Embodying the light

Wisdom from the 6th century B.C.

In her yoga class this morning, my teacher and dear friend Cybèle read a poem about the great secret—“embodying the light.” I know it’s hard to understand that, but fortunately the revered poet Lao Tzu gives us simple instructions (keeping in mind that simple is not the same as easy). He counsels us—travelers, artists, scientists—to “use all situations” and not waste anything.

What better advice for a writer than this? It’s liberating to know that we have what we need at our fingertips to produce great art, or at least art that may move someone or change a life.

In fact, it’s not our affair. It is not our business to try to divine what others need. There is no way we can know that. Most of the time, folks themselves don’t even know what it is they need to feel better, to come alive, to understand, to have a rare moment of peace, clarity, and gratitude.

What’s needed, what comes as a salve, often emerges from left field. It comes at the most unexpected moments, and in the most unexpected ways. They are moments of grace, these are, and we’ve all experienced them. That sudden shift of the heart, that tear in the eye, that flood of warmth and love that we feel at the oddest moments. It’s usually a tiny sliver of reality—a brief shared smile with someone in the checkout stand. A witnessed act of kindness to a homeless person. An extended hand, especially from an unexpected quarter.

These are often flashbulb memories as well. We tend to retain them to their sharpest detail.

A homeless man lives in the neighborhood I moved to last year. In between Piedmont Avenue and Broadway, plonked almost equidistant between the neighborhoods of Uptown, Temescal, and Rockridge. A “good” area.

This homeless man was encamped under the overhang of the abandoned dialysis clinic on the other side of my building, on Broadway. At regular intervals, he commences to wail, and once he starts he wails long and loud. Last Christmas, he wailed all morning. I wanted to bring him breakfast, but I held back. I was afraid of him, afraid I’d be one of those unlucky souls attacked by a psychotic indigent.

In the spring, he was ousted from his spot, but I saw him regularly in the area, wandering, often moaning, crying, and wailing. Once I heard another homeless guy accost him, yelling at him to shut up. He said, “What do you have have to cry for, man?” The wailing man bellowed, “I have no friends!”

That was a kick in the gut. But not enough to make me turn around or veer off path from my farmer’s market destination. What could I do? I wanted to turn around and comfort the man, but then what? I couldn’t move him in with me. It was no use.

A couple of months ago, I was passing the Blue Bottle Cafe nearby, also just on the other side of my building, across from Oakland Technical High School. I happened to glance inside and my eyes locked on the face of a man I barely recognized. Yet, recognize him I did.

It was the wailing homeless man I was scared of.

He was smiling. He was relaxed. His visage was gentle, even shining. It embodied light.

I was thunderstruck. I slowed down, riveted. I hung around a bit. I watched the man exit the cafe with another man, a young man in his 20s. I followed them from a half-block distance. After a few minutes, the young man peeled off, bidding the other man goodbye.

I continued to follow the young man. I quicked my pace. I caught up to him. I said, “Excuse me,” and he turned. I told him how I knew the man and asked about the exchange and how he found the man. He said, simply, I bought him a pastry. He was fine. The young man was matter of fact, in a rush, not interested in dwelling on the exchange.

He didn’t particularly want my thanks or attention either. He wasn’t rude, just not interested in being exalted for his action. He acted like what he did was the most natural thing in the world to do. I thanked him anyway, and I told him how the man’s face had been utterly transformed. And then he was off, on his way back to his life.

But the look of the man’s face will never leave my mind’s eye. The look of radiance and gratitude. And dignity. That’s what it was. It was dignity emblazoned on that man’s face. The young man invited him into the cafe with him. He didn’t just go in, get him something, and hand it down to the ground. They stood together at the register, side by side.

That young man did a big and important thing, and he thought nothing of it.

I learned a lot that day.

What does this have to do with Lao Tzu’s poem? I’m not sure. Maybe the young man represents the traveler with no fixed plans. He was able to stop and make time in his day for this suffering fellow human. Maybe it’s the way no moment is wasted—that the expression on the man’s face changed my life, and it was only the briefest, most unexpected of moments. Maybe it’s the end of the poem—how we are all interconnected and impact one another, presenting examples to one another, learning and growing together, incrementally, playing our roles in a constant interplay of life.

I’m not sure. All I know is that the poem gave me hope. It inspired me. It excited me. No moment is wasted. Everything that happens, everything we see, everything we do, everything we decide, say, dream, feel—has import. As artists, travelers, scientists, it is up to us to stay open. To see how the experience lands. To make something of it.

Here is the quote:

“A good traveler has no fixed plans
and is not intent upon arriving.
A good artist lets his intuition
lead him wherever it wants.
A good scientist has freed himself of concepts
and keeps his mind open to what is.

Thus the Master is available to all people
and doesn't reject anyone.
He is ready to use all situations
and doesn't waste anything.
This is called embodying the light.

What is a good man but a bad man's teacher?
What is a bad man but a good man's job?
If you don't understand this, you will get lost,
however intelligent you are.
It is the great secret.”

―Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching