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HENG CH’AU: June 16, 1977 Some Dharma Verse From Malibu Every day another test way down low in Malibu Keep on tryin’ to try your best way down small in Malibu Buddhadharma’s in the West solid bowing, never rest Three steps, one bow in Malibu. Eng the false and dusty "you." way down low in Malibu. Three steps, one bow, the gutters through way down small in Malibu Letting go ‘til the mind unglues lower, smaller ’til there’s no "you" No steps, now bows, no Malibu. Got the teacher, got the lore way down low in Malibu Got the Flower Garland Store way down small in Malibu Here amid the diesel’s roar here beside the ocean’s shore Three steps, one bow in Malibu Boy on bike: "I’ve seen you all up and down the coast. I thought you were bowing to Mecca." I hand him a release. "Oh yeah? Buddhists. What do they bow to?"
"To you and to me. To everything and everybody."
"All right! Good luck!"
Tension
Alternating between states of pure madness where everything is ripping loose and floating away--trees, houses, horns, people, myself-shift and float like a three--dimensional mirage. I could be anywhere at anytime and anybody or a ghost.
Then suddenly it turns to fire. Doubts pour in--I think of my family, what I left behind in laylife-doubts about Buddhism, my teacher. It’s terrible. Impatient and on edge, highstrung and weird. Like a bow string and arrow just before release. Sitting meditation is the internal Fire Department now. Bowing seems to neutralize, equalize too.
There is this internal welling up of too much yang energy like every pore could shoot it out, explode. The center is in my lower back and belly and my spine feels like a rod of steel cartilage or fiberglass.
Everything outside is singularly flat and unappealing--empty which adds to the pressure inside. Of all the places and things I imagine doing, each is worse than where I am now, bowing once every three steps, being a Buddhist monk. Only the high Sierras get a stir and I know once I was there I’d still be itching to be here. How can that be? There’s no going back and each day the road narrow and it gets hotter every step and for sure things are churning and changing. Hang on.
Two women sitting on a broken down black Cadillac asked about the pilgrimage and then said, "Thank you for sharing it with us. Good luck."
At the end of the day three women in long dresses and beat up earth shoes with three little kids came up. Everyone took turns bowing and then presented some fruits, nuts, and apple-lemon juice. They wanted to know if we were being taken care of for food. "We are well cared for," I said. And we are, in every way.