Green Way Research, Vancouver, Washington, 2021
Master Chang San-Feng: Taoist Grand Master, Circa 1200 CE
Along The Trail
"I first met Chang San-Feng
above the forest,
near the clear spring,
when gathering clouds darkened the day,
and Mt. Shasta was silent.
His long beard was
black as emptiness,
ear lobes to his shoulders,
holding obsidian in his hand,
pointing to the sun,
eyes staring into infinity,
his long body clothed in silence.
We exchanged "hellos"
smiled and bowed,
a barbarian and an Immortal,
both panting from the climb,
laughing,
ten-thousand echoes
between our rocky minds.
After billions upon
billions of heartbeats past
(for he must have been 888 years old),
I was so bold
as to ask the ancient one
for the sacred mantra of yore.
He lifted his whisk,
and brushed my face,
I could not speak,
my lips were stone,
ideas stopped -
I was alone."
- Michael P. Garofalo, Red Bluff, California, 2003
"After reaching
for the needle at the bottom of the sea,
I looked up, one summer's eve,
to see old Chang San-Feng open the garden gate,
and join me for Tai Chi.
We said not a word -
hands moving like clouds,
fingers grasping sparrow's tails,
faces smiling, feeling the sun drop,
glimpsing a half moon climbing the clear sky.
Time flowed without a
ripple of memories,
Space embraced a crane cooling its wings,
Being began to sing
softly in tune with the moon.
My dusty black dog
barked,
sensing something on the warm wind;
speaking her mind,
ears up.
Master Chang was gone.
Leaving one shoe on a beanpole, and
a page of poems -
mementos for mortals.
Two black butterflies
danced wing to wing
in love."
- Michael P. Garofalo, Red Bluff, California, 2004
"Standing at
the Mysterious Pass
Centered in the Eternal Now,
Balanced in Body and Open in Mind,
Rooted into the Sacred Space,
Motionless as the Golden Mountain,
Fingers around the Primeval Sphere.
Dragons and Tigers are still dreaming -
Ready for Rebirth.
I breathe in, the
World Breathes Out.
The Gate of Space opens;
Heaven moves and Yang is born.
The hands move out, embracing the One.
The mind settles and is clear.
The Dragon Howls,
Ravens fill the Vast Cauldron,
Mind forms melt like mercury,
Spirit rises in the Clouds of Eternity.
Yin appears like the moon at dusk.
I breathe out, the
World Breathes In.
The Doors of Emptiness close;
Earth quiets and Yin is born.
The hands move in, entering the One.
The body settles and becomes whole.
The Tiger Roars,
The Great Ox is nourished by the Valley Spirit,
Substances spark from flaming furnaces,
Essence roots in the Watery Flesh.
Yang appears like the sun at dawn.
Dragons and Tigers
Transformed within the Mysterious Pass -
Chanting and Purring.
Awakened,
Peaceful,
Free."
- Michael P.
Garofalo, Opening at the Mysterious Pass, 2005
Opening Hands (Kai Shou) and Closing Hands (He Shou)
Qigong Sun
Lu Tang’s Style of Taijiquan. Master Sun Lu Tang
studied Taoism and Internal Mind-Body Arts at various Wu Tang
Mountain Temples in 1895.
"Standing still in the circle of trees, in the
sacred space,
one wet and chilly morn,
feet rooted, turtle toes clawing the earth, sunk deeply down;
twisted like a dragon, alert, poised, ready to fly;
settled like a bear, strong, full of power, gathering;
looking through the tiger's eye, mind-intent, penetrating;
embracing the World of Body, Mind, and Spirit,
as ancient as Now, the Three Realms, all still, all one.
From the edge, the cosmic circle opened,
Chang San-Feng slipped inside, smiling,
he stroked his long black beard and spoke softly,
"Ah, another old man standing so still in San Ti Shi.
Continue, my friend, stand in peace, touch the mind.
Xuan Wu guards the Gate, the Turtle chants, the Snake rises, and
The subtle winds of understanding blow down the centuries.
When still, soar like the Black Dragon; when moving, walk like the
Mountain.
Tame the Tiger within, ride the Tiger to the temple, and roar in
silence.
Awaken like the Bear from the winter of the soul, and rise like a
Man.
Feel the vital energies
from bone to brain,
Sense the Great Tao before you Now,
Drop delusions, enter the Gate of Mystery,
Embrace the Center, Empty, unattached, ready to be filled
With boundless beauty, everything There, marvelous beyond words."
The cottonwood leaves spoke with the wind,
the sun rose over the shadows,
my legs shook a little;
the cosmic circle trembled,
Xuan Wu's sword flashed in the sun,
Master Chang disappeared in the trees."
- Michael P. Garofalo, Red Bluff, California, 2010
Xuan Wu Dadi, Dark Lord of the North
Union of the Three Realms: San Ti Shi
Master Chang's Pepper Talk
“Do not neglect fasting
the mind,
and, for you, fasting the flesh,
until you are as fast as the Tameless White Tiger,
lean as Xuan Wu’s Snake General,
still and strong as the Black Tortoise,
and worthy of Lao Tzu’s wisdom.”
It is Time to Go
"I saw Master Chang
San-Feng
Enter the Sidhe, Fairies by his side,
Crossing over the pond at dawn.
Astonished I was!
On the teahouse table by the pond I later found
Some of his neatly printed notes
Folded in a well worn tome
Of the Tao Te Ching, in Chapter 14.
He had
written:
”Even for an Immortal, the Past is the Key.
The
Future
Grasp at it, but you can’t get it,
Colorless as an invisible crystal web,
Unformed, thin, a conundrum of ideas,
The Grand White Cloud Temple of Possibilities,
Flimsy as a maybe, strong as our hopes,
Silent as eternal Space.
When you meet it, you can’t see its face.
You want to stand for it, but cannot find a place.
The
Present
It appears and disappears through the moving ten thousand
things,
Quick as a wink, elusive as a hummingbird,
Always Now with no other choice,
Moving ground, unstable Plates,
Real as much as Real gets to Be,
This Day has finally come,
Room for something, for the moment, waits
Gone in a flash, assigned a date,
Gulp, swallowed by the future.
Unceasing, continuous, entering and leaving
The vast empty center of the Elixir Field.
The
Past
Becoming obscurer, fading, falling apart,
A mess of memories in the matrix of brains;
Some of it written, fixed in ink, chiseled in stone,
Most of it long lost in graves of pure grey bones.
Following it you cannot see its back,
Only forms of the formless, stories, tales,
Images of imageless, fictions, myths.
A smattering of forever fixed facts,
Scattered about the homes of fading ghosts.
The twists and turns of millions of tongues
Leaving us languages, our passports to the past.
The
future becomes past, the present becomes past,
Every thing lives, subtracting but seconds for Nowness, in the
Past.
The Realms of the Gods, the kingdoms of men,
The Evolutionary Tree with roots a million years long
Intertwined with turtles, dragons, trees, stars and toads;
crickets, coyotes, grasses, tigers, bears, monkeys and
men.
These
profoundest Three of Time
An unraveled red Knot of Mystery,
Evading scrutiny in the darkness of days
Eluding capture in the brightness of nights,
In beginnings and endings are only One, the Tao,
Coming from Nowhere, Returning to Nothing.
What
dimension of Time
Does your mind dwell within?
Future, Present or Past
Where is your homeland?
The
Past holds the accomplishments, the created, the glories, and
the Great.
The Present is but a thin coat of ice on the Pond of Fate.
The Future is an illusion, a guess, a plethora of possible
states.
Recreate the Past
By playing within the Present.
Twisting and reeling one’s silky reality
From the Black Cocoons of the Acts
From which we create our Pasts.
Follow the Ancient Ways.
The Past is the Key.”
- Michael P. Garofalo, Red Bluff, California, 2012
The Decaying Tree
"The smell of the sea hugged the fog in the redwood trees,
All cool and dank, dimly lit and rank with green,
And in shadowed limbs the Stellar jays jabbered free,
And me, standing silently, an alien in this enchanted scene.
From behind the mossy grey stumps
the sounds of footsteps crunching fronds of ferns
caught my suddenly wary mind ...
What?
"Hello, old friend," said Chang San Feng.
"Master Chang, what a surprise," said I.
Master Chang sat on a stump, smiled, and said,
"Can you hear the Blue Dragon singing in the
decaying tree;
Or is it the White Tiger roaring in the wilderness of your bright
white skull?
No matter! The answer is in the questioning; don't you Chan men
see?
In the red ball flesh of this decaying tree
Sapless woody shards of centuries of seasons
Nourish the new roots of mindfulness sprouting.
Yes, Yes, but how can it be?
The up-surging waves of life sprout forth from the decaying tree,
As sure as sunrise rolling over the deep black sea.
Coming, coming, endlessly coming; waves of Chi.
Tan Qian's raven roosts for 10,000 moons
in the withered branches of the rotting tree;
then, one day, the weathered tree falls,
nobody hearing, soundlessly crashing
on the forest floor, on some unknown noon.
Over and over, over and over, life bringing
death, death bringing life,
Beyond even the miraculous memories of an old Xian like me;
Watching, watching, sequestered from the strife,
Turning my soul away sometimes because I cannot bear to see.
Even minds may die, but Mind is always free
Bounding beyond, beyond, far beyond you and me;
Somehow finding the Possibility Keys
And unlocking the Door out of the Voids of Eternities."
Master Chang somehow, someway,
slowly disappeared into the red brown heart of the decaying tree.
Then the squawk of the jay
opened my mind's eye to the new day -
Namaste."
- Michael P. Garofalo
Remembering Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park, California
April 27, 2012
I met a sturdy young man,
Frank, at a campground along the Klickitat River,
far below Mt.
Adams. We talked for a good while at sunset.
He told me that he had met a fine fellow, a Mr. Chang San-Feng,
in the forest below Old Pahto; who had published a book
of
poems and short essays. I later found a copy of that book
at Klindt's Bookstore in The Dalles. Here is one poem
from the book by Mr. Chang San-Feng:
"Ancient Mt. Adams glows in the last
light,
winds whistling in the thick flowing firs.
Slithering snakes in the cracks of warm
lava beds. Dry skies: empty vastness.
A dusty camp near shallow Trout Lake,
all
cooling in the darkening shadows.
Stellar Jays check my table
for crumbs. Nothing there to eat.
Both Presence and Absence wrapped
in Becoming. Just sit─ a mirror in the dim dusk.
Long stretches of not thinking just
listening. The mountains are speechless.
Turning on a flashlight reveals the
tent's
thin armor. The beam pierces the walls.
The Tao unfolds itself─ moon rising
midnight. Sleeping away losses and fears.
Coyotes calling at first hour hunting
hungry. The hard ground gets colder.
The Yakima's named It "Pahto or Klickitat"
many
centuries past. Thus It became something human,
Something Pointed Out, Something Named,
Something Talked About, slipping away from Presence.
Some man loudly snoring and a dog barks
in a nearby tent
at second hour. My watch does not really embrace Time.
At third hour I awaken, sit up,
nurturing
my liver. I smile, alone, in passing Darkness,
without Her but within Her,
the Valley Spirit Here and Now.
At fourth hour, Buddha-Mountains
disintegrate, and slowly
drying racoon Buddha-Crap shrivels on Buddha-Poppy seeds.
In the distance, somewhere, out there,
Rising, rising into the black clouds, just-so,
Making Clouds Itself, As Is, and in no-mind,
the Transforming Pahto.
I suddenly remembered something Sifu
Miao Zhang once told me:
"Master Yellow-Bitterroot Mountain asked me,
'What is the meaning of Old Pahto emerging in the West?'
I lifted my cane and placed it in my mouth, saying nothing.
Later, zany Zen liar that I am, I wrote:
"No minds, no dharmas. No-mind, much Dharma."
Daybreak crawls in earlier in June,
Solstice
Coming, Growing more Sunbeams, Ch'i
Flowing over Everything awakening.
Dawn, we are the Light, everything
appearing
pristine, startling, sudden brief jolt of Insight.
After the Awakening,
roll up the sleeping bag, take down the tent,
eat some cereal."
- Michael P. Garofalo, Vancouver, Washington, 2021
Mike Garofalo reading in his backyard in Vancouver, WA, during the Wisteria Springtime of 2018.
Cloud Hands Blog of
Michael P. Garofalo
Facebook of
Michael P. Garofalo
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Meetings with Taoist Master Chang San-Feng
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