Becoming Kwan Yin

Despite my coughing fit the other day I am still reading The Cloud of Unknowing. And this morning it occurred to me that, actually, the coughing fit was perfectly in keeping with what that text has to say about meditation; about the striving for connection with the Divine.

Because the clouds, the cloud of unknowing and the cloud of forgetting, are all about that which comes between me and God; about all the petty concerns, and the ignorance, and the wasted time, and the self-absorption. In short, anything that prohibits that flow of grace in and through me can be defined by one or the other of those clouds.

So of course, if I focus on them, I have trouble breathing in the grace and clarity for which I hunger. Which is why the monk tells us we are to throw those constant darts of love THROUGH the cloud to That Which Lies Beyond.

In becoming aware of the cloud in this way, and in thinking of that image I posted, of the ship’s mast, and the faint clouds drifting across it, I began to see that even if I could release all the thoughts that were occluding the connection, there was still a thin membrane blocking the flow; still a part of me resisting the ultimate flow of grace and spirit between Creator and Creation.

It was then that I realized it was time to let go, to unlink my fingers, to open my hands and place them on my lap; to stop protecting myself as I sat. And the beauty of that choice, in that moment, was that I felt both open and safe, despite all prior resistance to this posture.

And in that moment I could begin to comprehend the appeal of this lovely little figure, one of the Buddhas I brought home with me from Issaquah the other day. This photograph does not begin to capture her iridescent glow (this is raku pottery), but you can at least see the tenderness, openness, and compassion which Anita has captured in her clay.

She is, Anita tells me, Kwan Yin, known as the bodhisattva of compassion. Her name means “one who perceives the cries of the world” -- which is why Anita depicts her with a slightly tilted head, as if she is listening -- and she responds with compassionate aid to those in need.

I cannot promise that I will always be able to meditate with open hands. But at least now I see that if and when I can do so I will have removed yet another layer of the cloud that keeps me separate from the divine connection for which I hunger. This sculpture is, in fact, like a visual representation of the practice of tonglen, only at the deeper level of image: in removing – or at least parting – that curtain or membrane which keeps me separate; in opening to the rest of creation, I can more effectively breathe in the pain of of the world and breathe out the divine joy of connection.