DETERMINATION

Daniel Lee

A Companion to Faith

I am left determined.

Determined to navigate the ship upon which I glide over the rippling water into the sunrise. I am Theseus, set sail across some vast watery landscape. I carry with me on the journey the soul of that melancholy islander Melville, take him with me to Crete, where together we shall confront the Minotaur. And yet the monster I hunt is not so defined. He is an abstraction, a new constitution of the same idea: belief, spirituality. I give chase so as to capture that secret center, that unseen object in the dark. As though Melville, as Ahab, hunting not Moby-Dick but rather his long dead father, I steer my ship, harpoons poised, after my own white whale: the Minotaur, my faith.

My ship sails forward, making its way to its destination. I close my eyes, and I am there already. Stop. I mustn’t close my eyes. I mustn’t allow myself the leap. I must leave them half open, straighten my back, and count my breaths. I must be aware of where I am. I must smell the sea breeze, feel the rocking of the boat atop the rolling back of the salty sea. Because that’s where it lies, the stabilization of my embodied consciousness. But not the peace I have sought. And should I pause in momentary contemplation and allow the thought to arrive that I have at last found the means to my elusive end, I must allow it to pass, and evaporate. Right effort, right mindfulness, right concentration.

We glide as though on oil over the surface of the glassy water, cast our eyes upon the expanding fingertip of God. From across the ocean we came, bringing with us the foundations of a new world. The sun cast light through the sky, abstracted by the atmosphere, where it shone down upon our skin. We are one, moving across the landscape in chariots of wood and molded steel, as though gods in a foreign land, for in this world there is no such thing as a native. We are merely visitors here, categorized by country, separated by territory, defined by context. And so I sit, defined by the context of my own territory: homelessness, a single discrete man riding his boat as though a steed, it carries me from the delusion of my mother continent to the other shore far, far away.

Upon what craft do I stow away? Upon what principle? What philosophy? Here, on the surface of the rippling water, we find a clue, a hint, a Joshua Tree indicative of the Mojave yet to come. The seaship shivers, and up the spines of those aboard runs the realization that we may have come across some trace of the elusive object. Paramita. That which carries us to the other side, the other shore. The course by which we cross bore witness to the traversing of the original pioneers, for this practice, they say, is “the original way of life. Without knowing the origin of things we cannot appreciate the result of our life’s effort. Our effort must have some meaning.” (Suzuki 123)

Raised Catholic, baptized and confirmed, having chosen agnosticism as a teenager, yet leaning strongly toward the Tao Chia philosophies, the conflict between structured religious belief in a deity and liberated spiritual belief in the possibility of an abstraction is itself a triggered nerve within my psyche. Yet here I am, attempting still to make my way to the other shore. Here the sirens’ song can be heard, and I lean the sails into the wind, pick up speed, see before me not an island, but a man. Before me the sky cracks, spreads wide. The gulls soar and glide above me, over me, into the hot orange red horizon. Bright white glass light off the sparkling water, which ripples with each step he takes toward me, the waves crashing and smoothening, the sea rolling with the rhythm of his stride, as he walks closer to me, on the water, his feet dry.

No. No such communion for the deluded. If I want to view paradise, I need simply look around and view it. The Secret, sitting in the middle, knowing, cannot for me take the shape of a man, however holy, if I am to bend my knee before that man. Not as long as I have great doubt. And yet in spite of that doubt I stand now with even greater determination, determination toward the movement across this oceanic geography, and the subsequent arrival at the other shore. There, pray, let there be the object of my determination: faith. The head of a bull on the body of a man. Not an idol, mind you, but a metaphor.

Does not the Minotaur, at the heart of the labyrinth, represent the unknown? Is he not the perfectly carved manifestation of all that is secret, unseen, and yet sought to be understood, perhaps even conquered? What, pray, is Everest but a Minotaur? What is the abyss into which we gaze, only to have it gaze back, but a Minotaur? The tiger stalked by the hunter? The hunter by the tiger? Minotaurs both. What but a Minotaur was Melville’s white whale? What but a Minotaur is God? Similarly, for us, what is the unknown abstraction of our inquiry, the elusive object unseen, but the Supreme Way, the throughline by which all beings are connected? And so, by extension, what is that Supreme Way if not the Minotaur?

So it is that I, as sinful Theseus, have embarked upon this, my synthesis. How indeed do we map and chart this oceanic geography? How do we measure the longitudes and latitudes of this labyrinthine canvas? The further we journey, the more it appears no quantitative measurement is possible. For, in the end, this is a qualitative voyage, a synthesis through metaphor and poetry rather than direct reference.

That said, upon the sparkling shore of Crete we now beach ourselves, catching in the distance a glimpse of that concrete monolith, the labyrinth. In whose boots do we walk as we make our way up the sand? And how like a small child do we feel as we gaze upon the Corinthian columns of our destination? Here there are children playing, laughing, singing. And the echoes of their song resonate among the structures of the island: it is a children’s story, a poem.

Call me Fishmael, my children,

now come and gather close

to hear a tale quite simple

yet needlessly verbose.

Deep below the rolling waves,

down within the sea,

there lived a gentle tuna fish

who one day grew thirsty.

So far and wide across the deep

the thirsty fish swam fast

in search of Mr. Fishnu,

a question for to ask.

“Tell me, Mr. Fishnu,

is there some mantra I can say?

Perhaps some sort of prayer or chant

to help me find a way?

Please help me, Mr. Fishnu,

I feel that I may burst.

Please help me find some way or means

to satisfy my thirst.”

“My child,” said Mr. Fishnu,

“All that you must do

is say that you will follow me

and my teachings, too.”

But no, the little tuna

to this could not agree.

And so he swam off thirstily

to see Anemone.

“Anemone, my friend,”

the little tuna spoke,

“I find I am so thirsty

I think that I may choke.”

Anemone just smiled,

feet firmly on the ground,

and said, “Sweet little tuna,

take a look around.”

With that the little tuna

blinked his little eyes

and saw all around him WATER

much to his surprise!

“I feel I have been sleeping,

or trapped inside some net.

It’s only now I realize

that I am soaking wet!”

Here the children’s voices fade away and I find myself alone. Before me stands the towering labyrinth, somewhere inside no doubt the Minotaur. Here I am, on the other shore, opposite that continent of delusion, carried over by that craft, paramita. Here I sought to attain some wisdom, some specific mode of being, some metaphor representative of the abstraction I have pursued. I wanted to believe. Only now do I see the flaw in my pursuit.

I am not on a beach. I am writing an essay. And you are reading it right now. With the typing of a word I inhale, with the typing of the next I let it out. Now I pause, count my breaths, and return to writing. “Zen,” they say, “is not a philosophy that attempts to explain everything. Rather, Zen is functional.” (Cavagnaro 8) Zen is not a philosophy. Zen is not a philosophy.

I am a thirsty fish.

This is what I think:

Water, water everywhere.

And not a drop to drink.

Sources Cited / Consulted

Cavagnaro, Dan. Doubt. 2001.

Suzuki, D.T. Zen Buddhism. New York: Doubleday, 1956.

Suzuki, Shunryu. Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind. New York: Weatherhill, 2001.