A wayward song

Itchy fingers

need to write

not tap

at a keyboard,

a screen…

Need the yoga

of

wrist, hand, thought, mind

what moves

and what remains

still

what feels

and what words

fill

This page

Empty to touch and eye

This pen

Marking its empty sky

It unites

It expands

It forms

An untidy multitude

Within which

hums

a wayward song.

Women’s Songs of Enlightenment

The earliest women ordained into the Buddha’s sangha some 2,500 years ago, experienced profound transformations that they rendered into poetry. Their poems came to be compiled as the Therigatha, literally ‘stories of women elders’. The 73 poems of the Therigatha delineate as if an inner courtyard, where the women shrug off the veils of personality and ego-self, bare their innermost experiences, and swap stories about their struggles and insights. This personal, feminine space frees their voices to speak of what is important to them, in an idiom they are comfortable with. One can almost picture a huddle of women with shaved heads, some young some old, sitting companionably during a vessa (monsoon) retreat, talking their hearts, revealing their selves.

They lament the darkness that hung heavy upon them, woven of loss and sorrow, dissatisfaction and frustration, until the light of dharma set them free. The famous parable of the mustard seed, where a mother learns to accept the truth of death, is one such. The mother, Kisa Gotami, begs the Buddha for a miracle that would revive her dead son. The Buddha says he will, provided she brings him a mustard seed from a home never visited by death. Kisa Gotami hunts for such a home to no avail, and by the time she returns, has understood the play of change and impermanence woven into the nature of life. She says:

It’s not just a truth for one village or town,

Nor is it a truth for a single family.

But for every world settled by gods (and men)

This indeed is what is true – impermanence.

[Thig A X.1, translation Andrew Olendzki]

The soul-songs of the Therigatha provide an intimate view of the concerns and issues particular to women on the path in a non-preachy, non-judgmental way. These have little by way of pulpy, lethargic sentimentality, nor are they dry and clinical. One could describe them best as examples of ‘telling it like it is’, with a clarity of mind and memory that might be expected of an arahat (realised being, which most of the theris were). Perhaps this is why the concerns mentioned therein feel immediate and true even across the chasm of centuries.

Whether it is Patacara mourning the loss of her family, or Gutta who pines for a child born of her womb, or Vimala the courtesan who exults in her beauty, or Anopama the heiress who is restless with her materialistic lifestyle, the theris articulate a uniquely feminine perspective on life, and life on the spiritual path. Their contexts might be dated, but when they speak of the imbalance of uncontrolled emotionality, the debilitation of obsessive attachment, the rigours of relationships, bondage to the body and its appearance, women of any era cannot but find their own challenges reflected in the theris’.

This evening…

This evening

flickers with

a strange restlessness…

Is it the pigeons

fluttering within the roof

the birds

calling

in glossolaliacal tongues

across this valley

Is it the

grey warmth

of the fading sun

that lies heavy

on the

cheery, sunny green

of these unfolding hills?

Is it

the waning energy

of children at play

tiring of their games

in this quiet twilight?

Or is it

the Friend

who went away

who receded

across the mountain

like the sun

after a grey day?