my original face?

there is a koan in Zen Buddhism that asks, approximately, "What did your face look like before your parents were born?"

author trespassing in an abandoned temple, Summer 2010

or, perhaps, "Show me your Original Face, the face you had before your parents were born."

a view from above

or even, "What is your original face, before your parents were born?"

the spigots are broken and the gutters have fallen

whatever it is, it must have gotten muddled in my mind somewhere along the way because what came to me during last night's meditation was: "What was your original face when you were born?"

chalk, decay and yantra

perhaps this elision is a metaphor for my spiritual development, perhaps i'm not yet ready to imagine that far back, perhaps this is beside the point.

the point is that i had my eyes closed for most of last night's satsang. it was a good one, focusing on the nine obstacles to growth: disease, dullness, doubt, carelessness, laziness, delusion, non-achievement, instability and the craving for worldly things.

obstacles are also beside the point.

the point is that the half-Canadian talked and talked and talked, and i found my eyes closing intermittently, moving in/out as poorly-defined questions were repeated ad infinitum. by the time he started winding down, it was clear that the meditation would need to be brief and i closed my eyes without expectation.

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i have the most bizarre decentering experience, of my self in utero, the moment of emergence, the first articulation of 'i'. it is the movement from undifferentiated to differentiated, from _________ to "i am." there is bewilderment without fear, confusion coupled with the raw ecstasy of living. it is the sight of my original face, and the realization that my original face preceded my ability to see it.

all these things leave me reeling, and i exit the room without giving hugs or saying goodbye. i try to speak to my yin on the way home. words fail. everything is raw. i feel utterly exposed, each hair on my arms tingling. i am vulnerable and dependent. there is a part of me that is still in that womb – was it my mother or my Mother?

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the next day the words return, and i feel almost hungover from the night before. one things zips into another. occasionally i still feel the tingle.

graffiti, hearts and wisdom