by Paul Telles
While on vacation a few weeks ago, I took a walk at the edge of the Olympic National Park, a wilderness preserve dominated by rain forest, snow-capped mountains, and ocean beaches. My path was simple and accessible—a three-kilometer trail that looped down a shallow ridge, followed a stream trickling toward the sea, then returned to a parking lot near the highway.
It was a typical Pacific Northwest spring morning. The sky was full of mist and clouds interrupted by blue and yellow gaps we call “sun breaks.” I strolled through a landscape of beauty and devastation, inhaling the scent of vegetation, moisture, and decay. Hemlocks, firs, and cedars rose from a dense undergrowth of sword ferns, sedge, and berries, but the brush was punctuated by debris from a decades-old lumber harvest, massive stumps and logs that had been deemed unsuitable for the sawmill. About 30 years ago, this area had been “clear cut” of all “harvestable timber,” then allowed to recover at its own pace.
What better place to chant the Nembutsu? As I crossed a footbridge over the stream, I fingered the prayer beads in my pocket and chanted softly, almost whispering to ensure I did not drown out the singing water or disturb the jays and crows hunting their breakfast. As I began my ascent toward the parking lot, I found my Buddha for the day—a massive stump of Western Red Cedar, flattened at the top by a skillful wielder of the chainsaw. As it decayed in the dense air, the stump was bursting with life. Its sides were covered with dense green moss, lichen, and sword ferns sprouting from crevices in the bark. The top, flat as a table, was home to more ferns, to berry bushes, and even to saplings beginning centuries of growth that would ultimately destroy the stump. A perfect place to bow and gassho, take the refuges, chant the Name.
When I encountered Bright Earth Buddhism, I was struck by the addition of the Earth to the traditional refuges. Standing before that stump of a great tree that had given its life to provide material for fences and decks, I saw that, for me, the earth is the “holy ground of awakening” because it is the arena where life and death penetrate each other, where I can see my own existence from this “non-dualistic” perspective.
Preparing to turn 70 later this year, I often wake in fear of my death and decline, worried that I will not have time to realize my hopes for spiritual and aesthetic fulfillment. I often feel I’ve given too much of my life to the building of wealth and the craving for status and acceptance. I’ve been a Buddhist “backslider,” taking up the path several times, then letting it go under the pressures of career and my own insecurities. I have long aspired to write fine poems, only to let my fear of failure undermine my enthusiasm.
Standing before that beautiful decaying stump, I forgave myself. As I flow toward the grave, I, too, am bursting with new life. In the last decade, I’ve found new writing communities, new Sanghas, new opportunities for creativity and growth. I’ve written some of my most genuine poems. I’ve grown closer to my family and friends. I’ve started learning how to love myself with a realistic view of my strengths and weaknesses. After all these years of searching and indecision, I am at risk for becoming sane!
I will not claim that my encounter with the stump cured me of my fears and insecurities. I am not an enlightened being. But, in the weeks since our meeting, I’ve felt a subtle shift in my awareness, becoming just a bit more accepting of myself and of the mysterious end my life will soon reach. When I take refuge before my Nembutsu scroll, the stump appears in my inner eye as I say, “Namo bhumyai.”