The Seat of Wisdom

Below my office rolling chair, safe beneath the clear-plastic hardwood floor protector, rests a modern poster that depicts an ancient scroll called the Vinegar Tasters.

In this poster -- which has no printed comment -- three old men stand close together around a large vat of vinegar. These wise old men are Confucius, Buddha, and Lao-tse. Each has just tasted the vinegar -- the essence of life -- and each presents a different face to the world.

Each day, as I roll back my chair to sit down, I glance thoughtfully at that poster and ask myself an important question:

Well, Robby: how does your world taste today?

I know my answer will have a definitive impact upon the thoughts I record for this blog, upon my email messages and responses, and upon how I will feel when I finally shut-down my computer, roll back from my keyboard, and stand up to face the rest of my day.

A mature person must take charge of his thoughts, because his thoughts determine the face he presents to the world each day. In a way, his answer to that simple question will determine his doings and interactions for his each-day-at-a-time. And those doings and interactions taken whole over a lifetime identify him -- to himself and to others -- and will determine the quality of each moment he shares with others -- and ultimately the quality of his life.

So I ask YOU the same question I ask MYSELF:

How does your day taste today?

Which brings us back to the three Vinegar Tasters. Because, the faces they present to each other and to us are distinctly different. And after-all, their thinking, their differing views of the world, have influenced their own Chinese culture, and the thinking of countless people around the world for centuries.

Confucius say:

What you do not want
done to yourself,
do not do to others.

And in the Pali Canon, the sacred scriptures of the Therevada Buddhists we find:

There is no evil
for one who commits none.

And in the Book of the Tao we find Lao-Tse's words:

Manifest plainness,
Embrace Simplicity,
Reduce Selfishness,
Have few desires.

But then, where have we heard words something like that before? Oh never mind!? I digress.

Back to business, please: consider the faces of each of the Vinegar Tasters. And while doing so, consider the faces each of you present to the world.

Confucius -- the old wise man on our left as he faces the vinegar -- presents a sour face. He's disgusted. He feels the way of men is at odds with the Way of Heaven. Nowadays no one respects the old and honored ways. People rush about without respect for Ancient Truths and Rituals which order the good life. No wonder Confucius makes a grouchy face when he regards the bustling turmoil, the apparent conflict and mindlessness of the world around him.

Buddha -- the wise old man in the center -- presents a bitter face. To him, the world is a place of endless arguments. Angry and confrontational men abound. Beyond that, most people are beset by troublesome relationships and desires which cause suffering. The world is an uncertain and painful place filled with conflict. Better to isolate oneself, to be self-sufficient and free of argumentation, to rise above the trivialities of common experience. Pretty bitter guy, this Buddha.

But consider the face of the man on the right. He tastes the vinegar of life and SMILES. Could be he's missing something. But still. . . Lao-tse taught that everything in the world has its own true nature which cannot be changed. Each thing, each happening, each problem and its possibilities must be seen clearly, accepted and embraced. No more messing around with fixing things and people. Fixing things brings only pain and disappointment. Take life as it comes and smile. Such is the way of Lao-Tse and the Taoists.

Hmmmmnnnn!? Reminds me a little of that old prayer. . .something about accepting things that cannot be changed, changing things that can be changed, and having the wisdom to know the difference.

GEEZ! I would so like to be younger, better-looking, and smarter, and maybe a little bit taller and more wealthy -- in no particular order. But soon! How 'bout you?

Lao-tse would say NO to such nonsense.


I think of this poster as my Seat of Wisdom -- Each morning, before I sit down, I roll back my chair, study this poster and THINK.

Some days I throw up my hands and turn to my email.

Some days I write for hours without producing anything I think worth sharing.

Some days I write something I'm not certain is worth your consideration. Yet, despite my uncertainty, I may go ahead and post.

Some days I write something thoughtful I really want to share.

Could be true, the good-writing days are the days I better understand Lao-tse . . .the days I am most comfortably a Taoist.

Those are the days
I look at my world and smile.

The Decorating Committee

All morning, then through lunch, into the afternoon, he felt her presence near him. Tight, rolled-up jeans and a close-fitting top, bare-foot tennies below tanned rounded calves. Hair down, straight and simple, pulled firmly back into a businesslike pony-tail. A trim, mature woman whose lovely scent reached him from across the room. Got him humming "The Nearness of You!"

She, all the rest of them, and all the work they shared, transported him back to his seventeenth year, decorating for the OctoberFest Dance. His football buddies and all the cheerleaders and other special girls kept flashing through his mind in strange and lovely images. Working hard, laughing. Getting things done. All the while painfully and sweetly aware of the girls.

But now, after nearly fifty-five years, it was mostly about her. The way she looked and carried herself. And how that made him want to gather her up into his arms. To dance with her quietly close against him.

Maybe never let her go.

Throughout the day, her presence kept slipping him back in time. To the night he first really saw her. . .one twilight evening after play-practice. A lovely girl-child of sixteen, blossoming and bright. Even then she had leaned quickly into her life. Had leaned up into his face. Not bargaining. More like gently taunting him. . .trying herself out. . .wondering how far she could take him.

But he was a young teacher. And while he felt what she was doing, trying to do, he protected both of them casually with a knowing grin. A quick-friendly smile ending in an easy laugh and a soft-fond touch on the shoulder of her cashmere sweater. His manner light, as if to say: No harm done. YES! You are lovely. Thank You. But NO! Then he turned quickly on his heel, and in the growing darkness walked the half-block back to the home of a friend he was visiting for the evening. And that had been THAT.

But THIS time, this time at the reunion fifty-five years later, late in the evening, she suddenly appeared before him. . .still gorgeous in a slim-flowing, red cocktail dress: low across her shoulders, dipping still lower revealing her cleavage. A knowing, sweet smile. Tanned shoulders. The soft caress of her gentle cologne. She stood proudly there inviting him, her bare upper-arms close to her bodice, her palms up, reaching out, ready to gather him fondly to her.

He couldn't hear the music, or any sounds at all. She was so stunning, so warm and welcoming. This time. . .this time he reached out gently and gathered her into his arms.

And for him, this time. . .
it was much more than a dance.

The Deer Story

Beauty matters. Yes it does: a lot!

I know. . .because I live in a beautiful home in a gorgeous woods, beside a long, crystalline pond.

My home is a two-story, black-roofed, brownish-red-bricked beauty. The various roofs interlock and flow downward in long and generous sweeping surfaces. The house is built on a small, round-rocked rise that elevates it slightly from the front-grove and the deep woods out back. It's possible to walk nearly all around the house along the top of this rise. And I often do, just because the various over-looks are so striking.

My front door and windows face Hickory Lane, a wooded glade which hides seven other wonderful homes. Beside the front lawn and gardens, a long concrete drive curves back from the street. Along the drive are alternating stretches of rich, deep blue-green, evergreen pachysandra and perennial gardens filled with hasta, day-lilies, wild grasses, and other gorgeous plants. A large grove of maples and hickories hides the front of the house from the cul-de-sac that terminates the quiet street.

Around the front-yard grove are other nests of perennials. There's not much grass to cut.

More perennial gardens follow a brick walkway that skirts the long pond, west of the house. In the rear of the house, a large glassed-in, four-season porch gives way on each side to large decks. And beyond the decks, across the continuing brick walkway are compact perennial-plantings, ornamental and evergreen bushes. But the back is mostly mature maple and hickory woodland that skirts the pond and terminates way back out of sight.

The ground beneath the trees -- all around the house -- is carpeted by elegant growth of large-leafed Virginia Creeper. Where garden-plantings or Virginia Creeper are not present, wonderful thickets of ferns cover the ground.

In the pond, along the west side of the house are nestled several small wooded islands. On one of these larger and higher islands, I've cleared some of the small trees and built a 10x14 deck, that can be easily reached by a twenty-foot causeway. High-wide benches act as railings, so that deck loungers won't tumble down the wooded slopes and roll into the pond. At each end of the causeway are sets of stairs which provide access from the wooded mainland to the high deck. I plan to build a bridge above the causeway. . .and someday maybe I will.

Out back, off to one side, in a tight notch in the woods, I've also built a 10x12 dark brown garden-tool barn. This tall barn looks elegant, and it keeps my yard-chore tools out of sight and keeps the three-car garages that front the drive clear of debris.

Everything fits! The blend of the combed-natural and the artfully-contrived is close to faultless.

I've seen few places as beautiful. But no place seems more beautiful than my quiet home on Hickory Lane. I work hard to maintain the wonderful gardens. Nancy designed the gardens, and we built them together. Since her recent death, I've tried to make two hands and one resilient back-bone do the work that she and I once loved to share.

The gardens are a gift we gave each other. Maintaining them alone has been difficult. But the solitary work somehow brings us together. There's joy in gardening. . .and even more joy and peace in our seasonal coming together. Nancy is here in this house and in these gardens. Our shared work lifts my heart. These gardens remind me: our love lives on in many good ways.

It may sound crazy. But I swear I hear her voice in the breezes, in the click of my hand-shears, in the crisp brown earth as I turn it with my spade. I'm awake to the rustle of her denims as she kneels beside me -- to her warmth as she smiles, to the gentle brush of our shoulders as we plant.

I feel the warm clasp of her hands in mine within my work gloves as I split perennials, dig openings in the rich black earth, and transplant new starts, patting them firmly into their new homes. I see her gorgeous face in the blossoms as they unfold. I taste her freshness in the sweet stems of rye-grass I tug loose and slip into my mouth. She lives and moves and breathes. She leans into my arms. She delights in my grin, in the approving nod of my head. She responds lightly to the words I sometimes speak quietly to her. She's present to me in our garden, just as she remains present to me in the rooms of our home.

But mostly she's present to me as I work in our gardens.

For the first time in my life, during this difficult time of separation from my beloved wife, I think that while she is present to me other places, she is especially present in our gardens. And her endearing presence helps me to fully understand John Keats' lines in Endymion:

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth. . . ."


But the gardens offer more than just plants. Red and brown squirrels hide and scamper about, up and down fat tree-trunks. Rabbits abound beneath deep-sweeping base-limbs of hemlocks where they hide, then carefully come hip-hopping-out -- plopPLOPplop -- to pick about beneath the bird-feeders. Families of turkeys wobble about beneath the bird-feeder, too. As do deer.

And now that I've sketched the setting, it's these deer I really want to talk about.

I often awaken early, make coffee and carry my cup out to the glassed-in porch where I love to watch morning gradually emerge from the darkness. This morning, a slash of reddish-golden light rose along the horizon far out of sight on my left. Gradually, the left sides of tree-trunks turned pale-pinkish red. Dim shapes emerged slowly. Long-high tree-trunks, the bird-feeder in its opening, the barn off to the right, and the brick walkway slowly appeared, dimly revealed in the gradually brightening sun-light.

And that's when I saw them. . . .

Two orange-brown does, their heads slowly bobbing as they crept from their darkened hollow far-back in the woods. On they came, wary and almost still in their reluctance. I soon saw why they were so cautious. Two tiny, still-spotted fawns followed timidly, their tiny faces rising and falling, sniffing the air, reassured only by the familiar scent of their mothers.

To my excitement, they drifted past two other does I spied lying close together beside the fence-row dead-fall stacks far back in the woods. And between them, I spied one tiny fawn, so quiet and still in front of one darkened wood-stack -- his tiny head and long pointed ears just visible against a whitened sycamore stump. I could see him only dimly as the brightening sunlight flickered down from above.

Suddenly, from behind the far corner of my tool-barn two more full-orange fawns appeared. They headed straight for the scatter-circle below the bird feeder. Now we lacked only the young four-point buck that leads the herd.

One reclining doe stood and lowered her head to nose the tiny fawn in front of her.

Suddenly, she stiffened, raised her right paw, knee bent directly toward me, her nose pointing at me where I stood frozen behind the window glass. Could she see me? Did she only sense my presence? Would she stand fast and quiet herself? Or would she bound away?

She stood stock-still, alert and sensitive -- her tapered, tall ears pointing directly at me. With her nose raised, nostrils sniffing, she seemed poised to bolt. I was struck by how exactly her elegant and gorgeous face was a perfect facsimile of the deer I've seen drawn in Disney films.

How is it that we see Disney-deer, and think them merely fetching artistic renditions of the real thing? We sit breathless in the darkened theater thinking too beautiful to be real.

Here, for the first time in my long life, I saw that Disney artists had drawn them just as they are. What elegant creatures: the gorgeous oval heads and faces, the gradually declining, black-blocked noses. The long-tapering-pointed ears. The downward sweeping curve of their necks. The long lines of their backs thickening gradually to their large-rounded rumps. The large, soulful eyes and short bobbing tails enclose them wholly end to end.

Gorgeous beings. Breath-taking elegance. Fragile beauty.

Some sound I couldn't hear startled the doe I had been admiring. Almost on cue, like a ballet chorus, they were off together in mid-air. . .those long sweeping bounds carried them silently off to my left out of sight.

I stood transfixed for long while. Finally I raised my coffee-cup to my lips. Only then did I realize how long I had stood

silently admiring them.
The coffee in my cup was stone cold.

Still, they had warmed my heart.