Last week one of the largest Zen Centers in the U.S. published an open letter urging California governor Jerry Brown to ban hydraulic fracking in the state. I was thrilled, but not all Zen folks will be, even if they agree on this particular issue. Speaking out as people of faith can be powerful, but it [Read More…]
Source: My Journey of Conscience
If, like me, you want to be an effective activist, it’s good to keep in mind how you’re liable to alienate people instead of getting them on your side. Activist are people who are actively trying to bring about change in the world. Ideally they also try to be responsible and considerate people, but they go beyond [Read More…]
Source: My Journey of Conscience
I’ve heard folks speak in placid tones about suffering and destruction due to climate change, widespread poverty and inequality, and the mass extinctions of species. It’s as if they have passed judgment on humankind and decided the degeneration of our societies and the degradation of our environment are fair punishments for our misdeeds. They seem to think we [Read More…]
Source: My Journey of Conscience
Last Sunday we read chapter one, “Zazen as Inquiry,” from Taigen Dan Leighton’s Zen Questions: Zazen, Dogen and the Spirit of Creative Inquiry. Leighton writes:
“What are we doing in zazen? Each of us have some question that somewhere back there was behind our wanting to engage in this Buddhist meditation. What question has led you to face the wall in zazen, what is this? There is a question that we each have to explore.
“The point of this practice of questioning, however, is not to discover an answer. We sit upright, centered, with ease and restfulness. And yet there is some problem, some question, something we are looking into. How do we practice with question? There is not just one way to do this, because each have our own version of this question. But we must recognize that there is a question. How do we live this life? How do we take care of this world, face the problems that we each have in our life, the problems that we share together?”
I talked about how most of our heart-felt questions – the ones we don’t just wonder about intellectually, but those we really care about – are related to one another. We may discriminate between “superficial” and “deep” questions, but usually even our superficial, specific, personal questions are related to our version of a very deep, universal question. For example, I may struggle on a daily basis with how to focus my effort efficiently without getting too caught up in striving, but that relates to a very deep question I carry about the nature of effort and action. Who does, if there is no inherent self-nature? How do we exercise choice in guiding the activity of our life?
I asked the other people present on Sunday to write down at least one real question they were holding, and said I would post them. Here they are, the raw and precious material people in our sangha are practicing and sitting with. It is important to hold these kinds of questions with reverence. They cannot be answered simply, or no one would be holding them. We may be inspired or influenced in our work with questions by things we hear, read, or see, but ultimately our answer is something we manifest within our being and it cannot be given to us by anyone else.
Please feel free to add your own question(s) by leaving a comment! (I think it would have been very helpful and encouraging to me as a child to read this kind of list of questions from adults, so I would understand that adults were still trying to figure things out and the world they were presenting to me was not the best they could come up with.)
Our questions:
Why do some people suffer so much?
How do I push beyond my limits?
When should I stop?
Why do I become anxious when asked to write down my question?
What is anxiety?
How do I respond to climate change?
How do I stay awake to my life?
What is the relationship between inner work and working for social change?
What should my practice look like?
Am I engaged enough? What if I get this question wrong?
What do I do now?
How can I best live my life? How will I know if I’ve succeeded in the best living of my life?
What will give the most meaning to my life?
How can I best serve?
Why am I here?
Would Shakyamuni Buddha have been sad if he were to die before being able to teach?
When one has no attachments, on what does one act?
How do we maintain the will to move forward with optimism and creative energy in the face of the pointless suffering that humanity must endure? Is this why “enlightenment” is so important?
Is compassion (love) real? Can everybody feel it? Does one have to work on accessing it? Why does it not arise spontaneously? Were we born just to realize it?
How should I be living my life?
If the answers have no certainty, why the need for question? Is faith embracing uncertainty? Can I embrace uncertainty?
Thanks everyone! – Domyo
Originally posted on My Journey of Conscience
I hope that everyone who reads this will embrace the concept of a “bodhisattva” and share it widely, regardless of your interest in Buddhism, because I think it’s what the world really needs.
I’ve tried long and hard to come up with some way to translate the Buddhist term “bodhisattva” into something familiar, secular, and English, but I haven’t had any luck. It takes whole sentences to describe what a bodhisattva is: A being who is devoted to the welfare of all living things. Someone who sets her sights impossibly high but then does not make her subsequent effort contingent on measurable success. A person who recognizes the need to cultivate wisdom, compassion, and loving action throughout the course of his life and beyond, never surrendering to complacency or consoling himself with conclusion, “Good enough.” Someone motivated by boundless love who is willing to perceive the cries of the world and respond accordingly without concern for self. But, at the same time, a being who understands that her “self” is merely a convenient conceptual construct and is empty of any inherent, enduring self-nature, so therefore does not get caught up either in pride at her accomplishments or generosity, or in beating herself up because she isn’t perfect. The bodhisattva knows it’s the intention and effort that count.
A bodhisattva might remind you of a saint, but there’s are important differences between these concepts. Saints are often held up as super-human examples of perfection that few can emulate, while everyone is encouraged (exhorted, really) to become a bodhisattva. Some saints are revered for their moral restraint or spiritual insight more than for their loving concern for others, while bodhisattvas are defined by caring for all beings as a parent would care for their only child. Sainthood is a special status that is achieved only after long struggle (and documented miracles), while bodhisattvahood manifests in anyone as soon as the aspiration to be a bodhisattva arises in them. Of course, it is understood that bodhisattvas vary in the degree of their selflessness, skillfulness, and wisdom, but struggling with our human imperfections is all just part of the bodhisattva’s path so those imperfections don’t disqualify us.
I hope that our culture and language adopts the concept of the bodhisattva, because we’re facing problems that will require everyone to step up to the plate with everything they have to offer.
The best thing about adopting a bodhisattva aspiration is that it challenges me to dream big, and to avoid limiting my own potential by thinking only about what “little old me” can do. Instead of just doing what’s obvious and easy and waiting for the world to knock on my door and ask for more, I proclaim my willingness out loud and actively watch for any opportunities to serve. I can try to save the entire world without it being an arrogant ambition or a recipe for burnout because it’s not about what my little self achieves. It’s about loving the world, which is why the four traditional bodhisattva vows go like this:
Beings are numberless; I vow to save them
The Three Poisons (grasping, aversion, and ignorance) are inexhaustible; I vow to end them
Dharma Gates (opportunities to cultivate and enact wisdom, compassion, and loving action) are boundless; I vow to master them
The Buddha Way (the path of complete awakening and liberation) is unsurpassed; I vow to attain it
In his book Living by Vow, Shohaku Okumura explains how wonderful it is that these vows are impossible. They’re always there to guide our life. There is no way to measure how we are doing against the infinite. And yet, when we dream big, we may be surprised by what possibilities open up before us.
It’s important to know that this is not about what people should do. The concept of the bodhisattva is not a new way to measure whether someone is good or not. Instead, it’s about each of us aligning ourselves with a selfless love that does not distinguish self from other.
When I align myself thus, I feel so much better – alive, connected, meaningful. So the whole thing benefits me as much as it benefits anyone else. The fear that concern for others will jeopardize our own well-being is a sad delusion that sustains misery in the world.
What if the concept of the bodhisattva – or something like it, by another name – became our new cultural ideal? There would be no stopping us.
Photo: Jizo Bodhisattva by Greg Ashley, Flickr Creative Commons
Originally posted on My Journey of Conscience
In my experience, a misguided practice of mindfulness can lead to an unfortunate restriction in my engagement with life – to the detriment of myself and others, particularly when it comes to social responsibility. It invites me to create a manageable mindfulness bubble around myself – reaching no further than my immediate surroundings, existing only this moment, and centered on my body.
More and more people in all walks of life recognize the benefits of mindfulness practice. It creates some space between “you” and your thoughts, emotions, and habits. It relieves stress and gives you more choice about what happens next. Mindfulness can be defined many ways, but basically it is paying attention to your present experience with a receptive attitude. You maintain an open awareness of what is going on this present moment, including any thoughts and feelings you may be experiencing. You let go of reactivity and commentary and just notice what’s going on.
You generally begin practicing mindfulness by learning to shift your attention from abstract thinking to direct sensation. Abstract thinking includes thoughts about the past or future, commentary, evaluation, planning, fantasizing, and justification. Simple sensations can be physical, such as awareness of your breathing, sounds, or posture. “Sensations” – that is, things you can sense – can also be internal, such as a thought or an emotion, which you “sense” with your mind. The point is to turn your awareness to things that are happening in your present, direct experience.
With mindfulness practice we come to appreciate how, ultimately, our life is only what’s happening here-and-now. We can use abstract thought as a tool to help us function in the world, but the abstractions are not inherently real. They are a gloss for reality, used to predict things, communicate, and plan effective actions. What’s real (for us) is what’s happening right in front of us – the beings, problems, projects, opportunities and experiences that we personally encounter as we go about our day. Responding to our reality with wisdom and compassion is the central matter of our lives, and mindfulness helps us do this.
For me, mindfulness practice has had many benefits but it has also given me justification for living in a mindfulness bubble. To be fair, I should call it “a bubble justified by a limited understanding of mindfulness,” because I think real mindfulness is much more than this. However, suffice to say that I have spent many years consoling myself with the thought that I am only responsible for responding to, or taking care of, what I personally encounter within my mindfulness bubble. This limited little sphere is what I define as “my” life.
After all, how am I supposed to wisely and compassionately respond to, or take care of, things that aren’t here-and-now, for me, at least at some point during my days, weeks, or months? I can say good morning to the homeless guy outside my apartment building and put my returnables where he can easily collect them on his daily rounds, but how do I respond mindfully to an abstraction like “homelessness?” It feels natural to do a favor for a sick friend because of our connection, but how to I allow a natural response to arise to a school shooting in another state? It’s hard enough to take care of “my life” (that which ends up passing through my bubble on a regular basis) by maintaining mindfulness and doing the next thing; How do I take care of global warming without shifting my awareness away from my reality toward abstractions and ideals?
Many of us take solace in the idea that taking care of our own lives, dealing with what we encounter with as much wisdom and compassion as we can, will have a positive ripple effects that spread outward. We figure a whole bunch of us carefully and mindfully taking care of our own lives will add up to the changes needed in the world.
I think there’s truth to the ripple-effect principle, but I feel I sell myself and the world short if I rely on it entirely. Such a principle can also allow me to become complacent, and give me justification for enjoying my pleasant life while elsewhere things are falling apart and beings are acutely suffering.
So I come to the question: How do I burst my mindfulness bubble without losing my mindfulness entirely? If I allow my attention and concern to be drawn outwards in space and time, won’t I lose touch with the reality that allows me to stay grounded and sane? If I expand too much my sense of what I’m responsible for, won’t I get caught up in abstractions and forget that I can only really function right here, right now?
Here’s a possible answer: don’t draw boundaries in space and time around what constitutes my life. In other words, don’t create the edges of the bubble. Stop defining as “my” life only those things relatively close to me in terms of space and time. Don’t limit my sense of reality to the three-dimensional physical world around me. Allow news about suffering far removed from me in time and space to be as much a part of my reality as the taste of my lunch. Let go of the conclusion that I am only responsible for things I can directly and obviously influence.
As I contemplate doing these things, fear arises that if I don’t draw boundaries around what’s mine to pay attention to and take care of, I’ll fail even at that and get sucked dry by the neediness of the universe. This may sound dramatic, but it’s a real fear. Fortunately, even though that seems like the logical outcome of bursting my mindfulness bubble, it’s not my actual experience of it (not that the bubble’s burst once-and-for all – it keeps reforming and needs moment-by-moment attention).
Instead, without the kind of boundaries I discuss above, life’s pretty much the same. It’s just more open. That’s because I may arbitrarily create a bubble but it’s not actually necessary. It doesn’t reflect reality, only my efforts to manage reality. If I maintain mindfulness without boundaries and actively participate in the process, responses flow. They’re just not always what I think of as real and personal responses (namely, actions taken within my personal sphere that have observable effects).
For example, my natural response to a friend will of course differ in nature from my natural response to something like a school shooting. My proximity to a person or event affects my relationship to it, and in many cases the most authentic and natural response may not be immediately obvious or simple. My primary role may be witnessing with compassion (see my post mentioning Kanzeon) – letting the facts and images enter my conscientiousness and heart. Simply because I don’t physically engage with the people involved with a school shooting doesn’t mean the event and its repercussions are not a real part of my life, or that my response is abstract. And if I don’t categorize such a thing as outside of my sphere of responsibility, a more directly engaged response may arise. Perhaps I will be moved to educate myself more about the problem of random violence in America. Perhaps I will be more patient and kind when I encounter a teenager who’s acting out in public because I am reminded of how difficult things can be for young people.
The important thing, for me, is to remember that the practice of mindfulness without boundaries is not about drawing a boundary around the known universe and taking everything on as my responsibility. Although my awareness is centered in my body, it isn’t necessary or helpful to define anything as mine or not-mine. Of course I can only perceive, understand, and do so much. I need to to care for my body-mind and the things I conventionally consider “mine.” But at no point do I get to conclude, “Ah, good enough! My life’s all taken care of, now I can relax.” I may need to relax, but there will always be something to take of in my life if there are no boundaries around it.
Photo "Big Bubble" by h.koppdelaney, Creative Commons Photo "pop" by jenny downing (cropped), Creative Commons
Bodhisattva in the posture of “royal ease.”
Sometimes, when I find zazen challenging or dull, I engage it as a practice of trying to be completely joyful and at ease in this moment – just the way life is right now: in this body, with these aches, bad habits, and unfinished projects, in this moment’s confusing world that is so beautiful and terrible at the same time.
This approach contrasts with practicing zazen in order to achieve joy and ease. When I’m meditating in order to obtain a result (such as relief from stress, greater perspective on my life, a deeper sense of compassion, or spiritual insight), I keep making an effort to let go of discriminative thinking and return my attention to the present moment. I make this effort because it is a tried and true method of obtaining the results I want, even though I don’t really understand why it works. At times this effort is enough, but at other times zazen starts to feel kind of mechanical and boring.
That’s when I change things up. Fortunately, there are many different ways to approach zazen, because my body-mind finds ways to resist any particular one after a while. It seems to me all the different approaches – concentration, koans, metta – ultimately lead to the same place, which is something we can experience but not very accurately describe.
I think Zen master Dogen would approve of engaging zazen as practicing great ease and joy. In his Shobogenzo fascicle “Zazen-gi,” or “Rules for Zazen,” he states, “Zazen is not learning to do concentration. It is the dharma gate of great ease and joy.”[1]
Note that Dogen says “the dharma gate OF great ease and joy,” not “the dharma gate TO great ease and joy.” Now, I realize that Dogen wrote in Japanese, and that language isn’t nearly as fussy about prepositional relationships as English is. Still, respected translators have chosen “of” instead of “to.”
I interpret this to mean the dharma gate IS great ease and joy, and this resonates with my personal experience. When I sit and practice feeling joy and ease in my life just as it is, my body-mind starts to settle. All my habitual thinking dies down because there is less compulsion to leap mentally out of the present moment. I access a sense of stability, patience, and peace.
Now, the key is that my ability to practice ease and joy is not dependent on conditions, the way I usually assume it is. When I sit ease-and-joy zazen, I notice where I am not completely joyful and at ease. I notice where I am worried, or anticipating things, or holding dissatisfaction. I notice a voice inside me that suggests I can’t be at ease “until…” I notice a resistance to taking joy in life just as it is “because…” Then I try to let those things go, just as I have learned to let go of discriminative thoughts. My myriad reasons to postpone sincere satisfaction and peace of mind have no inherent reality; if I stop giving them energy, they pass away.
This is nothing other than the realization of Shakyamuni Buddha: our experience can be utterly transformed by changing our own minds. Conditions certainly affect and influence us, but the inevitable challenges of life do not preclude great ease and joy.
Another Buddhist teaching highlighted by ease-and-joy zazen, at least for me, is the teaching that enlightenment is essentially understanding or embracing impermanence. Subjectively, I experience this as never, ever reaching a point of rest or resolution. The vast majority of things going on in my life and in the world are either in process or inevitably fated to change. Without realizing it, much of the time I live in anticipation of elusive point of completion and perfection where I will have earned my ease and joy. When I sit zazen, I wake up to the fact that this point will never come, so I had better give up making my peace of mind contingent on achieving it.
I like ease-and-joy zazen for a couple of reasons. First, it’s direct. It’s simply practicing enlightenment without any methods or shortcuts. It may sound hard, but the methods and apparent shortcuts aren’t easy either. Second, it appeals to my heart by identifying the essence of my longing, rather than highlighting mind-states or insights along the way that will theoretically lead to ease and joy. Finally, in the moments when I feel greater ease and joy in my life right-here, right now – well, let’s just say those are moments of my life in which I am awake.
Of course, next week I might be using a different approach to zazen, but I still think this one’s pretty neat.
[1] Translated by Dan Welch and Kazuaki Tanahashi, from Moon in a Dewdrop: Writings of Zen Master Dogen, edited by Kazuaki Tanahashi, North Point Press, New York, 1985.
Photo by Wonderlane 
In one of the most famous Zen koans, a monk asks Zen master Joshu whether a dog has buddha nature. According to Buddhist teachings, all beings have – or are – awakened nature. This may be interpreted as saying all beings have the potential to awaken to reality and liberate themselves and others from self-imposed suffering, or that all life wakes up to the truth eventually, so all beings will inevitably become buddhas. It’s a lovely vision in any case.
Joshu answers the monk, “Mu.” This can be translated as “no,” or “nothing,” or just as a negation. The koan asks, “Why did Joshu say mu?”
Now I think I understand why, at least in part. It essentially comes down to this: Zen is not about having faith in ideas, even nice ones.
Over many years of practice, I was overjoyed to develop the deep conviction that all being has, or is, buddha nature. It was deeply healing to become personally convinced that compassion is built into the structure of the physical and moral universe. That we cannnot gain advantage at the expense of others without paying a price, whether we acknowledge it or not. That life, when viewed without the filter of any expectations or views whatsoever is inherently luminous and precious.
How wonderful! After many years of cynicism and despair, I had found a firm foundation of faith from which to operate. I could greet the world with optimism and joy.
Or so I thought. Recently, I have been consciously opening myself back up to grave troubles of the world. I have deliberately expanded my sphere of awareness beyond my personal everyday life – which is more or less peaceful and fortunate – to include climate crisis, environmental devastation, species extinctions, social injustice, senseless violence, and rampant greed.
As I contemplated the unimaginable suffering in the world, I found myself reaching for the faith that has developed through my Zen practice. Somehow, despite everything, everything is ultimately okay. Right? But the specter of doubt began sneaking around the periphery of my mind and heart. Did the sociopathic murderer have buddha nature? Will all beings awaken before all life on earth is destroyed? It began to feel as if I was clinging desperately to my faith in ultimate goodness, and that faith was starting to feel – as much as I hated to admit it – shallow, fragile, and trite.
But then I remembered what it was I really had faith in, which is the practice of dropping all views. With some trepidation I embraced what Zen calls “don’t-know mind.” This mind would perhaps be better called “view-free mind” because it is an interested, curious, open, caring mind (not a mind that shrugs and accepts a limited understanding). As soon as I had let go of my favorite ideas about ultimate goodness, I was liberated and refreshed.
Any conclusions I draw outside of my own experience are views I have developed. Those views may be useful, at times, for making decisions, or for communicating with other people. And they can be inspiring and motivating – I certainly enjoy it when I have a sense that awakening, connection, or compassion runs through all life like a blood vessel. And yet Zen practice is not about hanging on to even the most noble of views.
You see, it doesn’t matter whether all beings have or are buddha nature, or whether the inherent preciousness of the universe is any more “real” than the pervasive delusion of the universe. We can’t actually know these things, and we don’t have to. The only question before each of us is, “What will I do?” To choose the path of compassion and awakening based on our own direct experience of life is the ultimate act of generosity and courage.
As I awaken my own buddha nature and act in the world, I am repeatedly met by buddha nature. It is a lovely and encouraging occurrence. Will I always be met thus? Contemplating that question involves indulging in abstraction, focusing on the future, and, in a subtle way, getting caught in self-concern. After all, isn’t the question actually about whether I am right about buddha nature, or whether I’m wrong and will end up being taken for a fool?
Moving forward with don’t-know, or view-free, mind is to move without defenses. As another Zen master said, “Not knowing is most intimate.”
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Image courtesy of photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
If you think of yourself as having a Zen practice, you should regularly ask yourself this question. On the other hand, if the question stresses you out, you’re missing the point of Zen practice.
I am coming to believe that the essence of Zen is learning to embrace paradox. This means learning to fully engage with life even when you encounter a situation where two apparently contradictory things are simultaneously true. In paradox, it’s not that one thing is sometimes true and the opposing thing is true at other times. It’s not that the situation looks a particular way from one vantage point, and looks another way from a different vantage point. In paradox, both things are fully true at exactly the same time.
When you consider how hard you’re practicing, the paradox is this:
Let’s examine both sides of this paradox, and then how real practice is about fully actualizing both.
Practicing Harder
How “hard” you practice makes an enormous difference to your life, and to your ability to be awake for it. Hard practice is about effort and time. Practicing harder means you sit more zazen. It means you devote more time and energy to activities that strengthen your resolve and mindfulness, such as participating with sangha, Zen study, or meditation retreats. Practicing harder means you make sacrifices. You spend your vacation time at a Zen retreat instead of in Hawaii. Instead of sleeping in, you get up and sit. Instead of relaxing in your garden with a lemonade on a hot summer day, you go sit zazen in a stuffy zendo that smells of sweat. Instead of drifting on to a new, more interesting activity when Zen gets a little dull or grueling, you make a commitment to stick it out no matter what.
Hard practice moment by moment means being brutally honest with yourself. Are you being lazy right now? Chances are the answer is, “Yes.” In the context of practice, laziness means “the failure to apply what is wholesome.” At some level you know that you are indulging unhelpful habits or self-concern, but you do it anyway. At some level you know that such-and-such an action would be beneficial, but you don’t bother to do it. We make little excuses to ourselves all day long, pushing deep mindfulness and compassion around the next corner.
It’s not without reason that Zen master Dogen wrote, “Be mindful of the passing of time, and engage yourself in zazen as though saving your head from fire.”[1] Most of us who engage in spiritual practice have the experience, at some time or another, of feeling as if we have momentarily awakened from the dream that is our everyday life. This is a very liberating but disconcerting experience. It’s liberating because you can see how your everyday stresses and concerns are, in a sense, unreal, or not nearly as imperative as you thought. Waking up from the dream is disconcerting because you know you are going to fall asleep again.
Seeing your everyday life as a dream may sound dismissive or judgmental, as if you are concluding that normal human activities are petty and unimportant. That’s not the case. It’s just that when you see things from a greater perspective, priorities get realigned in a radical way.
It may help you understand this process of “waking up” if I use a different metaphor, one offered by an ancient Buddhist text called the Lotus Sutra. In the sutra’s parable of the burning house, a man’s children are playing inside a house that is on fire and full of all kinds of other dangers. He calls to his children, trying to convince them to come outside, but they are so wrapped up in their play that they ignore him. Eventually he persuades them to come out by convincing them even better playthings await them out of doors.
Of course, the parable of the burning house is an analogy for practice. The father is trying to get his children to practice – to let go of their attachment to their playthings and come outside, where a larger perspective will let them see how ephemeral life is. In summary: if we don’t practice hard to wake up, if we don’t let go of our fascination with the stuff of our lives, death will catch us unawares. And: when you look at things from a big perspective, even the most important concerns and projects of our lives appear like playthings. There’s nothing wrong with playthings, or play! But do you want to sacrifice your life for them?
Perfect Practice – Instantly
The parable of the burning house also holds the other side of our paradox about hard practice. The father convinces his children to emerge from the house by enticing them with visions of the wonderful playthings that await them outside. When they come out, what they find is practice. In the very act of leaving the house they have received the greatest reward they could have, and it isn’t another plaything. (The sutra makes the point that you could accuse the father of falsehood, but because this was an act of compassion it was okay for him to embellish the truth.)
Ironically, when we get too concerned about waking up from the dream, getting out of the house, attaining the larger perspective, or knowing that we’re practicing hard enough, we are still letting ourselves be fascinated with playthings. Now we’re after “spiritual” playthings, but they’re still just distractions. We’ll find ourselves lingering at the door of the burning house, deliberating about whether to let go of the toy in our hand in order to go outside and see if there’s something better there. Maybe there is, but maybe we’ll regret letting go of what we have. Or, having momentarily left the house, we’ll find ourselves back inside, returning to our playthings as if we’re addicted to them. Being stuck in the house with the awareness that it’s burning can be even worse that never having seen our life from a larger perspective at all.
This brings us to the other aspect of practice, which is true all along, even as we have to work diligently, spend the time, and make the sacrifices: there is a sense in which practice operates outside of every rule known to humankind. It defies every definition, and is not bounded in space or time. While it doesn’t make any sense that you can practice perfectly, this moment, even after decades of laziness, it’s true. To think that practice is something more than this is delusion. Ultimately, you just put down your toys and come out of the house. It really is that simple.
You know this instantaneous, perfect practice. You know the peace of letting go of self-concern. You know the ease of putting aside all your worries and activities to just be. You know the feeling of deep intimacy with life that can be aroused by an inspirational story, a poem, a piece of music, or a grand, natural vista. If you can drop your playthings, including the spiritual ones that require you to keep track of your laziness, nothing keeps you from leaving the burning house.
And Yet… BOTH Are True at the Same Time
Most of us want to hold on to one side or the other of this paradox about Zen practice. Either we get stuck striving to awaken (or to awaken more, or to be awake more often), or we realize practice is instantly available to us at any time and leave it at that. The latter view is especially tempting. After all, why work so hard when you can just relax and enjoy life, and dip into awakened mind now and then?
The fact is, even though we can leave the burning house at any time, even though we can wake up from the dream of everyday life at any time, we usually don’t. We spend most of our time playing and dreaming, more or less happily. If we practice harder, we strengthen the habit of waking up and getting out.
But once the sincere intention to practice harder arises, we can avoid stress and heartache by keeping in mind the other side of the paradox: by practicing hard we’re just trying to learn how to make the choice to be awake, to take the larger perspective. There is no obstacle to awakening that we are trying to overcome with a good Zen practice resumé. And yet…
[1] From the essay “Zazen-gi” by Zen Master Dogen, as translated by Dan Welch and Kazuaki Tanahashi in Moon in a Dewdrop: Writings of Zen Master Dogen, North Point Press, 1985
Image courtesy of markuso / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Excerpted with permission from Idiot’s Guides: Zen Living by Domyo Burk
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As I mentioned earlier, you can’t recognize when you are living without the filter of your self-concept. The moment you think, “Ah, here I am, experiencing no-self,” the self-concept is obviously back. Still, you can learn to live with less-self, and this is definitely something you can appreciate and work on.
Ironically, Zen practice can make experiencing less-self more difficult, at first. All of the Zen tools, including zazen, mindfulness, and the precepts, involve you looking more carefully at your life and sense of self. Rather than feeling like you have less-self, you end up feeling like self is front and center all the time!
I remember taking walks as I was learning how to be mindful. I paid attention to my physical movements and sensations, and tried to let go of extra thinking. Naturally, I evaluated the success of my effort, and I noticed how unruly my mind was and how rarely I was fully mindful. Instead of walking with less-self, it seemed like I was walking with a big extra dose of self-consciousness. Unfortunately, there’s no way around this phase of the practice. As the Dogen quote at the beginning of this chapter suggests, you have to study the self in order to forget the self.
Once you can manage to go about your life with less-self, this annoying self-consciousness is replaced by a more direct awareness of life. Your self-concept is entirely unnecessary to your full and effective functioning at this moment, so you learn to do without it. You are just washing the dishes, just eating, just walking. It’s a little like the way you used to do things, except for the absence of something. That something is your self-concern, which used to manifest in the background of your experience as low-level anxiety, vague dissatisfaction, anticipation, or regret, or as more intense things like anguish or a sense of meaninglessness.
The signs of self delusion—a sense of imperative, anger, resistance, greed, stinginess, physical tension—decrease as you live with less and less of a sense of self-essence. They still arise, but you can let go of them much more easily. You know all of these phenomena depend on your self-concept, which is a creation of your mind. You know how to return to life as it is, just breathing into the next moment, and things like anger or greed start to dissipate. Even if they don’t disappear completely, as their form begins to shift and break up like a cloud in the sky, you can’t regard them as entirely real.
Encountering people and things with less-self is especially rewarding, because you can appreciate and see them for what they are. You don’t assess how they fit into your agenda, and subsequently either manipulate them to serve your interests or dismiss them as irrelevant. In fact, you stop dismissing anything. There still may be many things you end up not noticing, because less-self doesn’t necessarily give you unusual powers of attention, but you don’t look elsewhere out of boredom because the thing in front of you is just another grocery line, just another customer, or just another evening at home with your partner. Dismissing something as being unworthy of your care, attention, and appreciation involves looking at it in terms of your small self’s agenda.
Living without an agenda means everything is fascinating. Even the annoying and painful stuff. It’s all part of the unfolding drama of your particular human life, which is, as far as you can know, your one and only human life. Awareness of this results in a curiosity that sustains you throughout all of the work you have to do to live.
Photo by True New Zealand Adventures
