To build a house in the world of man
And not to hear the noise of horse and carriage,
How can this be done?
When the mind is detached, the place is quiet.
I gather chrysanthemums under the eastern hedgerow
And silently gaze at the southern mountains.
The mountain air is beautiful in the sunset,
And the birds flocking together return home.
In all these things there is a real meaning,
Yet when I want to express it, I become lost in no-words.
“When the mind is detached”–how do we do that? How can I let go of wanting things to be the way I want them, of striving to make things the way I feel they should be instead of the way they are? And let go of all the frustration and upset that accompanies that struggle?
Yet underneath all that turmoil, when I let go and become lost in the “no-words” of “what is”, I experience that peace.
A deep calm underlies the surface struggle.
Just reading this poem brings me a measure of relief and the assurance that I too can find peace in the midst of chaos.
Where else is it to be sought or found?