In Zen our relationships to teachers are complex and multilayered. Relationships with teachers, whether brief and informal or long-term and committed, are every bit as complex, nuanced and varied as any of our human relationships. Every teacher-student relationship is different. Like our other relationships, they can be supportive, rewarding, instructive, challenging, frustrating, painful and ambiguous. Like those other relationships, the teacher-student relationship can be transformative.

Unlike our other relationships, however, the teacher-student one is explicitly based in, and in service of, Dharma practice. As we go deeply into a relationship with a teacher, the relationship can also become a koan for us – a thorny, elusive, apparently paradoxical matter that cannot be understood or explained with the discursive mind but can be understood and appreciated through personal experience.

Guidance

At the simplest level, a teacher provides guidance. The teacher is a senior, someone who has walked the path before us and can advise us how to do so ourselves.

To some extent this is like learning any discipline, in that we turn for instructions to people who know the discipline. Learning from another person who knows their stuff trumps learning from a book anytime. Zen practice is a full experience of body and mind; you wouldn’t think to become a doctor or an aikido master by reading and practicing on your own, would you?

Zen teachers guide us in meditation practice (zazen), in applying the precepts to our lives, in strengthening our practice, in study of the teachings, and in learning how to take a “Zen” approach in any given situation. We primarily get this instruction by meeting with teachers in sanzen and practice discussion, but also through interactions over meals, during ceremonies, social situations, work, etc. Much Zen instruction just takes place through time and proximity to the teacher and other practitioners. There is much happening in our practice below the surface, at the subconscious or unconscious levels, and much of it simply takes time to develop and ripen.

An obvious question is, “How good is this teacher?” To some extent we need to ask this question. Does it seem like they know the teaching? Do their answers ring true to you? Do they seem confident and yet able to admit limitations or mistakes? How well do they walk the talk?

But we can get stuck here, evaluating the quality of a teacher, as if spiritual proficiency or authority is something that can be measured objectively. Perhaps we decide that we can only respect a teacher enough to ask for guidance from them if they are a celibate monk, are a lay teacher, meditate a great deal, act in a dignified manner, are a woman or a man, are morally impeccable, spout obscure teachings, are charismatic, or apparently free from any desire or difficulty.

It is not that these things don’t matter, but rather that a better question to ask is not, “Is this person a good teacher,” in some objective sense, but rather, “Are they a good teacher, or guide, for me?” This is something you have to learn by experience, by working with a teacher for a while.

Sometimes there is a strong resonance between teacher and student. For example, I knew the instant I heard her speak that Gyokuko was my teacher. She heard the question beneath my question. She understood me somehow, and therefore was able to give me effective and appropriate instruction. I never went awry in listening to her, and it built my faith in her guidance and in the practice.

Sometimes it is not so straightforward. Sometimes other aspects of the relationship with the teacher (which I discuss below) are more important or salient for someone. Someone may have a meaningful relationship with a teacher where the guidance is less personal, or where there is little explicit guidance.

Finally, regarding guidance, sometimes it is less about the brilliant response a teacher gives us than it is about the effectiveness of having to come up the question in the first place. Ever have the experience of being in a class, having a question, walking up to the teacher and asking it, and then going, “Oh, wait, I know the answer now”? Sometimes the very process of showing up, of expressing ourselves to another person, helps to clarify what is going on for us.

Encouragement

Much of this practice we do on our own. In the spirit of the Protestants, we need no intermediary between us and the Dharma, or between us and our Buddha nature.

However, if you never think you need encouragement, think again. If you try to do without it, you may be placing a heavy burden of expectation on yourself that you’d be better off without. No one will look down on you around here for needing some encouragement. In fact, it lets us know that you are working hard, pushing the edges of your comfort zone.

Throughout much of my practice, my meetings with Gyokuko involved telling her what I was working on, what I was experiencing, and asking her, “Am I going crazy? Am I way off base? Am I OK? Does this happen to other people? Does this sound like authentic practice?” Because of her own experience and her experience in working with lots of other people, she was (almost) always able to reassure me. My mind would be put at ease, and I could concentrate on the next step in practice.

Zen practice requires incredible spiritual courage and perseverance. We have to face our deepest fears. It is also sometimes runs counter to “common sense” and certainly to cultural norms – where when you encounter something or someone that makes you uncomfortable, you are supposed to get as far away from it/them as possible, as quickly as you can. In our practice we move toward such things, and pay close attention. Most of us find we need encouragement sooner or later to tread in such unfamiliar and scary territory.

Witness

Another aspect of Zen teachers, more subtle, is teacher as someone who bears witness to your practice – in a given moment, and/or over time. There is great value and power in stepping forward to allow someone to see us at what is undoubtedly our most vulnerable – when we are actively examining, questioning, building aspirations, facing doubts, and working on our life and practice.

Most of us (all of us?) have a deep and great fear that if people see who we really are, we will be rejected – everyone will know we don’t really belong, that we are fundamentally flawed. Or perhaps we fear that other people will be malicious and take advantage of us.

I was bullied for various reasons throughout middle school. I learned early on not to let the other kids know what I really wanted, or what I really cared about, because they were sure to take the opportunity to point out my failures, make fun of my preferences or mock my aspirations. I learned to hide my vulnerability and instead to project a persona of competence, confidence and cynicism.

When we gradually begin to show ourselves, we gain trust in others and build real confidence in ourselves. And show not just the bits we want to show, but the parts we can’t hide if someone watches us over time.

Also, it is valuable to be witnessed over time – to have a spiritual friend that gets to know your spiritual practice and life very well. S/he has context for your questions and struggles, as well as for your triumphs. Many of us get to the point that our teacher is the only one who will fully understand or appreciate the significance of particular aspects of our life and practice.

Barrier/Challenge

This is the aspect of Zen teachers that usually shows up in the old stories: teachers as challengers to their students, poking them with questions they can’t quite answer (yet), or pointing out their limitations. Outside the old stories this kind of challenge happens both consciously (on the part of the teacher) and unconsciously, and more often the latter.

Teacher as barrier or challenger is most often something that develops in a very close teacher-student relationship after a long period of time, typically many years. Beware of teachers that present themselves in this way early on, before they really know you and before you have built up a relationship of trust and understanding. This is potentially dangerous territory for both student and teacher. Students can get hurt, and teachers can get lost in an arrogant sense that their spiritual insight gives them access to a kind of omniscience when it comes to dealing with people’s spiritual life and practice.

At the same time teacher as challenger is a potentially transformative opportunity. If we can trust a teacher enough to invite him or her to give us honest feedback on our life and practice, we can address our blind spots. By definition, we can’t see them! We have the opportunity to turn the heat on our practice up a notch, and extend our mastery of our life.

A karmic resonance or intuitive match with a teacher may help her or him be insightful about us, but frankly it doesn’t take a Zen master or an intuitive genius to be able to see our weaknesses, our stuck places and our unresolved karma. If you think of any of your close relationships – significant others, parents, children, friends – you can probably think of things about their life and behavior that you’d like to be able to point out to them.

Sometimes teacher as barrier or challenge has nothing to do with the teacher’s intent: we gravitate toward a certain teacher because they trigger old patterns in us. Like being drawn again and again to the same kind of intimate romantic relationship, we may start to act out with our teacher our unresolved karma from parental, romantic or other relationships.

This is where the teacher’s training is very important! They must have done enough personal work, and have received enough tough training from their own teacher, to be able to recognize their own karmic reactions and know how to deal with them – in order to avoid getting involved in a destructive karmic dance with a student.

Ideally we get to act out our karma while the teacher remains more or less still. Then we have to watch how we dance. We try our demands, or manipulations, or guilt trips, or drama, or projection, or attempts to please, whatever. They don’t work, but they also don’t backfire as they might in other kinds of relationships – for example, when another person reacts to our behavior with defensiveness or anger.

It is sometimes said it is the job of the teacher to “keep pulling the rug out from under us” until we no longer fall down – until we are standing in the unassailable place, not on any simple rug. My teacher did this by not-doing; in a sense she refused to offer me any rugs, at least not when I was being really demanding about it. I craved her approval and understanding, but could never get it when I really wanted it. I struggled with this for many years, until finally I truly didn’t need her – or anyone’s – understanding or approval any more. Not that I didn’t want and appreciate connections with others, I just didn’t need their approval to know I was fundamentally OK.

Pulling out the rug is especially important when it comes to spiritual insight; the teacher must keep testing the student, not allowing him/her to concretize an experience, get stuck in a concept or memory, or become arrogant or complacent because of a sense of spiritual accomplishment.

We may think it is the teacher that makes us doubt ourselves, but actually no one can instill doubts in us about something we have complete knowledge of/confidence in; when someone causes doubts to arise, they were already there. We should become grateful for the challenge, even when it is upsetting.

Establishing a Teacher-Student Relationship

Think again of the people in your life, and how you’d like to be able to give them a little honest feedback about their stuck places and suffering. Actually doing so is rarely ever effective, is it? That is because someone must ask for such feedback first. They must be open to it, and ready for it. They need to have some idea what it is they are asking for, too.

That’s why, in order to establish a formal teacher-student relationship, you have to ask the teacher at least three different times. Each of these must be serious, considered, “asks.” The teacher may put up obstacles, make certain requirements first – for example, that you finish school, clean some particularly disruptive karma, demonstrate stability or just give it more time.

This kind of relationship takes time to form; a teacher must know a student. The student must have come forward to meet the teacher many times, and allowed her/himself to be seen.

The impetus for the relationship must come only from the student; the teacher must examine his or her own motivations to make sure s/he does not nurture any ulterior motives in taking on a student (ego, a sense of self-importance, hoping the student can be useful to the teacher, etc.). Teachers must always understand that someone’s practice is still ultimately their own; that the teacher’s view is limited; that a student has Buddha-nature and must always be respected, and that patience and gentleness are as important to the process as frankness and challenge. This does not by any means require that the teacher must always be nice and polite with us. Some of the necessary messages would not get across this way.

The necessity and significance of the student’s conscious willingness is enacted in the ceremony of discipleship (lay and monastic) when the teacher is about to cut off a small portion of hair on the crown of the student’s head, traditionally seen as the “root” of the small self. The teacher asks, somberly, three times: “This portion of hair is called the shura. I am going to cut it off. Only a Buddha can cut it off. Do you permit me to do so or not?” If the student doesn’t reply, with a determined voice, “Yes,” three times, the ceremony is not completed.

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Yet when we view the lives of others in the context of a book or movie, we are able to see how all the disparate parts can come together as a whole. Even when someone’s life includes tragedy, difficulty, mistakes, boredom, depression or oppression, it doesn’t bother us so much when we can see it as part of the arc of a whole life. Even a life that doesn’t end up obviously “redeemed” contributes somehow to the poignancy of life in general.

This view of the completeness of other’s lives is not limited to dramatic tales. It can also be experienced when we watch a video or hear a description of someone in another culture going about their everyday mundane tasks. From our removed vantage point we can see the beauty in their simple, repetitive motions. We can see the noble fortitude they display as they go about their work – cleaning, farming, raising children. The women walk a mile through the desert to get water and then carry it home on their heads, hips swaying in their colorful garments as they calmly walk back home. The old farmer works in the soil with his bare hands, pulling out roots and placing them in an old basket. So simple, yet so strangely elegant.

But then, as we go about our mundane daily tasks, we fail to see the completeness, the elegance of our life. The life we think has a chance of being complete, coherent and elegant is somewhere else, involves doing something else and being someone else. It can’t be this. Just little ole me? Just drinking coffee, eating cereal, driving, doing my job that has pretty minimal impact on the grand scheme of things, going to a restaurant, watching TV? Me, with my scattered mind, my uncharitable thoughts, my bad habits, my unrealized ambitions, my piles of unsorted junk? What’s complete, coherent and elegant about all that, unless you set your standards very, very low?

Enlightenment involves settling into your very life, wholeheartedly, without comparing yourself to others, or even to any ideals. The result of this is an ability to see your life as complete and elegant – at least some of the time. And even when you can’t see it that way, you know it is that way, you just can’t see it that way right now. This is not to say you begin carrying around a neat narrative that could be portrayed in a 90-minute movie; the story is not the point, and actually only gets in the way. The point is that you can view your own life with interest and respect, and inhabit it completely because you aren’t looking for life somewhere else.

It is difficult to stress this point enough: really, it’s about you, just as you are, in your life, just as it is. Even though in the end the details don’t matter, you are nowhere else but in the details. You might say this is about “accepting yourself for who you are,” but such acceptance might still stay at a superficial level: telling stories about who you are and talking yourself into the idea that you’re really not that bad after all. Completely inhabiting your life is more immediate, gritty and neutral than this; it’s not about you being OK in the final analysis, it’s about this being your chance to be alive, so what are you going to do with it?

You have to be careful about giving this kind of teaching to someone who is depressed or in despair, in case they misunderstand it. They may think you are saying, “It’s never going to get any better this awful experience you are having, you just have to give up hoping for anything better.” Fortunately, that is not true; they do not have to give up hope for anything better, because their experience of their life just as it is could be radically different.

When we deeply settle into our life, no matter what our life looks like, there is a satisfaction, relief, strength and dignity that come from recognizing our life as complete and elegant. Frankly, it feels better to be fully present – no matter what’s going on – than to be casting about here, there and everywhere for our Real Life. We are better able to appreciate each moment – those moments like when the women calmly carry water back to their families on their heads, or when the old man fingers the roots in the soil. We watch ourselves load the dishwasher, read the back of a macaroni and cheese box, and meet a customer’s eyes. We see life unfolding in the shape of our life.

Contrary to some romantic ideas, the simple elegance and dignity of human life is not limited to the distant past or to non-industrial cultures. It has just taken different forms, and we find it difficult to recognize those forms as elegant and beautiful because they are so familiar. They are too close to us. When we finally recognize the elegant forms of our life, it comes as a surprise how close they’ve been all the while.

In his fascicle “Zenki,” or Undivided Activity, Dogen writes:

“Let us quietly consider whether our own present life, and the miscellaneous real dharmas [things] which are co-existing with this life, are part of life or not part of life… There is nothing, not a single moment nor a single dharma, that is not part of life. There is nothing, not a single matter nor a single state of mind, that is not part of life.”[1]

If you’re anything like me, this passage makes you feel better somehow. Even if we don’t fully understand it, it is comforting to know none of our moments, none of our experiences, no parts of ourselves are excluded. This is because we long for our Real Life, to be living and appreciating our Real Life, for there to be no interruptions in our Real Life as we live out our limited amount of time on this earth. It’s nice to know that the time waiting in traffic, even if we are feeling agitated because of it, is not actually stolen from our Real Life.

This complete and elegant life of ours is as close as the nose on our face and does not require a continuous self-consciousness to manifest. We actually can’t help manifesting our complete, Real Life. Dogen writes:

“…all functions of life-and-death may be present in a situation like a strong man flexing and extending an arm. Or they may be present in a situation like a person in the night reaching back with a hand to grope for a pillow.”[2]

When we are functioning completely, it is completely natural. This completeness, coherence and elegance is not something our conscious self creates or imposes.

Still, there is realization of this completeness of our life. This is not just our everyday OK-ness with things. Dogen follows up the reaching-back-for-a-pillow example with this sentence: “[All functions of life-and-death] are realized where there is limitlessly abundant mystical power and brightness.”[3] Can our reaching-back-for-a-pillow (or using-a-toothbrush, or shutting-down-the-computer) be a complete, elegant act manifesting limitless abundant mystical power and brightness?

Don’t feel bad if your conscious experience of this completeness of your life is an occasional, fleeting one, or even if you don’t think you’ve ever fully experienced this.  Keep working on experiencing it, or experiencing it more and more often – it’s worth it – but put your trust in the ancient masters who have gone before you. They didn’t experience enlightenment and then look down on people like you with a sense of pity. They looked at people like you and said:

“About just such a moment [of realization of this completeness] you may suppose that because realization is manifested in undivided activity, there was no realization prior to this. However, prior to this realization, undivided activity was manifested.”[4]

Your life is already complete and elegant, it’s just sometimes you realize it and sometimes you don’t. The completeness is not dependent on your conscious realization; it’s not that your life is complete only when you are consciously embracing its completeness. But when we can consciously embrace its completeness it sure feels better.

The post Your Life Is Complete and Elegant Just As It Is. Really. appeared first on Bright Way Zen.

By "religion" I refer to a coherent set of traditions, resources and institutions human beings create around a particular approach to spiritual questions. The official definition of religion, "relating to or manifesting faithful devotion to an acknowledged ultimate reality or deity," I believe has become more associated with the word "spiritual" for most people. When someone describes themselves as "spiritual but not religious" they usually mean that they pay attention to aspects of life beyond their immediate and personal physical, emotional and mental concerns – like universal truths, morality, or the existence of God – but they do not identify with an established tradition, set of beliefs, or institution. If we use this popular understanding of religion, we might use the term "Zen practice" to refer to the Zen teachings and practices that address our relationship to ultimate reality, and the term "Zen Buddhism" to refer to the set of traditions, resources and institutions that people have created to support and convey those teachings and practices. Zen Buddhism includes writings, a special vocabulary, history, mythology, rituals, devotional practices, imagery, religious objects, clergy, institutions and – most of all – many groups of people, now and over the course of the last thousand years, consciously practicing Zen Buddhism together.

At a relatively shallow level Zen is palatable in a popular context; basic meditation, mindfulness, calm and an appreciation of simplicity have seeped out of the religion into western culture. However, anyone seeking to engage Zen practice at a deep level is likely to be surprised at the full-blown religion they find at their local Zen Center (although many Zen Centers try to dial the religiosity down to be more accessible). Many Zen practitioners feel some disinterest or aversion to Zen as a religion at first, but end up embracing it because Zen practice is so rich and rewarding. I hope that continues to happen, because I believe religion has a great deal to offer people and we should try to make positive changes to its well-deserved bad reputation.

However, there are many valid reasons people forgo being religious. Someone may have been hurt by involvement in a religion and subsequently become suspicious of all of them. Someone may regard spiritual concerns as a very private matter and prefer to investigate and address such things privately. While I love Zen Buddhism and can make a good argument for how almost every aspect of the religion is an invaluable support or venue for Zen practice, it pains me to think of someone who could benefit from Zen practice, but who cannot embrace it because of religion. Someone can identify as non-religious with the same level of conviction as the most devout Buddhist or Christian identifies with their faith, and this choice of the non-religious deserves respect.

I hope non-religious folks can find a way to practice Zen, because I believe that in its essence Zen is about training to master the art of living a human life. I want people to have access to that training even if they aren't interested in religion, or if they follow a different religion. I see this training as a wonderful opportunity to take full advantage of having a human life, but even more I see it as a fundamental human responsibility. Should we not work to master the art of our human life as we would work to master a skill, a trade, or another kind of art? Should we not diligently train ourselves throughout our lives toward greater wisdom, compassion and facility with using this tool of a human body-mind?

Unfortunately for the non-religious, most of us qualified to teach Zen Practice “grew up” in Zen Buddhism the religion. The religion has become inextricably woven into our Zen Practice. When we teach, it is only natural for us to teach the religion, too. It’s a tough world out there for the aspiring non-religious Zen practitioner because engagement with a teacher and Sangha (the community of people practicing together) is arguably essential to one’s Zen practice – religious or not. There aren’t many places to practice Zen without religion, but with other people. At this point I don’t have the time or energy to teach Zen without religion as well as Zen with religion, but it would nice if someone did. In the meantime, perhaps non-religious folks can find ways to practice with religious communities by creatively picking and choosing what they participate in. It might help them just to know at least one Zen teacher believes they can practice deeply without engaging too much of the religion.

Then again, as soon as a bunch of non-religious Zen folks get together to practice, they will start creating customs, teachings and resources. And before you know it…

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Kshanti is one of the six Buddhist paramitas, or perfections. The perfections are “bases for training” toward the goal of enlightenment.¹ The other perfections are generosity, morality, energy, meditation and wisdom.  All five of these other perfections are things we would like to either have or display. Even if they don’t sound like they’ll be all that much fun, at least we’ll look good doing them. Not so with Kshanti.

Kshanti is often translated as patience, and sometimes it does involve patience, but patience implies that there is something we are looking forward to. Much of Kshanti practice involves enduring external or internal conditions that we are afraid will never improve, and sometimes it involves acceptance of conditions that really won’t, so patience seems too limited a translation. Alternatively, Kshanti can be thought of as endurance or forbearance, depending on the whether you want to focus on the “doing” or the “not-doing” required.

Endurance is “the ability to withstand hardship or adversity,” and refers to an inner quality that allows us to stand strong (the “doing”). Depending on the severity of the hardship we are facing, this can manifest as tolerance, patience or a fierce and stubborn determination. We can strengthen our endurance through practice (that is, repetition), and by recalling our aspirations – what do we hope to achieve by enduring? In this case the achievement is not necessarily a selfish goal. For example, we might hope to obtain or create something of benefit to ourselves and the world, or to “achieve” harmonious relationships.

If I have to pick one word to translate Kshanti, however, I would pick forbearance, which emphasizes the “not-doing” aspect of this perfection. This is because endurance can seem like awfully tough row to hoe when things get really difficult; any aspiration can pale in comparison with what we have to put up with, and once the aspirations are gone, endurance can seem like a life sentence of drudgery. The word forbearance, on the other hand, evokes the moment by moment experience of Kshanti:  “to control oneself when provoked.” This points to how Kshanti involves refraining from all the things we would like to do when we encounter discomfort or pain: react in anger, escape the sensations by any means available, perseverate in denial, or struggle ceaselessly for a solution to our problem even when our actions don’t seem to be doing any good at all.

When we practice forbearance we don’t have to do anything besides be. This is, of course, extremely difficult. What does it mean, to just be? Who are we when we stop obeying the dictates of the small self, which demands we react, escape, deny or fight? If we investigate these questions deeply as we try to hold still in our forbearance, our investigation can lead to enlightenment.

It is taught that the complete practice of any single perfection contains all of the perfections, all of practice. When we are faced with ongoing hardship – which usually consumes most (or all) of our energy – we often fear that because of our hardship we “can’t practice.” Fortunately this is not the case. Unfortunately, to embrace the practice of forbearance means to let go of any ideas whatsoever about how we want our practice to look, how we want our life to be, all the things we wanted to do other than practice forbearance. Forbearance usually means our practice is fairly private; there are few opportunities to make a display of our forbearance, and often all we have to share with others is, “Yes, still putting up with the same old stuff.” Even though every day, perhaps every moment, is a new and unique struggle to forbear. Despite the immense effort and skill it requires, there are rarely awards, kudos and promotions given out for forbearance. On top of everything else, we have to give up any concern about what other people think of us.

The problem remains that we expect our spiritual practice to make us feel better, and the experience of forbearance is painful, or at least uncomfortable, most of the time.  It’s important to realize that the “better” we achieve through spiritual practice can be quite subtle. In the case of Kshanti practice, it might only mean that our perspective on our struggle is shifted ever-so-slightly, such that we can see the dignity and nobility of our life and practice, and such that we can appreciate the legitimacy, depth and value of our struggle as full-fledged spiritual practice. The balance of each moment will still usually be less than pleasant, but this shift in perspective can make all the difference in our ability to soldier on and appreciate being alive.

—

1.       Wright, Dale S. 2009. The Six Perfections: Buddhism and the Cultivation of Character. Oxford University Press.

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Other people are the most challenging aspect of our lives, particularly when we strongly disagree with their views, choices and behaviors. The ideal of unconditional love and acceptance of all people can sometimes seem like reckless folly, but on the other hand we can exhaust ourselves with endless worries about, and judgments of, the actions of others.

Try this idea on for size: the development of individual human beings tends generally from ignorance toward wisdom, and from selfishness toward compassion. In a sense everyone is on their own path toward greater wisdom and compassion, although these paths tend to be circuitous. Over the long term someone’s path leads eventually toward greater wisdom and compassion, but at a given time they may clearly be headed away from these virtues.

Seeing everyone as being on a path of positive growth and development may seem like Pollyanna-ish wishful thinking. It may seem like a hypothesis impossible to prove, but it can actually be confirmed by direct observation of life. It is similar to a hypothesis that every object will eventually fall to the ground. Such a hypothesis is not proven only when every last object has fallen to the ground, because life goes on – there are always still birds, clouds, satellites and planes in the air. We have confidence that every object will eventually fall to the ground because we have observed and quantified a natural law that acts on every object. Similarly, it is possible to observe the human learning process and conclude that people ultimately move from ignorance toward wisdom and from selfishness toward compassion, not the other way around.

Growing in wisdom and compassion is not a simple, deterministic, step-by-step process, however. Sometimes we have to hit bottom before we can accept the truth that is right in front of us. Sometimes we fall asleep for years at a time and resist change, including growth. Sometimes we carry such deep injuries and fears that we get frozen at a particular stage of development – until something happens to open the floodgates and a lot of change happens in us at once.

We cannot unlearn what we have learned, though we can turn away from it and refuse to integrate our understanding into our behavior for a long time. Even more importantly, true compassion is always rewarding in and of itself, so the moments when we are able to feel or act on true compassion reinforce that response. Someone who has been truly kind and generous does not bitterly regret that on their deathbed.

We can all think of many examples where it does not appear people are developing greater wisdom and compassion. People often regret acts of apparent kindness or generosity because they subsequently feel unappreciated or betrayed. People seem utterly stuck in harmful or base behaviors, without the slightest apparent interest in breaking out of them. People develop worldviews based on suspicion and competition and actually feel self-righteous about it. This list goes on and on.

When people are stuck in ignorance or selfishness, they are on a part of their path that for the time being leads away from wisdom and compassion. Nonetheless, they are still part of a universe in which the ultimate tendency is toward great wisdom and compassion, and there is a way to verify this: as long as people are embracing ignorance and selfishness they are suffering. It is like they are resisting gravity; it takes effort and causes strain. In order to ignore or resist a lesson they have actually already learned, they need to live in denial and cut off aspects of their life. In order to cling to harmful or base behaviors, people have to starve a part of themselves that longs for things like vitality and competency. In order to justify suspicion and competitiveness, people have to harden their hearts and subsequently, at some deep level, feel alienated and threatened themselves.

Eventually people wake up, open up and realize. When they do, the path ahead of them may seem daunting as the need to accept and change becomes paramount. Nonetheless there is a cathartic relief in giving up the resistance to their natural process of growth in wisdom and compassion, so no one seriously concludes it would have been better to have remained ignorant and selfish.

The one caveat to this positive view of human development is this: people may not wake up, open up or realize before they die. Recognizing this is what makes this view realistic instead of ridiculous.

Still, we can cultivate respect and patience for people if we consider them to be in a complex, long-term process of growth. That they might die before achieving what we recognize as sufficient growth is a cause for compassion, not judgment. Rather than writing people off, we start to observe them carefully, trying to understand and appreciate the lessons they are struggling with and their moments of insight. While watching people suffer causes us pain, we can cultivate an open-hearted curiosity about how they will find their way out of their stuck places.

Human development does not follow a fixed schedule. This is where the Buddhist imagery of multiple lifetimes is inspirational, even if it is considered only metaphorically. In this imagery someone who dies while headed away from wisdom and compassion is reborn in some way into another life, where the process of learning and development continues. Eventually, then, everyone reaches enlightenment, even if it takes countless lifetimes. Without relying on a belief in literal rebirth we can acknowledge some of the truth in this imagery by thinking of how human beings learn from one another. Someone who dies enmeshed in ignorance and hard feelings can remind the people around them not to follow that example, but renew their efforts to grow in wisdom and compassion. So in a sense the hard lessons of a troubled life are never wasted.

Next time someone exasperates you, try thinking of them as being on a very long path toward wisdom and compassion. Think of multiple lifetimes, and try to be patient – with them, and with yourself.

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When people describe themselves as “spiritual” they usually mean that they pay attention to aspects of life beyond our personal physical, emotional and mental concerns. By “spiritual” they refer to intangible things like meaning, universal truths, the nature of existence, or, literally, spirits and deities.

When they say they are “not religious,” on the other hand, people are usually saying that they are not actively involved with any of the human institutions or traditions that have evolved to address spiritual concerns.

There are many reasons people forgo being religious. They may not have found a religion that appealed to them. They may have been hurt by involvement in a religion and subsequently become suspicious of all of them. They may regard spiritual concerns as a very private matter and prefer to investigate and address such things on their own. They may not feel motivated enough to spend the time, energy and money required for active engagement in a religion.

At least many non-religious people will admit to being spiritual. What a shame it is if they don’t! What is a human life lived without attention to aspects of life beyond our personal physical, emotional and mental concerns? Doesn’t a lack of interest in intangible things like meaning, universal truths, the nature of existence, or God result in a small, self-absorbed life?

If many people can’t be bothered with “spirituality,” perhaps part of the problem springs from the way we conceive of it to begin with. When we specify “spiritual,” we usually conceive of a realm separate from our everyday lives – that is, our basic physical, emotional and mental concerns. This “spiritual” realm becomes disembodied and well, frankly, rather ethereal and fruity at times: filled with goodness, light, and anthropomorphic trees. To experience something spiritual comes to mean experiencing something special.

For many people “spiritual” sounds like something too removed from their everyday life, something extra. Their everyday life may be rich and challenging and just fine, thank you very much, so who needs this extra thing called spirituality? Or their everyday life may be troubled but “spirituality” doesn’t seem to offer anything relevant or useful.

What if we conceived differently our human relationship to aspects of life beyond our personal physical, emotional and mental concerns? What if we considered it a human responsibility to become a student of life and to practice diligently throughout our lifetime to get better and better at being human?

Being a human is an amazingly complex experience, an enormous responsibility, and an incredible opportunity. Our capacity to learn and adapt is unlimited. The different ways we can manifest, express ourselves, create, destroy, heal and harm are infinite. We change throughout our lives physically, emotionally and mentally. And yet we commonly hold that someone knows how to be responsible for a human life once they are eighteen years old. Or maybe 21, 25, 30 or 40. If someone doesn’t “have it together” at least by the time they are middle aged we think it’s pretty sad.

What does it mean to get better and better at being a human being? You get to know yourself intimately – your strengths, weaknesses and blind spots. You learn how to best handle yourself, like you would learn to handle a car in order to provide a smooth, efficient, safe ride. You carefully examine and work through your stuck places so you can respond to beings and situations with presence, patience and compassion. You search out and face your deepest fears so they can’t control you from behind or sneak up on you at a vulnerable moment. You take any opportunity you can to explore your relationship to the universe so you continually deepen your understanding about your place in it, and about the nature of existence.

When we practice being human, it is a process without end. Practicing being human can include every aspect of our lives – physical, emotional, mental, spiritual or religious. It includes our special feelings and insights, and it includes our annoyance at having to take out the trash. Practicing being human is not optional or extra. It is an ennobling responsibility, and utterly fascinating.

So we needn’t be religious, or even spiritual, according to the usual definitions of these terms. However, let’s not relegate the profound practice of being human only to the spiritual or religious realms. It would greatly benefit ourselves and the rest of the world if we embraced the practice of being human like we might embrace a new area of study or a new kind of physical training. “Practice” means to carry out, apply, and to perform repeatedly so as to become proficient. There is no limit to how proficient, even masterful, we can become at being human.

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I think the most profound and true religions – or the most profound and true forms of the various religions – refrain from any definitive explanation of “why.”

Our longing to know “why” is perfectly natural and reasonable. We would like to understand the “why” so we can try to prevent terrible things happening to people, including us and our loved ones, in the future. We would like to understand the “why” so we know our own culpability in the matter (ideally we find we are free of any responsibility for a given event, but at a deep level we appreciate this is rarely, if ever, true).

Religions throughout time have offered up all kinds of answers for why terrible things happen: the whims of capricious gods that must be cajoled and pleased; the position of the stars; the will of ghosts or spirits; the people affected or involved deserved their fate because of bad things they did in a past life; the people affected or involved deserved their fate because they were displeasing to God in their current life. Whatever the answer, a religion is also obligated to provide corresponding recommendations for how to avoid similar calamity via ritual, offerings, beliefs, codes of behavior, or adepts who can intercede with gods or spirits on our behalf.

Thus, with the help of religion, out of the sadness, confusion and fear associated with terrible events and situations there can arise certainty and a plan of action. But at what cost? It’s one tiny step from explanation to blame. If you are the one who is suffering right now, what good does my explanation for that suffering do you, unless you agree it is correct and get with my religion’s program? Far more likely that you do not do either of these, and the comfort my religion provides me only serves to alienate us from each other.

What if a religion offers no explanation, but instead offers this: “In this world there is great suffering as well as great joy. It can be very difficult to find peace and strength and to live a good life in such a world, but here are some ways to do it…”

With support, then, the religious practitioner is asked to develop the spiritual maturity to tolerate ambiguity and a lack of control over the fortunes of life. Without trying to come up with explanations just to comfort herself, this kind of religious person can bear true witness to the sadness, confusion and fear that come along with terrible things. Out of this bearing witness there can arise insight into what might best be done to minimize suffering now and in the future. The easy, simple refuge of an explanation is foregone for a resilient ability to find a more poignant kind of peace without reliance on explanations.

I respect the nod to mystery that is given when religions answer the big “Why” with, “It’s part of God’s plan. We cannot possible comprehend God, so we cannot always understand his plan.” This invites us to let go of explanation. However, religions generally add, “Still, even if you can’t understand it, you can rest assured that God has a plan, and that it is a good and beneficial plan.” Oops, one step too far. Nice to think that everything is going to work out well in the end, but what kind of good plan involves the slaughter of innocent children?  At some point the explanations religions offer become too ridiculous for people to accept – and then those explanations cease to provide the peace, strength and context they were intended to.

I hope religions as well as individuals will continue to grow and evolve. I hope we will all work to stay with the discomfort a little longer each time and postpone as long as possible explanations that might bring some relief but will shut down our dialogue with the world. I hope religions will begin to refrain from offering explanations when there aren’t any, but instead offer support to people to find peace, strength and direction in the midst of the wonderful, terrible, ambiguous world in which we find ourselves.

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Sesshin is a powerful tool for spiritual transformation.

A little like a meditation marathon, sesshin requires enormous endurance. Experiences during sesshin include periods of bliss, boredom, profound stillness and peace, agitation, exquisite appreciation for just-this-moment, tremendous aversion to just-this-moment, deeper concentration than is usually possible outside of sesshin, and periods of having to endure compulsive thought patterns that repeat endlessly like broken records. Experiences include profound insights of either a universal or personal nature, and seemingly prolonged periods of frustration, fruitless striving, sleepiness and dullness. There can be periods of great physical or emotional discomfort or pain, and periods when we settle so completely that this pain is transcended.

And usually you will experience at least a little of every of one of these things over the course of a single sesshin.

The irony is that when you tell people you are going to a meditation retreat they often sigh enviously because they think you are going away for a week of pleasant peacefulness. Ha! You think, “If they only knew how I was going to spend my vacation time, they would think I was crazy.” And, sometime during the sesshin, when you enter your fourth or fifth straight hour of painful, dull meditation, you will probably think you are crazy, too.

What keeps people coming back to sesshin, despite the sometimes grueling nature of it? It’s not the moments of a sesshin that are peaceful and pleasant, although those are very nice. It’s the overall effect on our Zen practice and our life.

Spending a week in sesshin is comparable to spending time in graduate school, or in an intensive training course, the subject matter being your own mind. You may learn a great deal studying in your spare time, but nothing compares to setting aside the time and energy to delve as deeply into a subject as you possibly can.

What we study in sesshin is not about the content of our mind, although we will end up learning a great deal about that. What we are focusing on is how we use our mind. Or, actually, our “body-mind,” because there is no separation between our body and our mind. We ended up with this human body-mind, and it is often assumed that by the time we have turned 18 – or, perhaps, 21, or 30, but certainly by 40 or 50 – we know how to be that body-mind and fulfill its full potential.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

There are infinite ways to screw up this human life, or at least to compromise it. We unknowingly dwell in delusion and misunderstanding, and create suffering for ourselves and others – deliberately or with the best of intentions. We let skeletons hide in our closets until they bust out at some moment we are at our most vulnerable. We let our fears control us and chase away the intimacy we crave. On the other hand, there are infinite ways to deepen, expand, clarify and intensify our experience of this human life. No subject can be studied completely, to the point that everything is known, so of course this is the case with so profound a subject as how to best use this incredible instrument called a human body-mind.

If you are suffering deeply, going to sesshin to face that suffering can seem very daunting. Indeed, your experience of sesshin may be quite challenging as you try to allow yourself to see and fully experience what is troubling you. It is generally always worth it.

If you don’t think sesshin sounds worth it because your life is good enough as it is, that’s fine. However, to quote one of our zen ancestors, “When dharma does not fill your whole body and mind, you think it is already sufficient. When dharma fills your body and mind, you understand that something is missing.”[1] Of course something is missing; in an infinite universe, how could you have it all?

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We could almost say that we hold the truth that we need to look out for ourselves as being “self-evident.” Even an amoeba enacts this truth, right?

Basic self-preservation and taking care of our lives is a natural and healthy activity, but the irony is that our very obsession with this kind of activity leads to misery. The fact that obsession with “I, Me and Mine” leads to misery is one that probably can only be verified experientially. A philosophical argument isn’t likely to convince you, because in some ways it doesn’t make any sense. We are able to test and verify this teaching if we experiment with our subjective experience of our life.

For example, in a given situation we find our concern about “I, Me and Mine” being aroused. This leads to fear, which may manifest dramatically or more subtly as something like stress, anxiety, worry, impatience or irritability. Then, while remaining aware and engaged in the situation, we drop our concern with “I, Me and Mine.” Amazingly, the fear decreases or disappears entirely even though our ability to take care of ourselves and our lives does not.

This strange phenomenon occurs at least in part because we humans are too smart for our own good. We are able to create elaborate concepts about self and other, past and future, desirable and undesirable. Our basic, natural, functional drive to take care of ourselves becomes blown way out of proportion as we brood over the past, analyze the present for threats and opportunities, and try to anticipate future ones. While a simpler animal is devoted to preserving its own well-being and that of its family, humans devote themselves to the maintenance of an infinite number of complex and amorphous things like reputations, roles, ideas, estates, plans and pride. Our “I, Me and Mine” develops into an elaborate universe that exists mostly in our own heads.

There is a time and place for useful analysis and planning, and we can’t function as human beings without concepts. However, the more obsessed we are with “I, Me and Mine,” the more stress and misery we will experience. That elaborate universe in our heads takes an enormous amount of work to maintain, even just mentally, and it is under constant threat. The number of ways something might go wrong are infinite, and if nothing else we have to stay on our toes because everything is constantly changing.

When we put down the burden of worrying about “I, Me and Mine” for a moment, we feel grounded and relieved. We can deal with what is right in front of us – and even if that is a dire emergency, it will be easier to handle than a dire emergency plus the myriad fears and reactions we can add to it by evaluating it in terms of “I, Me and Mine.”

The ability to drop the concern about “I, Me and Mine” – at least for a moment at a time – is something we develop with our zazen practice. It’s a little like we’re behind the wheel of a car for the first time, and it takes us a while to figure out how to turn the windshield wipers off; there’s an internal switch for our “concern for I, Me and Mine” that we can toggle at will. It’s not always easy to do, but it’s well worth learning how.

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As long as we are reactive, our agendas will obscure and color the truth that we can see.

For example, let’s imagine that in a moment of apparent clarity I realize that I am unhappy in my marriage and long to get out of it. Along with this realization comes many other thoughts and feelings. I may feel a desperate imperative to make a change because of the pain, but I may also be filled with dread about all of the repercussions that ending my marriage may cause. I may feel depressed and trapped because I don’t feel I have the option of ending the relationship. I may feel immense sadness and grief, or a determination to “fix” my marriage asap. With all of these thoughts and feelings churning around inside me, I am likely to take action to relieve my distress – by announcing to my husband that our marriage is over, by insisting that we go to counseling right now, by calling up my friends for advice, or by trying to drown my sorrows in alcohol or some other distraction.

Some reactions will have more drastic effects than others, and sometimes in trying to limit our reactivity we can at least opt for the least dramatic or irreversible ones. Unfortunately, whatever reactive behaviors we engage in are likely to stir up the waters of our body-mind and compromise the clarity that allowed us to attain the initial insight that set the whole chain reaction off. If I start reacting in the scenario described above I will be too involved in creating a storyline, having arguments, dealing with the reactions of others or avoiding the pain to look more deeply into the issue at hand.

Now imagine that I have built a stable base for my practice that supports my determination to sit still through it all, and in a moment of apparent clarity I realize that I am unhappy in my marriage and long to get out of it. Thoughts and feelings still arise because of this realization, but I sit and watch them all carefully. “Just sit, don’t react!” I tell myself, and because I’ve done this dozens or hundreds of times before I am actually able to do it. Subsequently I prescribe myself the medicine of seeking refuge in Sangha, talking to a teacher, and/or taking time alone to reflect. All of these things help me remain steadfast and clear-minded. Above all I am extra careful to keep the precepts – do not indulge anger, do not speak dishonestly, do not praise self or blame others – in order to minimize the karmic mess I make, which will only confuse things further.

Having sat still through my realization and its related thoughts and feelings, it is very likely that I will gain more understanding around it. The insight will unpack and I will be able to get some perspective on it. In the example we have been using I may remember that I have felt unhappy and restless in previous relationships and it has much to do with my level of satisfaction with my own daily activities or life direction. I may recall that my husband has not been feeling well lately, and that tends to exacerbate my level of dissatisfaction with the relationship. I may realize that my own lack of communication has contributed to the state of my marriage and that it would be unkind and unskillful to suddenly let loose a torrent of complaints about it when I have been silent for years. If it becomes clear that action needs to be taken, my stillness will allow me to choose the wisest course.

Perhaps even more important than the effect of a commitment to stillness on the present, however, is its effect on the future. Each time we are able to sit still for a little while longer, we strengthen our ability to do it. When we can trust ourselves to sit still and not react too quickly no matter what we encounter, we will encounter more. We will be able to open up to insights about ourselves and our lives that at first can be very scary, overwhelming, disappointing, discouraging, confusing and even traumatic. Such insights can eventually help us heal and change. They can help us become more free and present in our lives, so the initial difficulty is worth it. We are unlikely to let ourselves see these things as long as we are sitting on the edge of our seat, nervously asking, “What if…?” Insights are much more likely to come when we firmly sit, holding the answer to the question “what if” in our body-mind: “No matter what, I will just sit here.”  

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We don’t have go seeking for our shit when we meditate. Zazen, seated meditation, doesn’t have to become a grim session of taking account of how crappy our life is or how flawed we are. We also need to be open to awareness of the joy and positivity in our life; we have to be completely open to awareness of everything as it is. However, we are much more likely to be open to the positive stuff than we are to the negative stuff, so facing the shit takes some intention and courage.

I like to think of “opening the doors of my mind” during zazen to whatever might wander in. The Zen ceremony of Segaki ritually enacts this process when the doors of the temple are opened wide and the hungry ghosts – or manifestations of unresolved stuff – are invited to enter. It is surprising how effective this ceremony is. Many people report unresolved stuff coming up for them as they sit zazen in the day-long retreat that follows the ceremony in my tradition. In the evening there is a ceremony to send the “ghosts” on their way, but it often takes much longer to become familiar with a new ghost, learn what it has to teach, and then take the actions necessary to truly send it away.

When I open the doors of my mind as I settle on the meditation cushion, I always feel some trepidation. What am I going to discover? What am I going to have to deal with? Am I going to have to change?

When I finally summon the courage to face my shit I am always surprised to find that – no matter how bad it is – it is less anxiety-provoking to face it than it is to avoid it. Finding something behind the door can be scary and might require serious action, but in the long run it’s better than sensing there’s something behind the door but just wondering how terrifying it might be. When we really face our shit there is often some sense of relief. In addition, avoiding or denying parts of our reality increases our sense of separation or isolation from our whole life and from the people and situations we encounter. When we are one with our shit we are more fully present with everything.

When trying to summon the courage to face our shit during meditation (or anytime) it can be helpful to recall the sense of relief or presence that can be achieved by doing so. Sometimes it also helps to imagine the worst that is likely to come through the doors of our mind and ask ourselves if it would be the end of the world (it rarely would be). Alternatively we might talk ourselves into facing our shit by noticing how tired we are of running away from it.

Once we are determined to be still no matter what comes at us, we expand our awareness by letting go of any idea about our life, our body-mind, or what we should or should not be experiencing at this moment. Then our shit can arise and find itself recognized and embraced – because, after all, it’s not coming at us from outside, it was already here.

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What Buddhist practice gives you is the ability to stop resisting the suckiness. This may not sound like much, but in reality it is extremely valuable. The ability to stop resisting the suckiness can mean the difference between utter despair and a profound, gracious dignity in the midst of it all.

The ways things can suck are infinite. Eventually everyone understands the ways our lives are touched by the Big Sufferings like death, physical pain, illness, loss and trauma. Less obvious but often just as difficult are the sufferings like depression, anxiety, boredom, fear, guilt and doubt. We also suffer from being trapped in patterns we can’t seem to change, from being unable to find harmony in our relationships, and from being unable to fulfill our aspirations. Human life is difficult; it’s one of the basic Buddhist teachings.

Just to get one thing clear: when we stop resisting all this difficulty it does not mean that we stop trying to end the suckiness in any way we can. The effort to help ourselves and others be free from difficulties, to make positive changes in our lives and in the world, to support ease and lasting happiness – these are the basic activities of a good human life.

What does it mean to stop resisting the suckiness? We let go of any idea that it shouldn’t be like this. Or, alternatively, I/he/she/they/we shouldn’t be like this. As long as we hold on to that kind of idea it’s like our small self is digging its heels in to stop the earth from turning, screaming, “Noooooooo!”

No, we think, this is not how I want to be. I should not be experiencing anxiety/ anger/ fear/ judgment/etc. This is not the life I was meant to be living. This isn’t fair. This isn’t right. This person should not be obstructing me. That person should not have misunderstood/ judged/ betrayed/ abandoned me. Evil should not prevail in the world the way it does. Bad things should not happen to innocent people. I am stuck in this dysfunctional relationship. It seems like I will never be financially secure/ loved/ able to…

As we lodge our protest against the suckiness in obvious and subtle ways, it takes its toll on our minds and bodies. Our efforts to make changes become colored by a desperate imperative – things must change, or else! We carry around a ball of tenseness in our gut or heart where we push against the suckiness whenever we remember it.

Finally, what is the good of dropping our resistance to the suckiness? Instantly our life feels whole again; it is no longer about “me” over here resisting the difficulty and pain over there.  It is just our life, which can be embraced with tenderness and acceptance despite all of its shortcomings. Instantly we feel relief as we drop the intense effort to stop things from being as they are, which in any case is utterly fruitless. Instantly we – and others – are transformed from beings to be scorned, judged or pitied into beings who gain great dignity in enduring this difficult human life. Ironically, dropping our resistance to things being as they are frees us up to take much more effective action than we could otherwise.

Once we have a spiritual practice, we can feel very defeated by experiencing negative thoughts, emotions and mind-states when we encounter suckiness. It may sound silly, but many of us hope that through spiritual work, or some other kind of practice, we will be able to remain untouched by suckiness. This hope only adds to the sense that things should not be like this, because even if we manage to accept our external circumstances we are still resisting our internal experiences and reactions. The sooner we can include even ourselves and our reactions in "the way things are" and drop our resistance, the sooner we can come home to ourselves again.

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This is why it is so remarkable that this group of priests is striving so hard to stay together – to find out what we hold in common, or what we want to hold in common. At first glance the only thing we could find was this: we all feel passionately about being priests. We all feel that we deserve to be priests, that being priests is one of the most important things in our lives, and that priests are vital to the flourishing of Soto Zen.

This is not much to start with, in one way. All of this passion could just be ego-delusion. We might just be clinging to a role or a label without much to substantiate our claim.

Nonetheless we keep up the dialogue with one another, constantly seeking for things we agree on and trying to minimize the divisiveness caused by the many things we passionately disagree about. Why? Why don’t we all just go our separate ways? It’s a free country. Nothing is stopping any of us from calling ourselves Soto Zen priests and functioning as religious leaders for anyone who cares to come practice with us.

The longer I am involved with the SZBA the more deeply I understand why we stay together. It is a difficult thing to describe, but this starts to get at the heart of the matter: together we can create something greater than any of us could create by ourselves. Or together we can create something greater than any of the lineages could create by themselves.

Exactly what this “greater thing” we are creating will be we don’t even know at this point. Nonetheless we can sense its character when we taste the satisfaction of completing a communal project – one that required us to speak up for our positions but also listen to others and find a creative way to function together. We can sense the character of this “greater thing” when we grudgingly learn to respect and even like colleagues that hold views very different from our own. We especially sense the character of what we are creating together when we feel the growing power and stability present in a group of peers that has tested, questioned and come to understand and trust one another.

Frankly there have been times when I wish I could simply set the agenda and the standards and force everyone else to comply. At other times I wanted to give up and take my toys home, feeling like whatever is being created together is so far from my ideals that it is irrelevant to me. I am grateful that I have not done any of these things. Even though at times I find myself thinking of a phrase I learned from a friend of mine, “It takes all kinds. Unfortunately.”

I imagine this is something like what the founding father felt when they created the United States of America against all odds. It’s really pretty amazing.

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It? What is It, a pronoun capitalized this way? What is It, pronounced with the kind of emphasis that communicates great significance?

Alternatively It is called the Great Matter, Prajna Paramita, Enlightenment, Emptiness, Suchness. These are ways we refer to different aspects of It.

When I write these words, what do you think to yourself?

You probably think to yourself EITHER that you don’t understand these things, “Wow, I wish I understood those things, maybe I will someday.” Or, perhaps, “I will probably never understand.”

OR when you hear these words you have a sense that you do understand these things, at least to some degree; the words conjure up for you a memory of an experience, a mind-state, an insight, or you think of images or sensations that you find comforting or inspiring.

It is difficult to say which of these – a sense that we don’t understand, or a sense that we do understand – is more detrimental to spiritual practice.

Buddhist understanding – prajna paramita, the perfection of wisdom – is completely different from ordinary understanding. It is so different that even though it is here under our noses all the time, we miss It. Even though this Understanding is free and available, we revere Shakyamuni Buddha as a once-in-a-universe amazing person because he came to It without even having a teacher who pointed it out to him.

This is the central teaching of Buddhism – that there is a kind of wisdom, a kind of insight, “which removes all suffering, and is true, not false.” (Quoting from the Heart Sutra.)

The Buddha studied suffering – old age, disease, death, loss, dissatisfactoriness – and asked whether there was any way out of it. He was not the first to ask this question by any means. Almost every religion and social movement has tried to offer people a remedy, a way out, at least a mitigation of this human experience of suffering.

What the Buddha realized was, in a sense, it’s all how you relate to it. It’s all how you see it and understand your place in it.

However, this is not about adopting some arbitrary positive outlook! (Well, you could look at things that way and suffer, but if you adopt this philosophy or view things don’t look so bad…) This is about seeing the true nature of reality.

What is it that we see? A textbook answer would be something like, “we see that we, and all beings and things, are empty of inherent, enduring self-nature.” But this description is so inadequate to convey what we end up understanding.

We could also say “we see that things-just-as-they-are, without the filter of our self-concern, are precious.”

Or we could say “we see that there is only this moment, and this moment is free from suffering.”

Intellectual understanding of these descriptions, or faithful belief in these descriptions, do not convey the release from suffering that the Buddha found. They must be personally and directly experienced for that to occur. And once they are personally and directly experienced we are forever changed, but no experience in the past conveys lasting release from suffering either.

Perhaps when you hear It – the Great Matter, Prajna Paramita, Enlightenment, Emptiness, Suchness – you recall the spacious, unself-conscious feeling you experience in the wilderness.

That’s not It.

Perhaps you think of the “zone” you get into while doing a body practice or artistic activity.

That’s not It.

Perhaps you think of how vast space is, or how we are made up mostly of space, between our tiny atomic particles.

That’s not It.

Perhaps you think of how everything changes, so you can’t really draw a boundary around who you are.

That’s not It.

Perhaps you think of how it is impossible to trace all the causes and conditions and beings that brought you the meal you eat, and how dependent you are on all these different aspects of the universe.

That’s not It.

Now, it would be good for all of us, myself included, if I left you with that message and shut up. But in the West, especially in Soto Zen, we explain things. It is the gentle way.

It is so easy to be satisfied with just an intellectual understanding. It is so easy to fool ourselves that ours is not just an intellectual understanding – after all, if it is associated with emotions, it’s not just intellectual, right? It is so easy to allow what was once a real experience to devolve into a mere memory, a mere view.

Most of us walk around with a largely intellectual understanding of It. As Dogen would say, we are “playing in the entrance way.”

This is why Zen Masters through the ages have pulled out all the stops and done all kinds of strange things to try and wake their students up from their dreams. They yanked their students’ noses, offered riddles, put slippers on their heads. What is that about? Some kind of ridiculous code? A contest to see who was least inhibited?

No.

It says Right Here, Right Now, Do You See?

In a sense it doesn’t matter what is said or done to express it; if both people can experience It, the arrows have met in mid-air. This is extremely important. There is no god in Buddhism that is going to condemn us or even be disappointed in us because we just play in the entrance way. But what a shame.

But thinking you do not understand is just as bad.

When I think like that, I am here, and understanding is over there – in that [other person’s] head, or in the past, or in the future. This can be one of the most painful beliefs. It can also be one of the biggest obstacles.

We are intimate with It every moment of every day. It is never anywhere else.

Once I was questioning whether I should be seeking so hard, feeling so much longing, when I was (supposedly) already Buddha. Gyokuko, my teacher, threw me a pillow. I caught it. She asked, “Did Buddha catch that pillow?” I can’t remember if I answered or just looked dejected, but I certainly did not have the experience of Buddha catching a pillow.

We experience the perfection of wisdom when we stop looking anywhere else.

When the Zen Master comes and challenges us, we answer her in kind. Perhaps we say, “Yes! Buddha caught the pillow!” Perhaps we throw the pillow back. Perhaps we laugh. But the challenge does not send us off in our minds to abstractions or memories, concepts, images, metaphors or teachings. We know the Buddha is nowhere else, and have dropped the self-concern that wonders how “I” relate to Buddha.

Being at home with oneself like that is an immense relief from suffering.

We must struggle to understand, unfortunately there are no shortcuts. But what we do in that struggle is exhaust all of our dreams until finally there is no place left to go. Then we see It is something we have understood all along. We just didn’t know what kind of understanding to look for.

And a final note – having answered the Zen master’s challenge one day does not mean we will be able to do so the next. This is not an understanding that is of any use to us in the past.

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Zen, and Buddhism in general, has many tools for effecting change in ourselves. It is useful to become familiar with them – meditation techniques, chanting practices, moral guidelines, ceremonies, study, interactions with teachers and other practitioners, work practice, mindfulness techniques, the list goes on. Read about them, ask for clarifications or recommendations from other practitioners or teachers, and try them out.

Now here’s the part I like: try out these recommended tools for effecting change and, based on the results, 1) keep using the tool; 2) put the tool away, perhaps to be picked up again later, perhaps not; and/or 3) innovate and improvise! The point is the result, not the tool itself. The tools, techniques and methods you can use to further your spiritual development and understanding are limited only by your imagination.

Here’s an example: someone wants greater freedom of mind. She wants to have some space and choice around the thoughts and feelings that arise in her, so she doesn’t feel so pushed and pulled around by her own reactions and habits. She learns that meditation is supposed to help one achieve this result, and it is recommended that you sit 30 minutes a day and follow your breath. When she tries this, however, she finds it very difficult because following her breath provokes a mild anxiety attack (or strange physical sensations, or extreme agitation, or something else equally challenging). The experience is so aversive it makes her not want to sit at all. What should she do?

When we are faced with situations like this, it helps to talk to a teacher or senior who might have encountered similar issues in the past and have some suggestions. What many of these teachers and seniors are going to recommend is that you “change it up” a bit and see what results you get. Perhaps the person above will be better able to sit if she attends to sounds or repeats a certain phrase in her mind, instead of following her breath. Perhaps it will help if she doesn’t set up an expectation of sitting for a set amount of time, but allows herself to get up when she needs to, with the aim of gradually increasing the amount of time she can sit. Perhaps she should sit in the living room in an arm chair instead of on a meditation cushion. Perhaps she should sit in the evening instead of the morning, or do walking meditation, or hold a mala while sitting.

The freedom to innovate or improvise – at least while practicing on one’s own¹ – may not seem obvious to newcomers to Zen. Our texts and teachings, and the practices we do when we are together, can instead suggest that there is a “correct” way to do things, and if you stray from that correct way you either don’t belong or are in danger of… who knows what. There is indeed a time to devote yourself diligently to a practice or teaching that does not immediately open up for you, or is extremely difficult. Sometime you just have to keep beating your head against the wall until something gives. But that isn’t all the time. Sometimes you can engage your creativity, and knowledge of your own energies and tendencies, and go ahead and employ the kitchen sink or anything else that works.

The important thing is to keep checking, honestly, on the results. If our example-person tries sitting in the living room in an armchair and avoids the anxiety but then just falls asleep, this is probably not the result she was looking for. If I want my internal experience of meditation to feel like less of a struggle so I decide not to strive to let go of thoughts but instead gently encourage myself to relax, what is the result? Do I just start planning my next grocery list, or is there a moment of spaciousness and real presence?

Over time, we figure out how to be our own teachers. We get to know ourselves intimately, and subsequently also know good ways to challenge, encourage and take care of ourselves. Again, at least in the context of this particular discussion, the point is the result, not the tool itself.

1. Practicing on one's own, that is, outside of a group setting. When we come together to practice we have to follow some kind of common form in order to encourage and support - as opposed to distract – one another. For example, we all sit silently for a certain amount of time, and then do walking meditation for a certain amount of time. Fortunately, most people find it fairly easy to engage in these common practices when they are with others, even if they find them difficult when practicing alone. Of course, you can do whatever you want in your own mind, even in a group setting.

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Sadly, this is a complete misunderstanding of a teaching that is absolutely central to Buddhism. It is important that it be properly understood so people don’t reject or misuse a teaching that could, potentially, be a profound source of liberation.

Part of the misunderstanding of the Buddhist teaching about the nature of human existence arises from difficulties in the translation of Buddhism from one language to another. The word that is typically translated as “suffering” is dukkha. Dukkha, at least as used by Buddhists, is a word that has no simple English equivalent, and most Buddhist scholars agree the word suffering is too limited in its meanings to serve as a direct translation. Thus, dukkha has been alternatively translated as anxiety, uneasiness, stress, unsatisfactoriness and discontent. According to Monier-Williams in his Sanskrit-English Dictionary, duhkha means “uneasy, uncomfortable, unpleasant, difficult.”

If we give up trying to translate dukkha into one word, it could be said that it is an existential sense that things are not as they should be, which manifests in human experience in varying degrees between despair (things are vastly different from the way things should be) and a vague uneasiness (things are not quite as they should be). By “existential sense” I mean a perception based on our experience of the world as self-conscious beings. Whether we are philosophers or not, the nature of our existence and our relationship to the world is of supreme importance to us. We are sentient beings who are acutely aware of our existence, and therefore our potential non-existence. When humans contemplate this great matter, we typically experience dukkha.

The subtle nature of the experience of dukkha can be understood further from its etymology. Sargeant (2009, p. 303) explains the historical roots of duḥkha and its antonym sukha:

It is perhaps amusing to note the etymology of the words sukha (pleasure, comfort, bliss) and duḥkha (misery, unhappiness, pain). The ancient Aryans who brought the Sanskrit language to India were a nomadic, horse- and cattle-breeding people who travelled in horse- or ox-drawn vehicles. Su and dus are prefixes indicating good or bad. The word kha, in later Sanskrit meaning "sky," "ether," or "space," was originally the word for "hole," particularly an axle hole of one of the Aryan's vehicles. Thus sukha … meant, originally, "having a good axle hole," while duhkha meant "having a poor axle hole," leading to discomfort.

For me, it helps to demystify dukkha to imagine someone getting nauseous from riding in a cart that keeps swaying from side to side who is thinking to himself, “Oy, this is very uncomfortable.”

Dukkha – discomfort, stress, discontent  –  obviously arises when we encounter experiences that cause us suffering, like physical pain, illness, loss, trauma, not getting what one wants, old age and dying. But it also arises when we experience happiness, joy, boredom, enthusiasm and whole host of other things. Even the most positive, rewarding and enjoyable experience is at least slightly colored by the fact that it will end, or by the fact that at the same moment innocent people are in the midst of terrible suffering. Most of us experience at least a low-grade dukkha all the time. It is like a mild depression we don’t notice until we come out of it, or an ache we have gotten used to. The vague sense that things are not quite as they should be pervades everything.

Why do we feel the subtlest kind of dukkha, even when everything is going great for us? Underneath all of our more blatant resistance to difficulty and pain, the problem is basically this: we want things to rely on, but all things are impermanent and empty of any inherent, independent, enduring self. Including us. We may not even understand what is bothering us, but the intuition that absolutely everything is impermanent is unnerving.

Every mobile creature on the planet, from an amoeba on up, moves away from things that cause it harm or pain, and toward things that protect and nourish it. This is how separate units of life survive, reproduce and evolve. The desire to look after ourselves is extremely powerful, especially in a creature like us that has a strong memory of its past and the ability to imagine its future. But the amoeba doesn’t care that all things are impermanent and empty; it just goes on about its business of self-preservation and promotion without a conscious sense of self. Human beings, on the other hand, identify our bodies, sensations, perceptions, thoughts and consciousness as “self.” As one moment flows into the next we have a sense of continuity that we assume is the enduring part of who we are.

The assumption that there is an enduring part of who we are is wrong. In reality we are only flow. Our self is a composite of materials, processes and emergent phenomena that produces a sensation of an inherent, independent, enduring self. This sensation is extremely adaptive, but in a very intelligent animal it can produce a side-effect of existential angst. What does such an animal do when it suspects it actually has no definable boundaries and is only flow? What does it protect and promote? What can it rely on safety and refuge?

To the sages of the Buddha’s time there appeared to be only two responses to dukkha:

1. Keep trying to change conditions so we won't feel resistance to them, and ultimately find something permanent to rely on
2. Live with dukkha

The Buddha realized everything was impermanent and empty of an inherent self, so he knew #1 was not an option. He refused to accept #2. Fortunately, he saw a third option:

3. Let go of the resistance to things as they are, and of the search for something permanent to rely on

The Buddha discovered a simple way for human beings to free themselves from the anxiety-provoking experience of dukkha: let go of the thought that things are not as they should be, particularly the thought that all things, especially us, are permanent and have an inherent, independent, enduring self. Put another way: don’t fight the nature of the universe, change your mind.

If this sounds to you like a defeatist approach that would lead to more suffering, you haven’t actually tried it.

Monier-Williams (1899, 1964), A Sanskrit-English Dictionary, London: Oxford University Press
Sargeant, Winthrop (2009), The Bhagavad Gita, SUNY Press

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Do Not Kill – Cultivate and Encourage Life
Do Not See Anything as Separate from Yourself – See and Honor Every Being and Thing as a Manifestation of Buddha Nature

Do Not Steal – Honor the Gift Not Yet Given
Do Not Place Self-Interest before Consideration for Others – Trust That You Have All You Truly Need

Do Not Misuse Sexuality – Remain Faithful in Relationships
Do Not Use the Power of Sexual Attraction Merely For Pleasure, Or For Building and Maintaining Your Sense of Self – Negotiate the Intricacies of Human Intimacy with Care, Respect and Honor

Do Not Speak Dishonestly – Communicate Truthfully
Do Not Hide Your Mistakes or Your True Nature with Coarse Or Subtle Lies – Speak From Your True Heart

Do Not Become Intoxicated – Polish Clarity, Dispel Delusion
Do Not Take Refuge in Distractions – Cultivate the Clarity and Energy Required For Practice

Do Not Dwell On Past Mistakes – Create Wisdom from Ignorance
Do Not Dwell Unnecessarily On the Past or Future – Have Faith in Your Ability, and the Ability of Others, To Grow and Change

Do Not Praise Self or Blame Others – Maintain Modesty, Extol Virtue
Do Not Compare Yourself To Others – Honor Each Person’s Unique Process and Manifestation

Do Not Be Mean With Dharma or Wealth – Share Understanding, Give Freely Of Self
Do Not Worry About Lacking Anything – Take Every Opportunity to Be Generous

Do Not Indulge Anger – Cultivate Equanimity
Do Not Justify Self-defensiveness or Territoriality – Do What Needs To Be Done With an Attitude of Acceptance and Compassion

Do Not Defame the Three Treasures – Respect the Buddha, Unfold the Dharma, Nourish the Sangha
Do Not Give Energy to Skepticism or Cynicism – Cultivate Faith In, and Reverence For, That Which Is Greater

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For about seven long years of my junior Zen training, I was in a pretty much constant state of anguish due to my spiritual longing. These years followed three or four initial “honeymoon” years, when I was thrilled with my discovery of Zen and used it to transform my life. I anticipated being able to continue to “succeed” at Zen the way I had succeeded at many other things, but soon I began to encounter teachings that would not yield to my habitual kind of investigation. I longed to understand what I could not, master what I had not, and be something I was not – at least that I wasn’t yet.

My spiritual longing was aroused by chants like this part of the Hsin Hsin Ming, or Affirming Faith In Mind (by Chinese Zen ancestor Kanchi Sosan), which we would chant daily at the meditation retreats I attended:

The Way is perfect like vast space,
where there’s no lack and no excess.
Our choice to choose and to reject
prevents our seeing this simple truth.
Both striving for the outer world
as well as for the inner void
condemn us to entangled lives.
Just calmly see that all is One
and by themselves false views will go.
Attempts to stop activity will fill you with activity
Remaining in duality,
you’ll never know of unity.
And not to know this unity lets conflict
lead you far astray.

This chant felt like a taunt after several hours of seated meditation during which, for me, there might not have been a single moment when I was not choosing and rejecting, striving and entangled. There was rarely a moment that seemed “perfect like vast space, where there’s no lack and no excess.” And if there was, it was fleeting and impossible to re-create. I was very familiar with the fact that, as the chant says, “attempts to stop activity will fill you with activity,” but the chant goes on to remind us that “remaining in duality you’ll never know of unity.” Can’t stop activity, but also can’t stop the effort unless you resign yourself to – god forbid – never knowing of unity and letting yourself get led far astray!

The Hsin Hsin Ming was far from the only teaching that aroused my longing while making the object of my longing seem very, very far away. Even the simplest of our chants, Dogen’s instructions for zazen (Fukanzazengi) tells us that if we “take the backward step that turns the light and shines it inward,” “body and mind of themselves will drop away, and [our] original face will manifest.” What was my original face? Would I see it only after a dramatic awakening experience? Why couldn’t I get my body and mind to drop away, no matter how hard I tried?

My unrequited spiritual longing led to real despair. Such suffering may seem trite to some people, but then I would guess they have never experienced it. I wrote poems during this period of angst which I have saved in order to help me remember what it was like. Here’s one:

DAFFODILS

On the day of my deepest desperation,
there is not the slightest sympathy
in the gleaming yellow of the daffodils.
They simply wait
for my return.

To me, life seemed bleak and pointless. I had lost my taste for everything, so there was no distraction or solace to be found. I was on the outside looking in, separated from my original face, from unity, from the One, from Buddha-nature, from those who knew.

I remember the brilliance of the daffodils in the spring sunshine, beaming despite my suffering. The daffodils and Zen masters seemed to murmur together about the great mystery of life, just out of my hearing. They all looked down on me in pity, saying to each other, “Oh, it is so obvious, doesn’t she see it?”

For each of us our deepest spiritual longing takes a different form or attaches itself to different words, and this can also change over time. I wanted to know I was fundamentally OK – acceptable, worthy, lovable. At times I longed to be able to speak and act freely and spontaneously, as my “true self,” free from the constraint of self-consciousness. I also craved understanding. I wanted to know for myself what the masters were talking about.

And yet I kept on, because my longing was greater than my despair:

TWO CAMELLIAS

Even after all the effort,
the grief is not gone.

Having tried everything,
having mastered nothing,
there is no hope even
for temporary relief.  And no one else can help.
(Consumed as they are by their own struggles, or,
victorious,
their encouragements echoing,
across the abyss
that separates sanity from despair.)

And yet it seems there is some shred of faith left:
on an aimless barefoot walk in the cold rain,
careless of broken glass
and unyielding pavement,

stooping to pick up two fallen camellias,
cradling pink rain-dropped petals
all the way home,
finding a shallow glass dish
and filling it with water,
setting the camellias afloat in it -

poignant,
superfluous
hope.

The terrible irony of spiritual teachings that arouse spiritual longing is that the Buddha’s first teaching is that craving is the very cause of dissatisfaction! But while it may seem relatively straightforward that we should let go of our desire for worldly things like fame, wealth and pleasure, how can we awaken if we let go of our desire to awaken? Should we really just give up our desire for liberation and enlightenment?

The answer is a paradoxical “yes” and “no” – typical of Zen. “Yes,” because to realize what the Zen masters are talking about, we have to let go of any idea, let alone any hope, of enlightenment. “No,” because until we understand what the Zen masters are talking about, we don’t know what it means to let go of any idea of enlightenment. There is no use in pretending to be enlightened before we are. It doesn’t help to anticipate the final answer and try to avoid going through the process to get there. Ideally we don’t give up our longing until we are truly satisfied; this keeps us motivated, searching and practicing.

After all, Zen Master Dogen made an incredibly arduous and dangerous trip to China in the 1200’s because of his spiritual longing. He wasn’t fully satisfied with the Buddhist teachings and practices he encountered in Japan, so he traveled to China where he encountered Soto Zen and achieved the understanding he longed for. Later he wrote, “Why leave the seat in your own home to wander in vain through the dusty realms of other lands? If you make one misstep you stumble past what is directly in front of you.” This sounds very wise, but hindsight is 20/20. I sometimes wonder whether Dogen didn’t hear a teaching exactly like that from one of his Buddhist teachers before he left for China, but nevertheless had to make the trip to truly understand it.

If you will indulge me, another poem from my years of junior training to remind me how I felt:

ASPIRATIONS

Is an aspiration still an aspiration
when you stop believing you can attain it,
when you stop believing it can be attained?
Just one of billions -
a number beyond imagining -
and full of rot,
sainthood recedes like a puddle of water
in a hot pan.

I, for one,
had soup for lunch,
stooped to caress a cat on the sidewalk,
and drew easier breath
under the yellow-garland cottonwoods
on the riverbank.
What have I to do with saints?  their
insight and perfection,
their principles and influence?

And yet, I’m not ready to fold up
in my stacks of linens
or drown in my dishwater.
Those sages agitate my living
like a mosquito near my pillow in the night.
I keep going forward,
more and more hopeless but
unable to ignore that sound.

Before we awaken to our true nature, our spiritual work is like polishing a tile to make a mirror. This image comes from an ancient Zen story about the interaction between a Zen teacher, Nangaku, and his student, Baso. Baso had been sitting constantly in zazen for ten years. In his fascicle called Kokyo (translated by Nishijima and Cross), Dogen writes, “We can imagine what it is like in [Baso’s] thatched hut on a rainy night. There is no mention of him letting up on a cold floor sealed in by snow.” Can you imagine this kind of dedication fueled by anything other than longing?

Nangaku went to visit Baso and asked him, “What is the aim of sitting in Zazen?”

Baso answered, “The aim of sitting in Zazen is to become a Buddha.”

Nangaku then picked up a roof tile and started rubbing it against a rock. Baso asked him what he was doing. Nangaku replied, “I am polishing a tile.”

Baso asked, “What is the use of polishing a tile?”

Nangaku said, “I am polishing it into a mirror.”

Baso asked, “How can polishing a tile make it into a mirror?”

Nangaku answered, “How can sitting Zazen make you into a Buddha?”

At one level this story points at the folly of our efforts in spiritual practice, when we are still stumbling past what is directly in front of us. Sometimes people in practice have some idea about what the result of practice will be, and when the master sets them to polishing a tile they figure he knows what he’s talking about and they earnestly and busily go to work. Some time later when they are getting frustrated, they think the master has made a fool of them and they get angry. They may even think they have solved the riddle of Zen practice by saying, “Forget this tile-polishing! There’s nothing to get, I had it all along, and the test was just to see how long I would go about this foolish business.” But this is not a real answer. This may make a person’s life easier, but it won’t really satisfy their spiritual longing.

At deeper level, earnestly and diligently polishing a tile is sacred activity even if you can’t make a mirror out of it. In his compassion Dogen writes:

“For several hundred years, since ancient times, most people interpreting this story – great matter that it is – have thought that Nangaku was simply spurring Baso on. That is not necessarily so… the making of mirrors through the polishing of tiles has been dwelt in and retained in the bones and marrow of eternal buddhas; and, this being so, the eternal mirror exists having been made from a tile… Tiles are not dirty; we just polish a tile as a tile. In this state, the virtue of making a mirror is realized, and this just the effort of Buddhist [ancestors].” (Kokyo, translated by Nishijima and Cross)

When we just polish a tile as a tile – when we just sit zazen – ironically our goal is realized. But this is not easy. Most of the time we keep on sitting zazen in order to become a buddha, which is a mistake, but there is no way to correct that mistake without continuing to sit zazen.

The mistake is that we are looking somewhere else for the object of our longing. We can’t help it, it’s the habit of a lifetime or more. Even looking within ourselves for the answer doesn’t help, because even that is actually still looking somewhere else. We have to stop any looking whatsoever. When someone asks you to show your original face you cannot hesitate for an instant, wondering where it is or whether you can manage to show it. It is not that you find your original face and hang onto it for such occasions, holding it up with confidence and saying, here it is! Rather, it is that you are no longer tempted leave your reality to look for the answer. It is just you meeting the challenge before you, bare and undefended. And what is this, if not your original face?

Although we need to stop looking, we should not stop longing. This is just giving up. Our heart needs to filled to the brim with longing as we finally stop looking. Usually we can only do this when we have spent a great deal of time and energy desperately rubbing a tile, and we finally give up out of sheer exhaustion.

ABSORPTION

Luminous moon,
how many anguished hours have I spent
gazing into the heavens,
longing for your bright secret?  All the while bound
to the low and heavy earth
with the weight of my passion?

You are beaming with relief
like a proud parent
as I make the daring leap, call out:
Hey, moon!
How wonderful that we ended up
in the same night sky!

The post Spiritual Longing appeared first on Bright Way Zen.

Buddhist practitioners often find it challenging to understand and transform their relationship to self. What self is good and useful, and what self is a hindrance? We are supposed to be letting go of self, so why is there so much emphasis in practice on a deep acceptance of self and recognition of a bigger, deeper self? Self, self, self!

If you find the Buddhist teachings on self to be challenging, that is just as it should be. They are meant to raise more questions than answers as you explore a teaching like Dogen’s:

“To study the buddha way is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be actualized by myriad things. When actualized by myriad things, your body and mind as well as the bodies and minds of others drop away. No trace of realization remains, and this no trace continues endlessly.” – Genjokoan

What is the self? How do you study it, and how do you forget it? Is there something in your experience which is not the self?

Given that our practice should include a struggle with our understanding/experience of self, you are not meant to read this essay and conclude, “Oh, I get it, that’s what Buddhists mean by self.” I hope, instead, that you read this essay and gain an increased appreciation for how profound and expansive this subject is. The word “self” is used to refer to who and what we are, and this can be considered at many different levels. It is not selfish to want to understand who and what we are; it is the essence of the spiritual search.

To begin with, there is no problem whatsoever with the fact that we each have what I am going to call a “Conventional Self.” This is the sum total of our parts assembled in such a way that our body functions, along with all of the phenomena that emerge because of it. These phenomena include sensations, perceptions, emotions, thoughts, consciousness, characteristics and tendencies. Because of the way life evolved on our planet, almost all living things manifest as individuals – distinguishable from one another and indivisible into more than one living unit – so the nature of our Conventional Self is separateness and independence.

We have a Conventional Self whether we like it or not. No spiritual seeker has ever literally freed himself from his Conventional Self, at least not during his lifetime (and many have tried). Fortunately, from the Buddhist point of view, the reality of a Conventional Self does not obstruct spiritual liberation.

This brings us to the next aspect of self, “Self-Consciousness.” Given our human intelligence, we are conscious of our Conventional Self as a separate existence over time. According to Buddhist teachings, this Self-Consciousness leads to an illusion and the beginning of our spiritual problems. Of course, it is not an illusion that our Conventional Self exists over time, and an awareness of this is necessary for survival. The problem arises because the utilitarian phenomenon of Self-Consciousness results in an attributive error: we assume that because we have a sensation of being a self moving through time, there is an inherently-existing, enduring self which moves through time. We come to believe we have some kind of self-essence or soul that retains its identity through changing conditions.

Once we conclude that we have an inherently-existing, enduring self, we are of course supremely interested in this self’s survival and well-being. We try to make it as substantial as possible, which leads us to our “Self-Concept.” This is everything – all of the sensations, emotions, thoughts, opinions, plans, relationships, roles, possessions, talents, etc. – with which we identify our self and label, “I, me, and mine.” It overlaps with our Conventional Self but includes many things beyond it; for example, I may include my husband in my Self-Concept while he is not part of my Conventional Self. We are rather like the hermit crabs that find bits of debris on the ocean floor and then glue it to their shells for camouflage. We incorporate more and more things into our Self-Concept until – hopefully – we feel our self is protected, substantial, and real.

Buddhist practice begins by asking us to challenge our Self-Concept, which is actually quite fragile. Often, life events have shaken or damaged our Self-Concept and caused us to turn to spiritual practice in the first place. The things we identify with are terrifyingly subject to change and loss, and when pieces of our Self-Concept get stripped away our self feels smaller and more vulnerable. This can cause anxiety, depression, angst, denial, or a desperate scramble to find new stuff to identify with self. Or – when we are ready – it can cause us to start our study of self itself.

Driving our study of self is usually a question like, “Who or what am I, really?” In Zen practice we often approach this question by first looking diligently for our own deep conviction that we have an inherently-existing, enduring self. It takes a while to find this delusion within us. We watch our Self-Concept change over time and morph according to conditions, so we learn not to rely on it so much. We methodically identify all those things which we consider “not-self;” all those things we could lose (limbs, senses, values, personality characteristics, even consciousness) and still feel like we are our “self.” Underneath it all, usually without realizing it, we strongly adhere to the belief that there is a least some kind of fundamental self-particle that we can count on to be there throughout our lives.

In reality there is no inherently-existing, enduring self. What we experience is a flow of causation over time operating in and around our Conventional Self. While our Conventional Self is, in one sense, separate and independent, it is also without fixed boundaries, constantly changing, and completely interdependent with the rest of the universe. Self-Consciousness is an amazing emergent phenomenon¹ of an incredibly complex living system, not proof of a soul.

In Buddhist practice it is the attributive error that we seek to correct (the assumption of an inherently-existing, enduring self behind our sensation of Self-Consciousness), not the awareness of the Conventional Self, Self-Consciousness, or even a Self-Concept. All three of these aspects of self serve important functions and are not a problem or a hindrance unless we insist on attributing inherent existence and permanence to them, or to some essential part of them. When we personally experience the three aspects of self as empty – that is, empty of inherent, enduring existence – we are liberated from the bondage of fear and greed felt on behalf of our inherently existing self. We still feel plenty of concern about the well-being of our Conventional Self, but the fear and greed are not nearly so powerful as when we are worried about the survival of our self-essence. Before awakening we are very, very worried about that self-essence.

So – what about this “True Self,” or Buddha-nature, that we seek to experience? An ancient master said “Our true self-nature is no self-nature,” so don’t get your hopes up for finding the new-and-improved-truly-wonderful-and-infallible self-particle.  At the same time, this True Self is not affected by conditions, so it is very worth investigating.

Basically, here’s the scenario. You’ve worked hard at spiritual practice and have some direct experience of the fact that there is no inherently-existing, enduring self. You sensed the emptiness of the Conventional Self, Self-Consciousness and Self-Concept. So what the heck are you? The experience of emptiness can be very unnerving. Once you’ve gotten used to the spiritual sensation of it – which is a bit like walking on air, moving forward as you usually do but without any of the usual support – and you become more confident that you aren’t going to fall into the void, you wonder why, despite everything, you feel so… alive.  You feel more you than you ever have, or like you have come home at last, or like you are so stable nothing in the universe could knock you over. And yet when you try to find what defines “you,” you can’t find anything. The Truth of this self does not rely on any details of your Conventional Self, Self-Consciousness or Self-Concept. So in a sense it’s not “you” or “yours” at all.

True Self is just what we are when we are without the delusion of inherent, enduring self-existence. The three mundane aspects of self – Conventional Self, Self-Consciousness and Self-Concept – do not in any way prevent the manifestation of True Self; in fact, True Self, or Buddha-nature, has never manifested apart from these phenomena. It is a miraculous discovery of the sages that cannot be located or defined, just experienced.

1. emergence – Properties of a complex physical system are emergent just in case they are neither (i) properties had by any parts of the system taken in isolation nor (ii) resultant of a mere summation of properties of parts of the system. From the Dictionary of Philosophy of Mind, http://philosophy.uwaterloo.ca/MindDict/emergence.html

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All of us hold countless views that we believe are more or less true. They are views about the world in general, about the people in our lives, or about ourselves. From the Zen perspective, all views -whether optimistic, pessimistic or neutral – are at least partly wrong. This is because a view is by definition limited; it involves perception from a particular perspective and does not include the whole reality. When we believe our views and operate by them, we are actually not in touch with our whole reality.

Our goal in Zen is to be free of all views. Except in rare moments, this doesn’t mean being thoughtless. What it means is that we are free of our views: the views no longer hold us in such bondage because we no longer quite believe them.

An analogy I like is this (I heard this from someone but forget where, so if someone knows please tell me): a magician comes to town and conjures up a donkey dangling in midair above the villager’s heads. All the villagers scatter, afraid that the donkey is going to fall on them. After a while the donkey is revealed as an illusion as the magician passes a long pole through it repeatedly. The villagers still feel some apprehension walking under the donkey; they still see it. However, almost all of their reactivity and fear is gone.

Before the villagers recognized the donkey wasn’t real, I consider them to have been suffering from the delusion that there was a donkey about to fall on them. They believed their perception. Once the donkey is revealed as not real, the villagers still suffer from an illusion – there appears to be a donkey about to fall on them. However, they recognize it is merely a vision of a donkey.

Our relationship to our own views is like this. Through careful observation and testing in the laboratory of our own lives, we come to recognize the way in which our views about life have no inherent reality. They can appear very, very convincingly solid and real, but in fact they are ephemeral, relative, changing, conditional and – most significantly – entirely creations of our own minds.

For example, take my bleak view that life is pointless. I am now mostly free of that view. It still comes upon me from time to time, causing me to start sinking into a pit of overwhelm and despair, so according to our earlier analogy you could say I still see a donkey dangling above my head sometimes. Curiously, I do not free myself from the life-is-pointless view by arguing myself into a view that life is great and meaningful. (I tried that for many years and it didn’t work.) Instead, I recognize the life-is-pointless view is just a view, a creation of my own mind, which saps my energy and makes me miserable. In reality life is just what it is. When dealt with that way, directly and without the defense of views, it is sometimes lovely and sometimes terrible but overall it is enlivening and rewarding and worth it.

How do we move from delusion to illusion? How to we free ourselves from our views? We study them. We watch them and become familiar with how they manifest and affect us in the moment. We watch them over time. We question them and test them. We can’t help but notice that no matter how adamantly and passionately we hold a view, it almost always changes over the course of a day, month, year or lifetime. We notice that our views are affected by the views of people around us. We notice that our view depends on the amount of sleep we have gotten, and on the weather. We notice how incomplete and arbitrary other people’s views often are, and begin to realize our views are no different.

Another example of a view is, “I am not worthy of respect.” Someone who holds this view may believe it because it seems true almost all of the time. If he or she is lucky, another person comes along to offer some respect, proving the view is not entirely true. The believer in unworthiness may also watch how, in meditation, it is impossible to hold on to the view of unworthiness all the time. Occasionally, he or she notices moments without the view, and how nice and liberating they are. This experience of freedom from the view doesn’t change the reality that this person may need to work on her self-restraint, or may need to work on his responsibility and follow-through. It’s just that there’s no need to adopt a view of worthiness or unworthiness.

Someone who is fairly free of their views is able to identify their illusions. “Oh look,” they say, “there I go again (for example) thinking the world is out to get me. It sure seems true. Wow, it is very difficult not to get angry and defensive. But I know from past experience that this is a view that overwhelms me at times, and it passes. I know it is not the entire truth – even if it looks like it right now.”

In disbelieving that there is any inherent, unchanging, unconditional truth to our views, there is freedom.

The post From Delusion to Illusion: The Freedom of Disbelief appeared first on Bright Way Zen.

            For most of us, our relationship to form changes over time and occasionally makes big evolutionary leaps.  In my case, I converted to Zen from religious non-conformism and spent many years devouring the details of the forms in an effort to perfect them.  Then, even though I had become a monk, I began to think the forms were stupid, pointless, and a big cramp in my style.  Rather ironically, then, I was put in the position of shuso, the one who helps to maintain the container of form for the whole sangha.  I knew that whenever I approached someone to correct or instruct them about a form, they could see me as a glowing bodhisattva, a bigoted tyrant, a nit-picky irritant, or simply as a fixture of their practice environment, like the hot water pot or the bell calling them to zazen.  To face these possibilities calmly, I have not relied on confidence in myself.  Rather, I have relied on a growing confidence in the wisdom of these forms. 

            I want to roughly describe a series of different relationships to form, based on my own experience and my observations of others.  I don’t mean to suggest this is an exhaustive list, or that the different relationships always unfold in this order.  However, I hope these descriptions might be useful for understanding and accepting the viewpoints of others, and for reminding us that our own viewpoints are subject to change.  Whatever category or categories you might fall into, engage that relationship wholeheartedly: explore it, question it, feel it, accept it, and do not compare it to others.  The most important thing I have learned is that the form works its own magic on us, below the level of our conscious minds. 

            First, new practitioners of Zen often engage the form as if The Form Is the Key.  At some level we hope that if only we can bow in all the right places at all the right times (gracefully and reverently, but also without any ego involved), finally fold our oryoki cloth in a perfect rectangle, finally zing the teacher with our understanding in sanzen with just the right mix of deference and attitude, the reward of Zen will be ours!  This big, complicated, puzzling, frustrating spiritual practice will yield to our efforts (we hope).  Sometimes we see the teachers or fellow practitioners that inspire us performing some simple action like putting their shoes straight and our heart almost breaks.  We had no idea there could be so much subtlety to placing one’s shoes, or that we could be so very far from embodying our own ideals.

            Later, such practitioners have either given up Zen because they felt they could never master all those forms, or they have come close to mastering them and realized they still don’t have It.  Eventually, no matter how difficult you find it to learn forms, you can move through a Zen environment performing complicated and graceful maneuvers (that look really good to newcomers) and still feel dead inside.  You can practice diligently long enough to earn a fancy name or vestment, yet still feel like these are pasted on over your anguish.

            Then we arrive at a rather tense relationship with form: I’ll Do It Only Because You Make Me.  Many people start here, and never go through a honeymoon with form.  Here we can feel a bit like our deepest longing is being held hostage.  Some aspects of Zen have changed our lives or touched us so deeply that we know we must keep coming back.  But then our teachers and seniors insist that we engage in certain activities, and surround ourselves with various paraphernalia, that may be meaningless to us at best and repulsive to us at worst.  We are constantly on our guard against being bamboozled into something that compromises our integrity, independence, values or self-image.  It can be extremely difficult for some of us to participate, for example, in a ceremony if we suspect it is getting everyone all worked up emotionally to the point that they are losing their better judgment.  Some people absolutely cannot practice where the kyosaku (“encouragement” stick) is used to strike people during meditation, even when it is totally voluntary, because of the suggestion of violence, punishment or intolerance.  Others are repulsed by the system of ordinations, wagessas, rakusus, and kesas, seeing it as being ripe for abuse by egotistical competitive types.

            This can be a very difficult relationship to have with form, and many people stop practicing Zen because of it.  Some of us strive to find ways to practice only those parts of Zen that seem pure, or fundamental, or at least acceptable to ourselves.  We dream about how wonderful practice must be at centers where no-one gets ordained, or we only feel comfortable meditating if there is a beautiful rock on the altar instead of one of those troubling, baggage-laden (usually male) Buddha images.  Or we participate at a traditional center, but duck out right before the irritating or aversive form is about to start.

            If we decide to stick it out, though, we may arrive at yet another relationship with form, perhaps best called, Whatever.  This is the “whatever” that is said with a small shrug.  It is not tuning everything out, nor is it a bleak indifference.  It is more good-natured than that.  We can say this about the forms when we begin to notice how impermanent and ephemeral our small selves are, how often we are wrong, how limited is our view, how profoundly we change over time.  Then we start to take ourselves less seriously.  It is not that we shrug and say, “Ah, violence?  Who cares?”  It’s more like we shrug at ourselves.  When our inner champion for social justice is on her soapbox, crying out against the patriarchy we are helping to perpetuate, we smile gently at her and say, “Hmm.  You may have a point there.  But is this really about justice, or is it about you?  What are you so afraid of?”  Because we are holding ourselves more lightly, we can start to take the risk of experimenting.  Reciting the lineage of male dharma ancestors one more time is not likely to forfeit all the gains women have made, so what happens if we do it wholeheartedly, just once?

            In a particularly open and quiet moment, we may come to see the forms as an Existential Lifeline.  Just for a moment, we see what is right in front of us as if we were seeing it for the first time – fresh, without filters, without judgment.  If our eyes happen to rest at that moment on a sunset or a stoplight or a coffee mug, we may have a very interesting experience.  If we happen to be sitting, or bowing, or chanting, or putting on our wagessa, or caring for an altar, or reading a scripture, or facing a teacher, we may receive a piece of the transmission from our dharma ancestors.  It is almost like they have left their initials carved into the rock next to particularly stunning, remote waterfall.  The message is: we were here, isn’t this place amazing?  Then all of the forms appear to serve one purpose, and that is merely to call our attention to the wonder of our existence.  In themselves, the forms are indeed empty and many of them are utterly arbitrary, but they are also profound and precious.

            It is probably this aspect of the form with attracts us to begin with.  Many of us grew up without being exposed to the practice of taking care without any underlying motive.  Sure, we knew how to take care of something expensive, or how to take care when we were about to take a big test.  But to carefully place our shoes straight or eat mindfully so our silverware doesn’t bang noisily against our bowls?  Personally, when I first encountered Zen, I found the concept completely radical.  The reverence and appreciation these Zen people seemed to have for their lives!  I wondered, “How do I get some of that?” 

            Later, even the stoplight and the coffee mug may begin speak the dharma of the ancestors to us.  Everything becomes (at least in some moments) rich and luminous and poignantly precious.  Putting on our coat becomes as reverent and important an activity as putting on our robes.  Having dinner with a difficult relative becomes as engaging as a koan.  Learning to dance reveals as much about ourselves as reflecting on the precepts. 

            Ironically, although it is often Zen practice that has allowed us to experience life this way, this is also one of the times when we are most likely to give it up, or at least find ourselves drawn further and further away from it.  Our response to form becomes It Is All The Same.  Everything is dharma, everything is practice, so why limit ourselves to a prescribed set of acceptable behaviors?  Why spend our vacation time staring at a wall, when we can explore the dharma through passionate sex?  Why continue to perform the same stale rituals over and over, when there is a world full of spiritual traditions out there to explore?  Many of the people in the world who describe themselves as Zen Buddhists, but do not affiliate themselves with any group or particular lineage, preach the dharma of “it is all the same.”

            When we recognize the truth of sameness, when we gain faith that everything, in a sense, is holy, we may also experience a fair amount of anger towards our spiritual traditions and advisors.  It can seem as if they have tricked us by convincing us there was something inherently lacking or defiled about the world or about ourselves.  Perhaps they just wanted to recruit more followers, or perhaps they are much less wise than we thought, but they have distracted us for too long with all their forms and ideals.  Now we have discovered the inherent purity of ourselves and of all things, and no one is going to put us back in that prison of shame!

            Once again, though, if we still stay with the form, our relationship to it can shift in a very significant way.  We may notice that our spiritual advisors were not imprisoning us in shame.  We were imprisoning ourselves.  Having discovered that there is nothing inherently lacking in ourselves or in the world, we have liberated ourselves from ourselves.  If there is anyone that needs to be carefully watched lest they capture us again, it is ourselves. 

            Yet, even when proximity to the form is no longer threatening, there remains an important question: why would we bother to keep holding the form after it no longer seems to serve any purpose for us personally?  Why would we continue to enter into the formal spaces, which often just cramp our styles?  This was a critically important question for me, as a monk.  I realized that as a religious non-conformist, my personal definition of “conform” was “to give up one’s intelligence and will; to lack creativity; to huddle together like sheep out of fear.”  I was shocked to look up the word and find it meant “to act in accord or harmony with a standard or norm.”  What was I missing here?

            When our view broadens, we create space for regarding form as The Creation of Sangha.  This is about conforming with each other so that we create something in common and move in harmony together.  In order to create anything together, we have to compromise with each other.  Each of us has to sacrifice some of our independence, willfulness, personality and flavor not because those things are bad, but because we value and want to support our common endeavor.  Imagine what it would be like if the temple was simply open on Sundays for several hours for “spiritual practice,” and no other forms were applied.  Imagine people coming into the zendo, doing fast or slow walking meditation here and there, bowing in the corners, doing yoga, coming and going, perhaps carrying on conversations and strumming on guitars.  Perhaps that sounds like heaven on earth to you, but ask yourself how supported you would feel in your spiritual practice, especially when the going got hard.  Would you be able to meditate as deeply if the person next to you was doing Chi Gong, or reading a book of poetry?

            Every sangha and its attendant forms is an imperfect package.  Some of its forms may be deep, beautiful and meaningful, and some of its forms may be anachronistic, awkward and inefficient.  When we have invested deeply in the sangha over time, we may be able to negotiate to change some of them.  Most of the time, though, we simply engage in the forms because that is the way we do things when we are together.  In one sense, the more standardized the form, the more inclusive is the group.  It is a very moving experience to go to Japan and see Zen Buddhists straightening their shoes, bowing, and sitting zazen just like we do.  We belong to the same group. 

            Over the long haul, do you believe the sangha is important, to you and to others?  If so, then support it.  Every time you straighten your shoes, you are addressing the sangha: “I value being a part of this community.”  When you come to sit with others, even though your practice at home is strong, you are saying, “This community has been of great benefit to me, and I want it to continue for my sake and for the sake of others.”  Especially when you compromise something of yourself by following a form, you are saying, “Though my community is imperfect, it is doing the Buddha work.”

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As a practitioner or investigator of Buddhism, you probably find the concept of Enlightenment enticing, confusing, troubling or irrelevant – or some combination of those. You may believe Enlightenment is real and possible, and you work diligently at your spiritual practice inspired by the hope – or driven by the longing – that you can experience it for yourself. You may believe Enlightenment is real and possible, but is way beyond your understanding or attainment. You may doubt there is such a thing as Enlightenment, and you may wonder why Buddhism would include a concept that gets people all riled up and grasping after an elusive goal. Or you may have come to the conclusion that Enlightenment is nothing other those little everyday moments of satisfaction, so you know it’s nothing to get worked up about.

All four of these views of Enlightenment hold a piece of the truth and also miss something. The concept of Enlightenment is a frustratingly brilliant one, always keeping you on your spiritual toes; it creates a dynamic tension in our spiritual practice that never lets you settle comfortably into one view for long. When you think Enlightenment is real and possible and outside yourself (whether or not you think you can attain it), a good teacher will remind you that the concept of Enlightenment is nothing but a concept, and the whole point of it is that nothing is separate from you. When you doubt Enlightenment is real and possible, or you think that you’ve already got it, a good teacher pokes you in the ribs and asks, “What about this?” And some part of you responds, or wants to respond, because, deep inside, you long for that freedom, confidence, playfulness, strength, authenticity and intimacy that you know are rightfully yours.

There is something to be attained and realized, even if it is just knowing that there is nothing else you need. Life is different before and after you see your own Buddha-nature, even though it doesn’t involve finding something, it involves recognizing what was before your eyes all the time. It is rather like working to paint the inside of someone else’s house, and then later finding out that the house has belonged in your family for a long time and has just become yours. Same house, drastically different relationship to it. 

In the course of diligent spiritual practice, the path from before to after Enlightenment can be long or short, but it is equally transformative. When the transformation is sudden,  which is uncommon but not rare, we are reminded of just how amazing a transformation we are talking about. People drop to their knees and shed copious tears or laugh uproariously with the shock of such a sudden change in view. When the transformation is gradual it is not so dramatic, but result is the same.

While it is true that Enlightenment is real, as soon as we start talking about it this way – “before,” “after,” “attained” – we step into a trap because of the limitations of language and concepts. We start building an idea of Enlightenment in which it is a definable state or experience – as if we could divide people into two categories, enlightened and unenlightened. This is a perversion of the whole nature of Enlightenment, which is unbounded and free of discrimination.

Enlightenment is nothing other than those little everyday moments of satisfaction; grand ideas about transcendent states and permanent moral purity are tremendous obstacles in practice. However, if this thought lulls us into complacency (ah, Enlightenment is just appreciating the good things in your life), we are missing the fact that from the Enlightened point of view, there’s nothing “little” about any everyday moment. They are all infinite and luminous. And even though you don’t “attain” Enlightenment and stay there, an Enlightenment experience changes you forever. As my Dharma grandmother used to say, if you see a ghost, you can never again be someone who has never seen a ghost.

So, if you are longing for Enlightenment, realize you already have everything you need. On the other hand, if you’re ready to write off the concept of Enlightenment, you would do well to let it kick you in the ass, because there is always more you haven’t seen. In any case, as long as Enlightenment is bugging you, as a concept it is doing a great job helping you along in your spiritual practice.

The post Enlightenment Is Real appeared first on Bright Way Zen.

Most Americans are very familiar with self-doubt in all of its forms. We continually examine the circumstances of our lives, and the opinions of those we come in contact with, for the answers to questions like, Are we worthy of respect, esteem, love? Are we competent, intelligent, reliable, useful? Are we insightful, deep, spiritual? Are we attractive, interesting, entertaining? Are we a good friend, a good spouse, a good lover, a good student, a good employee? Are we kind, generous, strong? Are we good at what we do?

Whatever evaluation we come up with, good or bad, can’t last. Any judgement about where we fall on any particular dimension is relative, not absolute. There is always someone else more or less _______. For every person who thinks we are wonderful, there is someone else who thinks the opposite, or can’t be bothered to think about us at all. Perhaps right now we have a positive evaluation of ourselves with respect to a particular characteristic, but time passes and circumstances change and we lose one of the supports for our self-esteem. 

When we become familiar with how tenuous and fleeting any evaluations of self are, we are introduced to a deep humility. This humility is a good thing when it helps us hold our circumstances with open hands, grateful for the positive and less worried about the negative because we know everything changes. Often, however, we let humility creep over into humiliation as we lose confidence in the positive and dwell on our mistakes and limitations.

In the end we have to be our own fan. No matter how flawed, ordinary, limited or even terrible we might be, we have to embrace our own life and take our place in the world. One of our Buddhist precepts states, “Do not be mean with dharma or wealth – share understanding, give freely of self.” The self of which we are supposed to give freely is none other than this flawed, ordinary, limited, relative self. We have to offer our point of view, share the unique contribution we have to give, let people see our art and hear our voice, wholeheartedly inhabit the roles we find ourselves in, and stand in line for our piece of the pie. We can do all of this with humility and with consideration for others, but at the same time in a confident, unashamed manner.

Offering ourselves in a confident, unashamed manner is relatively easy when other people are giving us their kudos. Everyone has felt themselves buoyed by the affection and support of a parent, friend, or significant other. It is especially encouraging when a group of people have concluded together that we are competent and admirable – we can feel on top of the world. Unfortunately, depending only on support from others leaves us on insecure footing when opinions change or someone we rely on can’t be there for us in the way we need them to be.

If we can be our own fan we have an almost unassailable strength, but most of us are waiting to become our own fan until we meet certain internal criteria. Those internal criteria are generally dependent on external feedback or circumstances, so we alternate between times of being our own fan (if we are lucky) and being our own worst enemy.

We have to learn to be our own fan without conditions. However flawed and limited we are (as if that can be objectively determined), that’s where we are. That is where we have to pick up our life and begin. No use wailing about what we are not. And wherever we begin, we must conduct ourselves with the same dignity and respect we aspire to give others. It’s no one else’s job to believe in us. They have enough work to do. And if no one believes in us, we aren’t going to get far, so we have to believe in ourselves.

It actually takes great humility to be your own fan. Not one of us is above criticism, whereas every one of us can be seen, according to some point of view, as rather silly and pathetic. Knowing this is so, being your own fan means letting go of your ideals and embracing who you really are.

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God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,

And wisdom to know the difference.

This saying is a good summation of our work, as Buddhists, with karma, or the law of cause-and-effect as it applies to human behavior. We study karma carefully – our own personal karma, as well as karma in general – and learn to dance with vitality and grace between acceptance and aspiration.

The critical point is that in a given moment our choices are constrained but not determined by our karma. What course we choose to take is affected by our point of view, our understanding, our tendencies, our culture, our desires, and a myriad other things. All of these, in turn, have been affected by our own past behavior and choices, as well as the behavior and choices of others. There is no way to leap utterly free of who and what we are, no way to step outside of our experience to achieve some kind of ideal objectivity.

Still, in a moment of action of body, speech or mind, there is an opportunity to make a new choice. There is a space within which we can operate freely, acting from a place of awareness that to some extent is free of our karmic conditioning. Our view and our repertoire is limited by our conditioning, but ultimately who we are as beings is not equivalent to our conditioning. There is a part of us that can greet each moment as new and fresh, as if we have never greeted a moment before. Change is possible! The experience of this can mean the difference between despair and a sincere enthusiasm for this adventure we call a human life.

When we taste some of this freedom, when we are actually able to make some real changes in our behavior and our lives, our aspiration can overpower our acceptance. After all, there is no clear boundary between “the things [we] cannot change” and the “things [we] can.” What is acceptance, and what is just laziness or fear?

I remember being disappointed as a child when I heard adults confess their limitations with an air of resignation. “I don’t have enough patience for that,” or, “There goes my temper again.” How could they have given up, I wondered. Why didn’t they try to change? 

Now I find myself saying similar things. “I could never do such-and-such kind of job, I would find it too stressful,” or, “I don’t have the self-discipline to do such-and-such.” And now I know that I have tried to change these things, I would like them to be different, but I have chosen my battles. Some things are extremely difficult to change, and to spend our lives beating our heads against them is a waste. The graceful acceptance of our limitations becomes a source of humility and compassion. We can learn to give others the benefit of the doubt, and be grateful for the ways in which our strengths and weaknesses are complimentary to one another’s. What I can’t do, someone else can. What I can do well is mine to do.

How do we know the difference between what we can change, and what we can’t? It isn’t at all easy, and things change over time so we have to keep asking the question, over and over: can I change this, or should I accept it? Basically, if something can be changed an opening occurs, a new direction we can go when we apply ourselves to the problem. The problem usually doesn’t shift very far, but some progress is made fairly easily through a change in approach. When something cannot be changed – at least not yet – we get the sensation of pushing against a many-ton boulder: despite our grueling efforts, frustration and determination, nothing budges.

When we want to accept our karma gracefully, we don’t let go of our aspirations. Instead, we ask what other ways we can fulfill them. If we can’t move this boulder, what other way is open before us? We can use our strengths creatively and skillfully, and in so doing we keep the sixteenth bodhisattva precept, “Do not defame the Three Treasures:”

In the realm of the One, holding no concept of ordinary beings and sages is the precept of not defaming the three treasures. To do something by ourselves, without copying others, is to become an example to the world, and the merit of this becomes the source of all wisdom.

The post Karma: When to Try to Change, When to Accept appeared first on Bright Way Zen.

If you asked 100 Zen practitioners what they mean by “practice,” you probably wouldn’t get 100 different answers, but you would probably get about 25 different answers. With the word “practice,” some people are referring specifically to the things they do that can be clearly identified as “Zen,” like study of Buddhist texts, participation in Sangha, or meditation. Most include these things but also are referring to the day-to-day efforts they make in their own minds and hearts to understand and/or manifest Buddhist teachings.

Knowing my definition will change over time, I’ll nonetheless take a risk and offer a definition of “practice:” inquiry and behaviors undertaken to address and resolve one’s deepest questions, longings and fears, in order to live the best possible human life in a spiritual sense. Below I will explain this definition, phrase by phrase.

Inquiry and behaviors: In general there are two paths of practice, understanding and manifestation. Inquiry leads to understanding, and the adoption and cultivation of certain kinds of behaviors leads to manifestation. Many people have more affinity for one path than the other. Some of us want to understand – not just in an intellectual way, but also in a deep knowing that comes from personal experience – before we fully commit ourselves to action. Others of us are primarily drawn to manifestation or action and want to start living out our values and aspirations as soon as possible; understanding can come later as a side effect or bonus. Of course, most people are interested in both understanding and manifestation, and ultimately our practice must include both. The Buddhist ancestors have taught many times that no matter what behavioral practices you adopt, if you don’t understand the great matter of life and death you will not really have achieved liberation. On the other hand, what good is understanding if you don’t manifest what you have learned? 

Undertaken to address and resolve one’s deepest spiritual questions, longings and fears: Our secular societies and other spiritual traditions typically offer us two options with respect to these issues: 

1. Don’t ask troubling questions, there aren’t any answers, so just try to fulfill your longings and cope with your fears; and
2. Here are the answers to your questions, as well as instructions for what to do about your longings and fears.

Zen is a radical tradition in that is proposes:

1. There are indeed answers to your deepest spiritual questions, including ones like, “What is the meaning of life?” and “How can there be so much good and evil in the world at the same time?” and there is no limit to the depth of the questions that can be asked and answered except your own courage and perseverance;
2. It is possible to address and resolve your deepest longings and fears, including longings like those for meaning, security and connection, and fears like those of death, loss or annihilation, and again there is no limit to the depth of that which can be faced and transformed except your own courage and perseverance;
3. The answers and resolutions cannot be taught to you by others or read in books, they must be personally explored and experienced. While Buddhist teachers have taught about the answers and resolutions for well over 2,000 years, you do not need to accept anything they offer without personal verification, and if you do, it will not be of nearly as much good to you as your own personal experience. Answers and resolutions occur, come into being, only when lived. 

In short, Zen dares you to address and explore spiritual matters that may make you quiver in your shoes, and is a method, not a system of answers.

In order to live the best possible human life in a spiritual sense: What does this mean to you? According to one Buddhist teaching there are five kinds of “energies” within us, and for most of us one or two energies predominate. Each energy is associated with a different kind of spiritual preoccupation: 

• intimacy (with other beings but also with everything we encounter)
• stability (or security, the sense of being real, strong and substantial)
• order (the universe has a structure that is, or should be, reflected in everything)
• efficacy (ability to move, act and interact with universe in a impactful and efficient or graceful way)
• transcendence (a sense of the “more” beyond the details of our everyday lives)

With each of these spiritual longings comes an accompanying set of typical fears and tendencies. 

Whether the particular breakdown of human spiritual preoccupations offered above makes sense to you or not, it makes clear the variety of ways people will conceive of “living the best possible human life in a spiritual sense.” One person may think of living a moral life with a maximum of benefit, and a minimum of harm, to others. Another may think of rich, meaningful, intimate, brave relationships with family and friends, and an general open generosity to all beings. Another may think of developing a deep understanding of the universe and human life, and creating things that reflect their understanding of the beauty and order they have discovered. What is common to all of these is a liberation of human potential from the bondage of misunderstanding, longing and fear.

You certainly don’t have to accept my definition of “practice.” In fact, if you don’t, if you argue with it, it will be of just as much – if not more – benefit to you than if you find it true or useful. The important thing is engaging everything wholeheartedly in the spirit of practice – inquiry and behaviors undertaken to address and resolve…

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Dogen Zenji, the father of Soto Zen, wrote that if you practice zazen, “Body and mind of themselves will drop away and your original face will manifest.” If you are still waiting for that to happen, it is not because of any of the following reasons:

• you do not sit enough zazen
• your mind in zazen is busy with plans, fantasies, regrets, desires, or nonsense
• you have intimacy problems
• you lack self-discipline
• your life is mess, practically speaking
• you don’t understand Zen teachings
• you find it difficult to keep the precepts
• or any of hundreds of other character flaws or problems.

Any of the things on the above list might be true of you. Certainly many of them are true of me. What other issues can you think of? What things about you keep you from being a sage, or a true bodhisattva? 

It is perfectly natural to want to change, to improve ourselves and our lives. There is nothing wrong with preferring clarity over confusion, equanimity over fear, connection over loneliness, success over failure, comfort over poverty. Actually, if you don’t feel such preferences there might be something wrong. In any case, whatever we prefer, it is essential that we keep taking care of our lives and working on ourselves lest we fall into arrogance or complacency.

While we go about taking care of our lives, however, we may get so wrapped up in our goals, in what we want to become, that we forget the essential matter: awakening to our true nature. And our true nature is buddha-nature – boundless, selfless, pure, luminous. Buddha-nature is what we are when we completely without artifice and self-interest. Buddha-nature has nothing to do with any of the details of our personhood, although it is not obstructed by those details. We don’t “have” buddha-nature within us somewhere, like a pure soul hidden inside, and we don’t “tap into” a big store of buddha-nature outside of ourselves. Buddha-nature is a description of the reality that is always there beneath our myriad concepts and delusions, and it is vibrant and alive.

According the Maezumi Roshi (in On Zen Practice: Body Breath and Mind, 2002), buddha-nature can be viewed in three different ways. First, shoin bussho is the buddha-nature inherent in all beings, like unmined gold in the earth. Second, ryoin bussho is buddha-nature manifested when one begins spiritual practice, like gold one has recognized and has set about mining. Third is enin bussho, buddha-nature fully realized and manifested, like gold one has mined and has in hand. 

Even if we believe maybe we have some buddha-nature, most of us think we need to set about a long, hard process of practice before we can find it, and then spend many, many more years of practice – probably more than we can fit in this lifetime – mining and collecting that gold. Unfortunately, this causes us to sell ourselves short. While there is a truth to this concept of finding and mining buddha-nature – there is a difference between being told you have buddha-nature and actually realizing and manifesting it – there is also truth in a very different analogy, which Maezumi Roshi goes on to describe: 

A poor man visited a rich friend. After the two stayed up talking into the night, the poor man fell asleep. The rich man wanted to help his friend, so he sewed a very valuable jewel into the lining of the poor man’s coat and let him take it with him when he left the next day. I like to imagine he didn’t want to embarrass his friend with a direct gift, but figured his friend would discover the jewel later and make good use of it. However, the poor man didn’t know the jewel was there and continued to wander in poverty. When the two met again after many years, the rich man was surprised his friend had never discovered the jewel, and pointed out to the poor man that he had, in fact, been carrying a fortune all the time.

The truth conveyed by this second analogy is that our buddha-nature is always available to us, we just have to recognize it. Of course, that is not so easy. This recognition usually takes as much effort and time as mining for gold – but not for the reasons we usually think.

Dogen says that “Body and mind of themselves will drop away, and your original face will manifest,” he says, “If you want such a thing, get to work on it immediately.” Then he goes on to describe zazen. Zazen is not just our seated meditation practice, as Dogen goes on to say. It is our whole practice, and is not limited to the cushion (or bench, or chair).

In his first paragraph on zazen in “Fukanzazengi,” or “Universally Recommended Instructions for Zazen,” Dogen tells us to sit, and then: “Do not think ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ Do not judge true or false. Give up the operations of mind, intellect and consciousness; stop measuring with thoughts, ideas and views. Have no designs on becoming a Buddha.”

If you are trying to do zazen, if you are trying to do Zen practice and follow Dogen’s instructions, where is there any room for putting energy into that list I read earlier?

• I don’t sit enough zazen
• My mind is too busy with plans, fantasies, regrets, desires, or nonsense
• I have intimacy problems
• I lack self-discipline
• My life is mess, practically speaking
• I don’t understand Zen teachings
• I find it difficult to keep the precepts
• etc., etc.

All of these evaluations involve thinking good or bad, true or false. They all involve measuring with thoughts, ideas and views. They all involve having designs on becoming a better, happier person, which is our humble version of becoming a Buddha.

In our zazen we drop all evaluation. But saying it that way doesn’t quite convey what’s at stake here. We have to give up all hope of things being different. We have to accept all things, including ourselves, just as they are. We don’t have to like any of it, but we need to release ourselves into utter, complete, unconditional, radical acceptance. Only then will we be still enough to experience our buddha-nature.

If you are anything like me, you resist this kind of stillness and acceptance. For example, if you experience a whole lot more wandering mind and advertising jingles in your meditation than you do moments of profound spaciousness, are you just supposed to accept that? What does this mean? What about effort?

Frankly, you don’t have to worry about the effort. Not if you really practice zazen. Radical acceptance involves looking straight at what we are accepting. When we look, we will see our busy mind, along with all kinds of other things – like our greed, our fear, our weakness for distraction. We will also see our desire for things to be different. All things will be present, and everything will enter the equation. The motivation for change arises naturally out of zazen.

On the other side of the coin, giving up any effort to change things does not involve deifying ourselves, or things-as-they-are, as perfection. That is just the opposite of rejecting things, and it is just as antithetical to stillness. We don’t cultivate and latch onto the thought that we are fine just as we are. Remember, in zazen we don’t judge bad or good.

Seated meditation is microcosm of our entire Zen practice. In our efforts at seated meditation we can see played out the importance – and difficulty! – of letting go of the effort to change things, and of accepting things just as they are. 

I have the opportunity to introduce many different people to the practice of zazen, our Soto Zen style of seated meditation. I give them a 15-20 introduction to posture and what we do – or don’t do- with our minds, and then we join the group for another period of zazen. Later, when I ask people how their experience went, many people express frustration that their minds were very busy despite their efforts to let go of thinking and return to the present. This frustration, while natural, is an unfortunate result of misunderstanding zazen. Often this misunderstanding is my responsibility, as the person who introduced zazen to someone. 

For example, the other day I suggested to a woman new to our Sangha that many of us experience something akin to zazen when we are on vacation, enjoying a calm and relaxing occupation like watching a lake or a sunset. This turned out to be a very bad analogy. I believe this comparison is useful to the extent that it helps us call to mind a natural state of stillness, when we are not actively grasping anything or pushing anything away. However, I realized later that this comparison was unhelpful in that it supports the misunderstanding that meditation is meant to be a calm, peaceful, spacious and pleasant experience. This misunderstanding can be a great hindrance in Zen practice. Someone who believes meditation is supposed to be calm and pleasant may get discouraged when their meditation doesn’t turn out that way. Someone who somehow manages to make their meditation calm and pleasant is most likely shutting out the most fruitful lessons in practice. 

The woman with whom I had used the sunset-watching-on-vacation analogy was relieved when later I explained that in zazen we make the effort to remain attentive and aware of whatever is going on – whether what is going on is pleasant, painful, calm, chaotic, boring or confusing. At no point should we identify and something and think, “Not that. That’s not part of zazen, let’s get rid of it.” We also should not identify something and think, “Oh yes, more of that please.” And if we do think these things, we don’t reject those thoughts, either. We just keep on expanding the boundaries of reality and leave nothing out.

When it comes to accepting ourselves, and our lives, I can’t emphasize this aspect of zazen and Zen practice enough. Almost all of us have something about ourselves we believe prevents us from finding and manifesting our buddha-nature. We think, not me. At least, not as long as I am this way (or that way). Whenever we think like this, we are far away from our buddha-nature.

Contemplate for a moment the possibility that in your lifetime, however much time remains to you, you will never be substantially different from the way you are now. You will never get rid of those flare-ups of anger. You will never be able to improve your self-discipline or concentration. Your relationships with friends and family will never blossom into the heart-warming stuff of movies. Your will never lose any weight, or be any more attractive or charming. Your intellectual, spiritual or creative attainments will never amount to much more than they already have. You will never tap into the energy, passion, equanimity and joy within you much more than you already have. Can you accept that? Can you regard yourself as you would another being, and accept yourself as worthy, sufficient, and endowed with buddha-nature?

This may sound dramatic, but this acceptance doesn’t have to come all at once. We enact it in small moments throughout every day, throughout every meditation session. And each time we enact this acceptance, the shift can be significant, calming and healing. In the instant we move from resistance to acceptance, we move from being someone who isn’t practicing to someone who is. And with our practice, no matter what is going on, comes a greater sense of stability, purpose, spaciousness, and freedom.

I will close with a lovely story told by Uchiyama Roshi in The Zen Teaching of Homeless Kodo:

“Shortly after I began to practice with Sawaki Roshi, I had an opportunity to walk with him… While we were walking, I said, ‘As you know, I’m a rather incompetent person, but I want to continue to practice zazen with you for twenty or even thirty years or until you die. If I do that, would it be possible for a weak person like me to become a little stronger?’ Sawaki Roshi replied, ‘No! Zazen is useless.’ He had a loud, deep voice, was powerful and resolute. ‘I am not like this because of my practice of zazen,’ he continued, ‘I was like this before I began to practice. Zazen doesn’t change a person. Zazen is useless.’ When I heard these words I thought to myself, ‘Although Sawaki Roshi said it wouldn’t be possible, still I’ll be able to improve myself.’ I followed him for twenty five years, until he passed away.

“… Just after his death, I recalled the question I asked during our walk… and asked myself the question, ‘Have I changed after practicing zazen with the roshi for twenty five years?’ I realized that I hadn’t really changed at all. In that moment it was natural for me to say to myself, ‘A violet blossoms as a violet, a rose blossoms as a rose.’ There are people like Sawaki Roshi who resemble huge rose blossoms. There are other people, like me, who resemble tiny, pretty violet blossoms. Which is better? It’s not a relevant question. I should blossom wholeheartedly, just as I am.”

There is a big difference between a violet that is trying to become a rose, and violet blossoming wholeheartedly just as it is. You can tell when someone is at peace with who they are, because whatever kind of person they happen to be, they are radiant.

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Once upon a time a very bold man, King Milinda, put this question to a Buddhist sage named Nagasena. They started out their dialogue like this:

“King Milinda asked [Nagasena}: "How is Your Reverence known, and what is your name, sir?" 

"As Nagasena I am known, O Great King, and as Nagasena do my fellow religious habitually address me. But although parents give names such as Nagasena, or Surasena, or Virasena, or Sihasena, nevertheless, this word ‘Nagasena’ is just a denomination, a designation, a conceptual term, a current appellation, a mere name. For no real person can here be apprehended."

But King Milinda explained: "Now listen, you 500 Greeks and 80,000 monks [assembled in the audience], this Nagasena tells me that he is not a real person! How can I be expected to agree with that!" ¹

Nagasena responded by asking Milinda whether the king had arrived at their location via chariot. The king answered that he had. Then Nagasena asked him what the chariot was. Was the chariot the axle? The king replied “No.” Was it the wheels, the frame, the flag-staff, the yoke, or the goad-stick of the chariot? The king replied no to all of these questions, because none of these taken in isolation could be called the chariot. Then Nagasena asked whether the collection of all of these objects could be called the chariot (picture them piled up together). The king replied no. Nagasena then asked whether the chariot could be found outside that collection of objects, and of course the answer was no. The dialogue continued:

Nagasena: “Then, ask as I may, I can discover no chariot at all.  Just a mere sound is this ‘chariot’. But what is the real chariot? Your Majesty has told a lie, has spoken a falsehood!  There really is no chariot…”

Milinda:  “I have not, Nagasena, spoken a falsehood.  For it is in dependence on the pole, the axle, the wheels, the framework, the flag-staff, etc., that there takes place this denomination ‘chariot,’ this designation, this conceptual term, a current appellation, and a mere name.”

Nagasena:  “Your Majesty has spoken well about the chariot.  It is just so with me.  In dependence on the thirty-two parts of the body and the five Skandhas there takes place this denomination ‘Nagasena,’ this designation, this conceptual term, a current appellation, and a mere name.  In ultimate reality, however, this person cannot be apprehended.”

The “Five Skandhas” Nagasena refers to are the original Buddhist description of the five principles components of a human being: form (the physical body), sensation (raw physical and emotional data arising from contact between the world and the senses), perception (the mental processes resulting from sensation, including the sensing of thoughts), formation (the mental constructs formed within the mind when perception meets volition), and consciousness (our sense of continuous self-awareness). “Skandha” can be translated as “pile,” “aggregate” or “bundle.”

 At first glance the teaching of the five aggregates can suggest a view that we are a just a collection of stuff that just happens to result in the phenomenon of self-consciousness. This is a bleak, mechanistic view, and it does not reflect the real teaching. After all, we are not a random collection of stuff in any case; we are a particular kind of collection brought about by a particular set of causes and effects. And as Nagasena’s analogy demonstrates, there is a certain kind of reality to the “self,” just as there is a reality to a chariot. A chariot did, indeed, function to transport King Milinda to Nagasena’s teaching! It is useful to be able to give a chariot a name and then make use of the chariot’s function. Similarly, to function in the world we not only need a sense of self, we also need to be able to talk about it and make use of it.

Still… the person we think we are “cannot be apprehended,” and this tends to bother most of us, whether we are aware of it or not. We are generally attached to one or another of the five skandhas, thinking, “I am my body,” or “I am my feelings… perceptions… thoughts… consciousness.” This is like deciding that the axle of the chariot is the chariot, when in fact the functional “chariot” arises from a combination of causes and conditions that, when separated, cease to be functional. 

The first main point of Buddhism is that human beings are fixated on finding their “real” self, and this causes them great existential grief because the real nature of the self is an emergent phenomenon. The second main point of Buddhism is that we can relieve ourselves of this existential grief and distress by accepting and embracing the real nature of the self – which really isn’t so bad. We can actually delight in this emergent phenomenon which we cannot, in the final analysis, apprehend. We can ride on the flow of self like we are floating down a river. 

¹ The Questions of King Milinda (Milindapanha), translated by Edward Conze. See: http://instruct.westvalley.edu/lafave/The%20Questions%20of%20King%20Milinda.htm

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This is a somewhat awkward question for a Zen teacher to answer. On the one hand I view after-death experience as irrelevant to how I decide to live my life. The Buddha aptly categorized the issue of what happens after death as a question “which does not tend to edification” - that is, to the instruction or improvement of a person morally or intellectually.¹ Furthermore, the Buddha taught that the religious life has nothing to do with the answers to such questions and in fact the pursuit of the answers may fatally distract one from the critical task at hand: spiritual liberation and wisdom in this life.

On the other hand, as a Zen practitioner I am committed to facing everything in order to see the truth. When my friend asked his question, I noticed that I had been dutifully avoiding the question of after-death experience. This made me determined to examine my own thoughts on the subject – but not in order come closer to any objective truth about the matter, which I believe is difficult if not impossible in any case, and a distraction besides. Rather, I wanted to examine my own mind for what might be lurking there: feelings, assumptions, anxieties or judgments around the possibility of after-death experience.

It seems to me that the pivotal question about after-death experience is, “to what extent do ‘I’ experience it?” Clearly, whatever “I” there is that might experience something after death will not have a physical body, so this “I” will be substantially different than my before-death existence. The idea that our thoughts, memories, personalities, loves, intentions, etc. continue to manifest free of the body in some kind of soul or essence or “life-energy” seems preposterous to me. My personal experience has borne out the Buddhist teachings: our “self” is a flowing, dependently co-arisen phenomenon. We are who we are in dependence on and relationship with our physical form, our brains, our environment, our culture, other beings – in short, everything. There is no independent, enduring, unchanging thing we can point to and call the essence of our self. A different “self” arises for us in different situations, throughout the day, and over the course of our lives. Even if there is some kind of essence or life-energy in us, you can’t just pop it out of a body and that body’s context and have it remain a neat package of all the most unique and sentimental aspects of a person. This, frankly, seems to me like mere wishful thinking, especially when it is coupled with the belief that the neat packets of people-essence collect over time in a great repository where they experience everlasting life. However, this vision is the central tenet, the pivotal teaching, of many religions, so I am sorry if offend anyone by speaking frankly.²

Now things get a little trickier, because I personally know a few people – people I respect and trust – who say they have experience with spirits or ghosts. I do not have this experience myself, but I cannot easily discount it. How does the possible existence of spirits or ghosts fit with my view of after-death experience, if I don’t believe in a soul?

Notice that I did not state the view that we do not have any kind of life-energy that might separate from our body upon death. I simply proposed that such an energy is not going to pop out as an ethereal duplicate of our embodied sense of self, like all of a person’s essential programs and data get downloaded onto an invisible computer disk for complete transfer to another manifestation. It seems extremely unlikely, what with the way energy of all kinds usually dissipates when it is released. But who knows – maybe “life-energy” acts differently (although I hate to speculate about some previously undiscovered form of energy or matter). Maybe “life-energy,” when it is very strong, has its own gravitational pull and remains coalesced. 

Even if we have some kind of life-energy that remains collected after death, perhaps even with some kind of shape and characteristics (let’s call it a spirit), what would be the nature of this phenomenon? Given our plentiful stories of forlorn or vengeful ghosts, I get the impression that persistence of a spirit is often the result of painful or negative impulses or mind-states, like the desire for revenge, an unrequited passion, or an inability to accept a difficult reality. Being pulled into a future existence (of some sort) by such unresolved issues seems to me like remaining in bondage. I hope that before I die I have managed to thoroughly examine my mind and heart and resolve anything that might clutch me to its bosom in the transition of death.

Still, it appears that troubled ghosts are not the only kind of spirit. Tibetan tulkus are supposedly the result of spiritual adepts who deliberately chose, upon death, to send their life-energy toward a rebirth in another human form (starting from the moment of conception). The advantage of doing this is that the reborn person inherits some of the dead adept’s spiritual strength and wisdom, and their ardent intention to be of benefit to others. It’s a “leg-up,” if you will, in the new being’s spiritual practice. If this is possible (and I am not saying it is), than it seems that a spirit can also be the result of selfless and positive impulses or mind-states, like a pure altruistic desire to be of service.

Should we aim to retain some kind of self-existence after death, especially if there is a potential to pay our good qualities forward into some other being (or beings)? I, for one, am not inclined to try, because I think this is a very tricky business. I strongly suspect that if we have a selfish motivation for lingering as a spirit or taking some kind of rebirth, we are enslaving ourselves – and I don’t think many of us will develop the spiritual mastery required to be free of all selfish motivation, especially during the transition of death.

If we can, instead, offer to pay our good qualities forward in an open-handed way, I think we will have all of our bases covered. That is, we can avoid lingering after death in the bondage of self-attachment, and we can also take advantage of any potential to put our life-energy to good use after our death. When we offer ourselves in an open-handed way, we are not expecting anything in return. We are not offering up the best we have only if we can be there to see it used. I don’t blame people for being rather obsessed with the possibility that they will have some degree of self-consciousness after death, it seems rather natural. However, in my experience self-concern is the recipe for suffering, while letting go of self-concern is liberation that allows for full life and intimacy with the universe. I view the transition of death as the ultimate opportunity for letting go of self-concern. And what happens after death? It is impossible for me to imagine the fate of human beings after death as anything but utterly mind-blowing and profound beyond imagining – because that’s my experience of the universe so far. Why would the nature of the universe change after death?

1 The Lesser Mâlunkyâputta Sutta, Sutta 63 of the Majjhima-Nikâya, http://www.sacred-texts.com/bud/bits/bits013.htm

2 This is one good reason not to speak frankly. In fact I have great respect for many individuals who hold beliefs like the ones I describe, and I am sorry if I offend them. Still, I think that every once in a while it is good for each of us to speak our truth without restraint.

The post How I View After-Death Experience appeared first on Bright Way Zen.

First, we want transformation – of our selves, our families, our communities, our culture, our government, our economy, our world. Something needs to be done. Even if we are able to forget this for some periods of time because of our good fortune, all around us are reminders that weigh on us: the homeless person we walked by today; the increasing number of foreclosed houses in all kinds of neighborhoods; the strange weather; the images of suffering on television. If we have any idealism or hope left, we are deeply stirred by the idea of transformation: not just some half-hearted compromise but a thorough and dramatic change, one that takes what we already have and pushes it to transcend current limits, unlock potential, and grow into something that functions beautifully.

Second, the phrase “transforming the heart” mentions this elusive but potent human concept of “the heart.” We could describe “the heart” many ways, but for today let us think of the heart as what we identify with most closely – our central source of motivation. It is not our intellect or even our conscious will. Our heart is affected by our emotions, our experiences, our desires, our fears and our view of the world, amongst other things. The heart is where we hold our best version of the truth about ourselves and our world. Our behavior is profoundly affected by the state of our heart, and in Buddhism our “behavior” means our actions of body and speech, as well as what we do with our minds.

So what do we mean by “transforming the heart?” 

This is addressed in one of the most ancient collections of the Buddha’s teachings, the Dhammapada. These are the first several verses (translated by Thanissaro):

Phenomena are preceded by the heart, 
ruled by the heart,
made of the heart.
If you speak or act
with a corrupted heart,
then suffering follows you
as the wheel of the cart,
the track of the ox
that pulls it.

Phenomena are preceded by the heart,
ruled by the heart,
made of the heart.
If you speak or act
with a calm, bright heart,
then happiness follows you,
like a shadow
that never leaves.

'He insulted me,
hit me,
beat me,
robbed me'
 — for those who brood on this,
hostility isn't stilled.

'He insulted me,
hit me,
beat me,
robbed me' —
for those who don't brood on this,
hostility is stilled.

Hostilities aren't stilled
through hostility,
regardless.
Hostilities are stilled
through non-hostility:
this, an unending truth.

Unlike those who don't realize
that we're here on the verge
of perishing,
those who do:
their quarrels are stilled.

—

“Phenomena are preceded by the heart.” Do you realize how radical this teaching is? Phenomena, all the objects, beings, thoughts, feelings, experiences you encounter in your life preceded by your heart. What does this mean? 

Like it or not, we cannot step out of our own bodies and minds. We experience everything using this body-mind (to use a term that does not presume a separation between the two) and if there is a reality separate from our perception, it is utterly and completely inaccessible to us and always will be. This is not actually a problem, just a truth that it is very important to accept and work with. We should be clear at all times that our experience is profoundly influenced by the characteristics of the tool with which we perceive it. This helps us avoid the trap of clinging to our views as if they are absolutely true. It also encourages us to pay careful attention to our body-mind and take care of it.

Let us return to the concept of our “heart.” If our heart is where we hold our best version of the truth about ourselves and our world, it is natural that every experience we have will be affected, colored, skewed and interpreted based on what is in our heart. This is what is meant by “phenomena are preceded by the heart.” We do not perceive something and then interpret it based on our heart; our very perception is affected by our heart. For a human being there is no experience of phenomena except as preceded by the heart and made by the heart.

This is not just a matter of our perception being influenced by our views, which most people would agree is a common occurrence. That assumes an objective reality with lots of interpretations. The Buddhist teaching is more radical; it does not claim there is an objective view, or that there isn’t an objective view, since in any case we can’t verify it one way or another. Buddhism concerns itself only with human experience, so the only matter of interest is the quality of that phenomenon which is made by the heart” and what can be done about it. In a sense we could say, “change your heart, change reality.”

Let me give you an example. Let’s say that in my heart I love good and fear evil. The world looks to me like precarious and dangerous place where the forces of good seem always about to be overwhelmed by the forces of greed and violence. I cannot understand what motivates people to be so cruel to one another and in my heart I simply cannot accept the injustice and violence I see in the world. I don’t know what to do with it. When I read about how some people on Wall Street profited enormously from the misfortunes of others, I see yet another confirmation that world is rotten at the core. I feel anxious about my own situation, and struggle to make sense of what is going on. At times I think I have an explanation, but then it slips away and again I feel anxiety about the looming threat I can’t manage to understand. My heart feels angry, suspicious and guarded.

Now let’s say that in my heart I accept that all beings are simply trying to avoid suffering and seek happiness. I have examined by own mind and heart and know that I am prone to selfish, greedy, judgmental and angry thoughts and feelings, so I have a sense of empathy with people who seem to be acting with greed and violence. Through observation of myself and others I have tested the theory that harmful behaviors arise from ignorance of what will truly bring us happiness, and of the fact that our happiness is profoundly connected to the happiness of others.  I have never found this theory to be wanting. In my heart I have a deep faith that all beings know the difference between good and bad and want to be good. When I read about how some people on Wall Street profited enormously from the misfortunes of others, I see yet another example of how human beings created suffering though ignorance, and I know that the profiteer is suffering also, whether he realizes it or not. While at times I am prone to anxiety about my own situation, I know how to connect with my heart, which responds to examples of human ignorance, selfishness or violence with compassion for the doer of the deed as well as for the one who suffered the results.

Now, which heart would you rather have? The one that feels confused, threatened, suspicious and guarded, or the one that feels faith and compassion? 

Of course, it is natural to ask which heart reflects the truth. We don’t just want to talk ourselves into a positive worldview in order to make ourselves feel better! 

Buddhism is very pragmatic in answering this question, “Which kind of heart reflects the truth?” No conclusive answer will ever by found through philosophizing, or through politics, or through debating statistics or abstract concepts. Instead, we discover which kind of heart reflects the truth through direct experience. In a sense we carry out an experiment that by its nature remains entirely subjective, but is nonetheless conclusive. We try changing our heart, and see what the result is! 

Carrying a heart that reflects reality allows everything to fall into place. It reveals a harmony and beauty in the world that we can easily recognize as being of characteristic of things that are true. Our own movement and function in the world flows more easily. Opportunities open up before us where we didn’t see them before. Tension is eased. We are inspired to meet challenges with dignity and feel grateful for what we learn from them. More intimacy arises with life, and with other beings. When we encounter injustice or ignorance we spend less time caught in our reactions and move more quickly to what we can do to address them.

In contrast, carrying a heart that does not reflect reality results in confusion and tension. Our minds and bodies are busy trying to find or defend our rightful place in the world. Forces often seemed against us. If we are not in despair, we are filled with a pervasive, if subtle, anxiety that our fortunes will change and all joy will be lost. Facts and experiences we don’t want to face or can’t deal with build up in the closets of our minds, cutting us off from parts of our experience. Anger builds, and any expression of that anger doesn’t seem to help that buildup.

Finding which kind of heart reflects reality is like standing on top of a log that is up in the air and resting on a single pivot point. We step carefully back and forth on the log until we find the point at which our body weight balances out the extra weight of the log on the other side of the pivot point. We know we have found the “right” spot because we are balanced on the log instead on our butts on the ground. We can use our senses to verify whether we have found a position in the world that is “true” in the sense of accurate and aligned.

Let’s look further into the nature of what the Dhammapada calls the corrupted heart. According to the verses,“If you speak or act with a corrupted heart, then suffering follows you — as the wheel of the cart [follows] the track of the ox that pulls it.” The person with a corrupted heart broods, “He insulted me, hit me, beat me, robbed me,” and does not still his hostility. In contrast, the non-corrupted heart, which results in happiness, is “calm” and “bright,” and the person with such a heart does not brood, “He insulted me, hit me, beat me, robbed me.”

Now, presumably the protagonists of these verses actually were insulted, beaten and robbed. What does it mean to brood on this fact, and what does it mean not to brood on it? This is a essential piece of Buddhist teaching that it is easy to misunderstand. If I were insulted, beaten and robbed, I would certainly be deeply affected by this. If I did not feel affected by it, I would probably be suppressing reactions that would haunt me later. We are talking about painful, traumatic experiences. The hurt, anxiety, anger and other feelings that arise in the wake of such experiences are natural and actually not a problem. That is – as long as we acknowledge them as reactions, take reasonable care of ourselves, and allow the reactions to pass.

Instead, most of us brood. Our mind gets stuck on the fact that ““He insulted me, hit me, beat me, robbed me.” The memory is like a magnet, drawing our attention over and over. The injustice of it torments us. We dream of revenge, or at least of removing the threat somehow. We ponder how to avoid such things in the future, planning ways to protect ourselves. The anger and resentment settles into our hearts, coloring everything we do and how we view the people we meet. Central to it all is the “me” – these things were done to me. They are an affront to me. We nurture our righteous hostility.

I suspect most of us also think it is reasonable to brood in such a way. And perhaps it is reasonable, but the Dhammapada suggests that if we do so, suffering will follow us like the wheel of the cart follows the ox that pulls it. Brooding corrupts our heart. 

What is the alternative? The Dhammapada simply says that hostility is stilled when one does not brood. Actually, this is all there is to it. We let go of thoughts and behaviors that corrupt our heart and cause suffering. 

This is not easy, of course. Different types of Buddhism have different practices we can do to help us let go. In my tradition, Zen, we learn to observe our lives very, very carefully. Through meditation and mindfulness we train ourselves not to flinch, no matter what we see. Eventually it becomes clear that nurturing our righteous hostility hurts us much, much more than it strikes back at our enemies. In fact, when we harbor anger it is like imbibing poison. It exhausts us, weakens us, and interferes with our ability to see clearly and take effective action. When we see this, a desire naturally arises to let go of that which causes suffering, like we naturally let go of an object that is burning us. I was amazed when I discovered it really was possible to let go of thoughts and feelings – when I discovered they had no inherent reality of their own, but persisted only because of the energy I was putting into them.

This is a gradual process of looking carefully and letting go. We have to let go many, many times. I don’t know anyone for whom hostility never arises, but we can get quicker at recognizing it and taking appropriate action. We brood less, and protect our calm, bright heart.

When I first encountered this teaching I wondered if the Buddha was advocating passivity. I wondered if the idea was to ignore the harm done to us and others, to cling to a calm and bright state of mind rather than take action for change. If so, then this teaching was not for me! Through experience, however, I found that nurturing my hostility was simply not as effective as dropping it if I wanted to affect any change. For example, let’s say I am speaking with someone who has made me angry, perhaps someone who has done something to my friends or family that I think is disrespectful or dangerous. As long as I am dwelling on “I” versus “you” in my heart, I am only going to arouse defensiveness and anger in the other person. If I drop the hostility and speak my truth calmly, the other person is much more likely to hear me and respond with less hostility themselves.

Transforming our own heart in turn transforms the world because hostility is stilled through non-hostility. In other translations this verse in the Dhammapada says, “hatred does not cease by hatred at any time: hatred ceases by love.” After all, when we want other people to change their behavior, we must appeal to their better natures. We must approach them as if they have compassion and want to do what is right, as if they were worthy of love. If we believe they are rotten, how can we expect them to change? True, their view of how to go about doing what is right may be terribly deluded. They may go on causing great harm and nurturing their own hostility despite our faith that they have a better nature. Even so it does not pay to nurture our own hostilities.

Usually the most difficult hostilities to let go of are those we nurture on behalf of others – especially those we are responsible for, those who cannot defend themselves, or those who cannot speak on their own behalf. Surely we owe it to them to hold on to our anger? Isn’t it like the bumper sticker says, “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention?” Again, this outrage is not necessary for effective action; in fact, it obstructs effective action. And again, this outrage harms primarily harms us, corrupting our heart and causing us suffering.

The practice of transforming our hearts may sound rather undramatic: we let go our anger so we feel more calm, and then we project less hostility into the world so we’re less likely to provoke hostility and more likely to convince people to change. But this isn’t all there is to it. That’s only the practice at the most basic, tangible level. At another level, the moment we transform our heart the entire universe changes. Suddenly we are living in a world where everyone just wants to be happy and is doing the best that they can. It is no longer us against the world; we belong to the human race and see that it has easily as much nobility and compassion as it does hostility and ignorance. 

And after all, as the closing Dhammapada verse in our selection reads, “Unlike those who don't realize that we're here on the verge of perishing, those who do: their quarrels are stilled.” We’re here on the verge of perishing. Let’s not waste our time.

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A Christian might be able to find the strength and motivation to bear her pain by thinking of how she shares the experience of great physical suffering with Christ. A Muslim might feel optimism in the midst of great personal difficulties because he knows they are the way Allah is testing his faith. In some religions people find substantial patience when they face injustice by taking real solace in the fact that the perpetrators of the injustice will face punishment after death. A Buddhist might maintain equanimity in the midst of chaos by focussing her mind on the direct experience of her breath, rather than on fears of what is to come or anxiety about a lack of control. Someone training in a martial art (most of which have a strong spiritual aspect) might be able to summon the “strength” to  perform incredible physical feats by focussing his mind on a spot in his lower abdomen. 

All of these examples reflect an important truth about human experience: the nature of our experiences depends in a large part on how we relate to those experiences in our minds. To put it another way, the state of our mind influences to a great extent whether we experience something as positive, negative or neutral, manageable or overwhelming, meaningful or pointless, connecting or alienating, ennobling or humiliating. Say what you like about spiritual or religious practice, the careful and systematic attempt to change our views and the ways our minds work has a profound effect on our lives – mentally, emotionally, and even physically. Science is gradually catching up to religion as it laboriously proves this effect, but those of us who have undertaken a spiritual discipline understand the importance of mind training and don’t need to wait for proof.

The tricky part of this whole scenario is that experiencing the power of redirecting the mind can lead – consciously or unconsciously – to a belief in the fallacy that, “It’s all in the mind.” The spiritual practitioner who believes this is likely to believe that nothing outside of the mind “matters.” For example, one need not work for justice, because if one looks at injustice the right way it is tolerable as being all part of God’s compassionate plan. One need not cultivate harmonious relationships with other people, because there is a technique for dealing internally with the anger from others that means it doesn’t really hurt. One need not be bothered by any amount of pain or physical disability, because one can turn the mind in such a way as to be untroubled by it. This last example has been taken to extremes by people who believe that by using the power of their mind they can literally make physical pain, illness and disability disappear.

Perhaps, once we taste the power of mind training, we become intoxicated with that power – our own power – and then with the delusion that we can rule the world. 

This is why most spiritual traditions also strongly emphasize humility and good behavior. No matter how full of grace or how enlightened we are, there are rules to be followed. Do not kill, do not steal, do not be critical of others, do not be greedy, do not be arrogant. These rules tie us to reality, which is infinitely complex and much more subtle than our delusions. In reality, mind training has great power to change the nature of our subjective experience and therefore our choices, but there is much more to the universe than our personal experience of it. Everything around us also influences our mind, and there are physical, biological, chemical, social, cultural and economic causes and conditions (just to name a few) that are not going to be miraculously transformed just because we change how we subjectively relate to them.

In Tibetan Buddhist teachings there is a very clear warning against the fallacy of “It’s all in the mind.” Before launching into a list of prescriptions for behavior like, “Do not speak on the defects of others,” and “Discard all expectations of reward,” Se Chilbu (in A Commentary on the “Seven-Point Mind Training) warns us to:

“…[relinquish] all behaviors that disregard the law of karma [moral cause and effect] and its results. This includes ignoring the minor precepts with the assertion ‘Since I am training the mind, nothing can harm me’ and behaving in ways that contradict general Dharma conduct, saying, ‘If I have this mind training, I don’t need anything else.’”

In Zen we try to ground practitioners in the precepts, the guidelines for moral and ethical behavior, from the beginning. We constantly return to them, and to the need to take care of lives, no matter how much “liberation” we may achieve through our mind training. It is only in the midst of delusion that it appears “nothing matters.” When our practice matures we might acknowledge the immense power of mind training by saying, “Yes, now go have some breakfast.” Life goes on, and if we don’t take care of it, what has been achieved by our spiritual practice except an ability to disassociate from suffering? Enlightened beings know it is possible to transform our experience through mind training, but work for the happiness of all beings without discriminating about what is inside, and what is outside, the mind.

Essential Mind Training, translated by Thupten Jinpa, Chekawa’s "Seven-Point Mind Training" section VI, plus commentary by Se Chilbu. For a link to Chekawa’s "Seven-Point Mind Training," click here.

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Some people have no trouble summoning devotional spiritual feelings, but many of us are too much a product of our skeptical culture to readily give ourselves over to something that seems “outside” of ourselves. Whether the thing inviting surrender is a religion or a person, we want to preserve our dignity and autonomy. We feel some alarm, if not outright aversion, when we read the Buddhist phrase, “We should repeat with bowed heads… I take refuge in the Buddha, I take refuge in the Dharma, I take refuge in the Sangha.” (The Buddha is the historical Buddha but also our own ability to awaken; the Dharma is the Buddhist teachings but also the truth; the Sangha is the community of Buddhists but also all living beings.) Why are we bowing? Does this bowing imply unworthiness? Doesn't "refuge" imply these things will give us something we can't give ourselves? Why can’t we just meditate and promise to be a good person? 

The answer to that last question, of course, is that we can. However, we will be missing an extremely valuable and potent aspect of spiritual practice if we skip too quickly over the paradox of refuge. 

Essentially, human beings can rarely tap into their full potential if they do not, in some way, acknowledge and align themselves harmoniously with That Which Is Greater. Even our individual life is much, much greater than the part we usually identify as “self,” or “I, me and mine.” We are supported by, challenged by, and influenced by an infinite number of causes and conditions. In a very literal way, we are only who we are because of where we stand in relationship to the rest of the universe. 

When we get some inkling that there is something beneficial, beautiful, noble or even benevolent in the “rest of the universe,” we can turn toward it with interest at the very least, and perhaps even with gratitude or devotion. This is what Huston Smith calls turning toward the “more.” Fortunately, this does not require belief in a deity, or even in something good that is inherently separate from ourselves. As Huston Smith describes in Why Religion Matters:

“…the finitude of mundane existence cannot satisfy the human heart completely. Built into the human makeup is a longing for a “more” that the world of everyday experience cannot requite. This outreach strongly suggests the existence of the something that life reaches for in the way the wings of birds point to the reality of air…

“The reality that excites and fulfills the soul’s longing is God by whatsoever name. Because the human mind cannot come within light-years of comprehending God’s nature, we do well to follow Rainer Maria Rilke’s suggestion that we think of God as a direction rather than an object.”

If you can imagine the wonder and order of evolution proceeding without a being to direct it, why not imagine a moral and spiritual order in the universe without a being to oversee it? 

Still, although "It" might not be a “being,” it is important to bow our heads and take refuge. Isn’t part of you touched when you place your hands palm-to-palm in reverence? Such reverence is about acknowledging connection and aspiration, amongst other things. It gets us past our limited self and allows us to access a greater energy and potential. This is what has been proved again and again in 12-step programs; there is usually a limit to the change someone can make until they surrender, in some way, to a “higher power.” This step has been troubling to many addicts who are agnostics and atheists. Buddhism offers a way to take refuge without belief in a deity – but it’s not the no-deity part that is important, it’s the emphasis on refuge despite the lack of a deity.

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Sadly, in the midst of a discussion about willpower and its relationship to Lojong, Buddhist mind training, Yangsi Rinpoche warned us that Lojong is not about forcing oneself to do something or to refrain from something. It is not a fast-acting remedy to laziness or a lack of self-control that is meant to be applied in emergencies. Rather, he said, it is like a holistic approach to health that requires time to have an effect, and this effect is based in understanding, not in our ability to force ourselves to act in a particular way.

Rinpoche’s teaching is certainly consistent with my own experience of Buddhist practice. At first – and sometimes for a very long time – it takes a great deal of effort to conform to a particular practice, such as not misusing sexual energy. Our habits and desires pull us in one direction, while our aspiration to change pulls us in another. Over time, though, by carefully observing the workings of cause and effect in our life, we see clearly how misusing sexual energy leads to suffering for ourselves and others. We become converted to the teaching; it takes less effort to conform to a particular practice because we understand its relationship to suffering or happiness, and we naturally seek happiness and want to avoid suffering.

However, according to the Buddhist teachings there is no way around having to use and cultivate energy if we want to make any progress on a spiritual (or any) path. To use an analogy from physics, the energy (force) we apply to something multiplied by the progress we make (the distance we move it) equals work. Spiritual practice can be hard work. The effort and energy required to create change – to stop something already in motion, such as a habit, to redirect energy, or to start something new – Buddhists call Virya, translated as energy, effort, zeal, vigor, vitality, or perseverance. It is listed as one of the Mahayana perfections, or paramitas, which are necessary for awakening oneself and others. It is also listed in the Theravadin tradition as one of the five spiritual faculties necessary for spiritual progress. 

To me the “willpower” described in psychological terms by Baumeister and Tierney is synonymous with Virya, and I appreciate the light their books shines on this sometimes elusive human faculty. The research they describe clearly proves that willpower is, or acts like, an energy, in that it can be depleted and replenished. Like our physical energy it seems to build up naturally over time with rest and nourishment, and gets used up when we apply ourselves to certain kinds of tasks. What is particularly fascinating to me is that willpower is depleted in many different ways (keeping track of tasks undone, dealing with physical pain, and making decisions, for example) and that its supply never appears to be infinite. 

It makes sense that Virya or willpower is an energy – after all, “energy” is one of the translations of Virya. This is a good argument for using Virya, like all energy, wisely. Ideally we will apply our energy to things that will lead to “progress” – healthier habits, better states of mind, more harmonious relationships, etc. - but also to a situation what will require less energy, and perhaps even increase our overall supply of energy. 

Buddhist practice is aimed at doing exactly this. As Rinpoche said, the long-term change comes from a change in our understanding. In my experience, this is that process of conversion, seeing and experiencing the value of a certain behavior of body, speech or mind oneself, in a very personal and real way. In the context of Lojong this might be taking on the practice of imagining all beings have been one’s loving and nurturing mother in a past life, and working diligently at it until one is so convinced of its beneficial effects that one would not want to live without such a view. It would not take so much energy to maintain the practice, because the motivation to do so would arise naturally. The stronger this practice got, the less often anger or greed would arise in response to other beings, and the less energy would be expended in restraining anger and greed.

But… it still takes energy/willpower/work to get there, although many of us (like me) secretly hope for a clever way to get to the place where we are “converted” with a minimum of the grueling, exhausting, often frustrating and uninspiring work. The folly of this hope is illustrated in the following story. Tenzin Palmo, a nun in the Tibetan tradition, encountered Togdens during her training. The Togdens were ordained monks who engaged in particularly rigorous practices like living as hermits, taking almost no food, or sitting out in the cold wrapped in wet sheets and drying the sheets with an energy they summoned from within. They were renowned as spiritual adepts, but one the Togden once told Tenzin Palmo:

“You think we yogis are doing some very high, fantastic, esoteric practice and if only you had the teachings you also could really take off! Let me tell you, however, that there is nothing I am doing that you have not been taught. The only difference is that I am doing it and you aren’t.”¹

1. Mackenzie, Vicki. Cave in the Snow: Tenzin Palmo's Quest for Enlightenment. Bloomsbury Publishing, 1998.

Willpower: Rediscovering the Greatest Human Strength by Baumeister & Tierney

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When someone suggests the “power of positive thinking,” we may think it is something we are supposed to do in our minds to make ourselves feel better. We may think it involves choosing to take a “positive spin on things” rather than listening to our discriminating wisdom when it says something is amiss. Correspondingly, we usually figure that this effort to draw positive conclusions instead of negative ones doesn’t change the reality outside of us, except when we interact differently with that reality because of our new, positive attitude (which, of course, is no small thing).

The Buddhist view on the relationship between positive mind-states and reality is different. Buddhism acknowledges the effect of positive mind-states on our subjective experience; it is more pleasant and less stressful, for example, to feel relaxed than it is to feel angry. When we feel grateful, our chests feel warm and energy flows through us, but when we feel suspicious and stingy, our chests feel tight and our body feels tense. So there’s a good argument for cultivating positive feelings over negative ones if you can. But feeling good isn’t all there is to it.

In the Buddhist view, when we are able to consciously transform the way we relate to an experience, we can change the very nature of that experience. This is because “reality” doesn’t have the hard edges we usually think it does. For me there is no reality “out there,” separate from my mind; I will never be able to perceive a thing without the involvement of my mind. And what is the use of any reality “out there” that can’t ever be perceived? In a sense, reality is born as we perceive it. Don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t mean nothing exists except what sentient beings have perceived, as if only the subjective is real. Rather, it is that reality arises in the encounter between subject and object.

This may seem overly philosophical, so here is a concrete example. Say a woman butts in front of me in line at the grocery store. She’s busy talking on her cell phone and clearly in a big hurry, and takes the opportunity of a few extra, ambiguous feet of space to nudge her cart into the line in front of me. It is possible she just didn’t notice me, but that hardly seems like a good excuse. My first reaction is to get angry and defensive, and to curse the woman’s selfishness and self-absorption. My own self-concern arises, and I press my cart in a little closer, to guard against any other people who might want to get ahead of me. 

Then I try the Buddhist exercise of imagining that each person I encounter has, in a previous life, been a kind, nurturing mother to me. And I recall the Buddhist teaching that all beings just want to be happy and avoid suffering (even if they go about seeking what they want in ignorant or destructive ways). Now I notice how anxious and tense the woman in the grocery line is. I know what it feels like to be in a hurry and overwhelmed, and I have no difficulty imagining that in certain circumstances I would at least be tempted to act like she just has. I feel a certain connection with her, and certainly some compassion for her. After all, is it likely she would be so pushy if she was spiritually at peace? Some of my anger and tension dissipate.

Now, what is reality in this example? A selfish, pushy woman butted in front of me? A suffering sentient being, just like me, acted out the age-old drama of seeking happiness and avoiding suffering? Is “reality” only the objective observation that a woman pushed her cart into a few feet of space in front of me in a line? Or all of the above? Reality turns out to be fairly flexible, or at least full of possibilities. 

Fortunately, Buddhist mind training does not involve denying or suppressing experiences or reactions we might categorize as “negative.” I don’t have pretend that it isn’t rude to butt in front of someone at a grocery store. I don’t even have to pretend I don’t care about someone butting in front of me. Without turning away from any aspect of our experience (internal or external), we have some options about how to relate to that experience. We can follow trains of thought that take us deeper into emotions like anger or despair, or we can get creative and apply some other techniques and tools.

Another example of a technique aimed at “positive thinking” is to give something away when you are feeling a sense of lack. It’s best if you give exactly the kind of thing you feel you are lacking, such as paying some personal attention to someone else if you are feeling rather unappreciated by the people in your life. Your generosity will probably be appreciated and will generate some connection and warmth, which might be nourishing for you. For a moment you step out of a sense of powerlessness, waiting for the attention of others, and into a position of strength, where you have something valuable to offer others. This is not a panacea for relationship problems (if there is a real issue to be addressed it will still be there after your act of kindness), but it could get you into a better space for dealing with problems. Or it could jar you out of a neurotic, pessimistic habit of mind that is primarily about your skewed interpretation of the actions of others.

I will close with the Buddha’s own words on this very challenging Buddhist practice of positive thinking, from the Dhammapada:

“All that we are is the result of what we have thought: it is founded on our thoughts, it is made up of our thoughts. If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain follows him, as the wheel follows the foot of the ox that draws the carriage.

“All that we are is the result of what we have thought: it is founded on our thoughts, it is made up of our thoughts. If a man speaks or acts with a pure thought, happiness follows him, like a shadow that never leaves him.

“‘He abused me, he beat me, he defeated me, he robbed me’ – in those who harbor such thoughts hatred will never cease.

“‘He abused me, he beat me, he defeated me, he robbed me’ – in those who do not harbor such thoughts hatred will cease.

“For hatred does not cease by hatred at any time: hatred ceases by love – this is an old rule.” (translation by Max Müller)

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This approach to life ends up feeling profoundly dissatisfying when a) we realize we are “just passing through” a majority of our experiences, and b) when it begins to seem like “what really matters” is beyond our grasp, impermanent, or not quite what it was cracked up to be.

Zen recommends that we remedy this situation by turning our attention toward every moment of our life, without discriminating about which moments are mundane or frustrating, and which ones really matter. Zen suggests they all matter. But what does this mean?

In Zen mindfulness practice we turn our attention toward our lives, trying to notice the sensations in our hands as we wash the dishes, the feeling of our breath as we wait in traffic, or the parade of emotions that goes through our minds as we have a difficult encounter with someone. At times it feels like we have been “given back” moments of our life that would otherwise have slipped away unappreciated. At other times we encounter resistance from our own mind as it relentlessly jumps away from our present experience to something that seems more exciting, rewarding or significant.

After all, what is the point of paying attention to this present moment, no matter what is going on? That’s fine with we’re gazing at a beautiful sunset, but when we’re waiting in line at the grocery store?

The point of paying attention to this present moment, no matter what is going on, is a radical reorientation of our entire way of being. When we are fully present in our life, we stop interpreting the present moment in terms of its utility in bringing us closer to our desires. Our dreams, goals, hopes and ambitions still exist, but for a moment they are not our frame of reference. We are not gazing past our present experience in anticipation of future pleasure or pain. In this sense mindfulness is not a skill we cultivate with our brains; rather, it is a surrender we make with our whole being.

And when we are able to be fully present for a few moments? What’s good about it?

Amazingly, life experienced without interpretation in terms of our desires is… precious beyond description. Sages have used all kinds of words to describe it: perfect, luminous, complete. But in most of our daily experience this preciousness is experienced as simultaneous with mundane or even frustrating or painful. Full presence doesn’t transform our experience into something “special” – as in different from the usual. It allows us to perceive the sacred in the mundane that is always there.

The ability to be fully present in our life is as much about what we don’t do as it is about what we do. As Zen Master Dogen says in Fukanzazengi, “Why leave behind the seat in your own home to wander in vain through the dusty realms of other lands? If you make one misstep you stumble past what is directly in front of you.”

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As I did this task, I noticed that it was very easy to imagine my hands belonged to a stranger. They seemed to move on their own, or at least they were usually one step ahead of me. They performed their complicated maneuvers with amazing grace and precision, before I had even consciously formed any intention to complete the task they were undertaking.

When I say that my hands seemed to perform their tasks without “me,” I am describing an experience of not-self. As I observe them, my hands do not seem to be part of my self-identity. For most of us this begs the question, “Where or what is my true self, if it doesn’t (for example) include my hands?” Or, “Who directs the hands?” Or, “What is the nature of the self if so much of it is unconscious?” We might turn toward those actions of body, speech and mind that feel unambiguously self-generated and try to trace the intention back to locate our self.

This is a natural response when we endeavor to understand our true self-nature. It is probably impossible not to try and locate a self within us, just as it is nearly impossible not to flinch if something is headed for our face. Over the course of spiritual practice we will search for our self again and again, even when we try not to. 

The tricky thing is that our self cannot be located. Our true self-nature is no-nature, to quote the Zen masters. Our life is a flow of dependently co-arisen phenomena that features a certain continuity due to the law of cause and effect. This continuity can be mistaken for an inherently-existing, independent, substantial self, and that mistake is the source of suffering. As long as there is a substantial “me,” that “me” needs to be protected and maintained against a universe that frequently seems to be against me.

To be liberated from the delusion of an inherently-existing self, we do not find our “true self,” because there isn’t one. Rather, we recognize in phenomena over and over again,  “Not-self, not-self, not-self.” We turn the light of awareness on our experiences and recognize that none of them qualify as being part of the inherently-existing, independent, substantial self we so dearly hope exists.

Eventually, having failed to find a single thing that confirms the existence our inherently-existing self, the thought occurs to us, “What if there isn’t one? What if I made the whole thing up?” For a moment we dare to drop the paradigm of self, and the world appears to make a whole lot more sense. Many of the questions and issues that plague us when we are caught up in self-identity view simply drop away. Our attention turns toward the miraculous unfolding of this experience we call a human life.

It takes countless instances of recognizing not-self before we can loosen our grip on our conviction that the self inherently exists. A moment of noticing the fact that our hands seem to move without “us” becomes a moment of teaching.

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Please don't get me wrong – I don't enjoy the suffering of others. Rather, it brings me something akin to joy when someone who is suffering admits it. This is because the acknowledgement that there is a problem opens up the possibility of change, as well as the profound spiritual adventure that goes along with change. (Please see the footnote about the difference between pain and suffering.)

Most people don't want to admit they are suffering, either to themselves or to others. To feel suffering, even in a mild form like worry, vague dissatisfaction, or numbness, can seem like a failure. As adults we are supposed to be competent and self-reliant. To admit suffering can also seem like opening the door to a world of hurt that could quickly overwhelm us. Why go dredging up painful memories and difficult truths when it seems best to keep the door shut and get on with our lives?

Buddhism is often blamed for having a negative worldview in which everyone is accused of suffering, whether they are aware of it or not. This actually isn't far off the mark in terms of Buddhist teaching, but what is misunderstood is that this view is positive, not negative. Suffering is not something to be ashamed of, or even gotten rid of. Suffering is something to be explored and examined, because it reveals to us where our actions of body, speech and mind are out of harmony with our Buddha-nature, or awakened nature. Like the ability to feel physical pain allows us to avoid situations harmful to our bodies, suffering points us toward actions and views that are harmful to our spiritual nature.

Our context makes all the difference when we dare to admit we are suffering. If we admit our suffering but have no means of addressing it, it is a recipe for depression, anxiety and despair. Of course, the suffering may put us on a search for a way to address it. For people who have a spiritual or religious path they trust, suffering – however painful – is not a problem. They have a method for turning toward the suffering, plucking up the courage to face and examine it, seeking support during this difficult process, unpacking the suffering to better understand its causes, examining those causes to sort out the superficial from the deep, and finding tools to work on changing those deep causes.

When we have a path or a method for addressing suffering, even very difficult problems can take on the flavor of an adventure. This can feel a little disconcerting when we are faced with extreme trauma and loss – when part of us relishes the challenge, and the thought of what new aspect of human experience will be revealed to us in our struggle – but it can be strangely comforting.

Footnote: In this case I am using the word "suffering" to refer to spiritual suffering, not to mental, emotional or physical pain. I use "pain" to refer to our natural response to injury or trauma such as illness or loss. Pain is difficult to say the least, often exhausting, and in the extreme it robs us of everything. Buddhism has no teaching that makes light of pain, and if it did it would undermine the validity of the tradition. Buddhism does, however, say something can be done about suffering, the tension and distress caused by actively resisting things-as-they-are. This is a huge topic I will address in a different post.

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I like the understanding of conundrum as "a logical postulation that evades resolution, an intricate and difficult problem," but feel ambivalent about the more classical definition of the word as a "riddle whose answer is or involves a pun or unexpected twist."¹ I do not mean to imply that I think life is a joke. Life has its moments of lightness and humor, but to summarize it as a riddle with a pun for a punchline suggests a sad cynicism with spiritual desperation at its core.

Still, there is a sense in which "a riddle whose answer involves… [an] unexpected twist" is appropriate when we are talking about the Koan of Life. Life offers us countless koans. How do I live each day to the fullest? How do I avoid being paralyzed by fear of illness, loss and death? How do I deal with that co-worker that sets my teeth on edge? Who am I, really? Is there anything in this universe upon which I can rely? When we resolve these koans for ourselves (and yes, it is possible!), inevitably it requires a radical shift in perspective reminiscent of the one required to answer the conundrum, "When is a door not a door?" with "When it is ajar!"

One last note about koans, from E.F. Schumacher's Small is Beautiful:

"G.N.M. Tyrell has put forward the terms 'divergent' and 'convergent' to distinguish problems which cannot be solved by logical reasoning from those that can. Life is being kept going by divergent problems which have to be 'lived'… Convergent problems on the other hand are man's most useful invention… When they are solved, the solution can be written down and passed on to others, who can apply it without needing to reproduce the mental effort necessary to find it. If this were the case with human relations – in family life, economics, politics, education, and so forth – well, I am at a loss how to finish the sentence."

     A koan is a divergent problem as faced by an individual, who must live out the answer him or herself.

¹ Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conundrum

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