked.<o:p></o:p>
“Not really,” she replied. “I mean, well, some of them – maybe Nature, Life, Death, Time . . .”<o:p></o:p>
“Do you think it’s possible that the universe doesn’t care about spiritual quests, gurus, thirty-something divorcees, pinot noir, chardonnay, and expensive handbags?”<o:p></o:p>
Her smile vanished and her hand went into her handbag, reaching for something. <o:p></o:p>
“Do you think the hungry shall inherit the earth while the rich inherit the park benches?”<o:p></o:p>
She stood up, her hand still in her handbag. “You can have this bench all to yourself now.”<o:p></o:p>
“Do you think the cow felt fear and pain?”<o:p></o:p>
She started to walk away – quickly. <o:p></o:p>
I waved. “Nice chatting with you. Ciao!” I said to myself, “There but for the grace of Gucci . . .”, and I stretched out on the bench and took a nap.
<o:p></o:p>