Sitting outside your home

This post is old- it was written last summer, shortly after I returned from spending a week at a monastery in Japan.

"Why would you turn away from something, that felt like home?"
This is one of the questions my teacher asked me when I shared with him my experience in Japan and how it had really settled me in my practice. I think the reason he asked this question was because after I had shared how settled in my practice I was, he had responded to my assertion of settlement in practice by asking: "Now what?"
The "Now what" question had completely unsettled me and freaked me out and made me share all my fears about what it would be to actually settle into this practice, all my misgivings, all my perceptions, and all my reasons for not actually settling into this practice. And so that's when he asked me, "Why would you turn away from something that feels like home?

And I guess I have been turning away.
I guess I have been denying something, refusing to accept something that brings me happiness.
At one point, when this phrase kept announcing itself inside my head, I answered, "Because I don't deserve it."
That surprised me. It wasn't what I thought my answer was but I think it's telling.
And later that night, when I saw a picture of my mom, it felt like she was saying: "This brings you love. This is what I wanted for you, this is what I wish I could have given you. It's okay to have it, It's okay."
It felt like she wanted me to have whatever brought me joy and love and ease.

That afternoon, immediately after dokusan, I had tea with a friend and it helped because I got some space from the intensity of what felt ominous and true. But after tea, I had to walk by the zen center on my way home. As I approached the building from Page St, I saw the sign on the corner of the building: Zen Center.
I imagined myself living there, having it be my home, having it be something that people came to, having it actually be something, an institution, a place, an actual entity. I had to stop, and pause, at the thought of it, of me being inside of it, of me being a part of it and it being a place that people come to.
After staring at that corner of the building for a while, I finally kept walking and got to my bike.
But then I had to turn around, and see the building again, see that it was right there, see that it could easily be my home, that it was almost opening its doors to me- except it wasn't, I was the only one who could walk in, it wasn't going to invite me.
So I turned around, and sat down on the sidewalk.
I didn't really know what to do. I wasn't ready to leave, I just wasn't. Leaving felt like I was turning my back on something that was engaging me, that was asking me to look at myself and what I was doing. So I just sat there, cross legged, on the sidewalk next to my bike. A couple of people walked by and I thought they were probably wondering what I was doing, just sitting there on the sidewalk, for no apparent reason.
I pictured my teacher walking by and asking me what I was doing and me saying,"I'm sitting, with this!" and gesturing toward the building, its offer, its representation of home to me.
I also thought that he thought "Oh, she's doing it. She's practicing this practice- literally sitting with what comes up for her." ('cause I was actually sitting on the sidewalk at that point)
And I was. And part of me saw myself too-saw the poignancy of my literal and somewhat vulnerable/ trusting act of just sitting there when faced with something that felt compelling and important.
But then I also noticed that I wanted to be noticed in this, that I wanted to be praised for sitting with this instead of turning away and I thought it was probably time to move on.
And so I started to unlock my bike to ride away but something made me turn around and sit down again. I just still wasn't settled in this, was still feeling this corridor between me and the entrance to the building; a corridor that I was in, could walk toward, was sitting at the entrance of.

At one point, a teacher from the zen center, who had been involved in my practice early on, walked by, entering the corridor from the side, and smiled at me.
I jumped up at the sight of her, jumped up and down a couple of times in excitement: that at this very moment she had appeared, almost as a ferry, walking easily through the corridor toward the building, making me feel like it was okay to keep walking toward it, that she was doing it and it was totally fine.
I hugged her and wanted to tell her the whole story and share with her how often she shows up, right at times of indecision for me, how her presence unintentionally demonstrates the essence of what is happening: a person, walking in to a building; a person, just being.
But I just hugged her instead and we shared how often our paths cross and she said how nice it was to see me there, laughing.
For some reason, that made things okay, removed the ominous feeling I had been having, this physical decision to get up from sitting on the sidewalk and riding home was not as big as I had thought. There were still things to do: my room mate had texted me because our shower is leaking... I needed to get home to plan my day tomorrow...

I said goodbye to my friend, put on my backpack, and rode to my real home.

I'm still moving slowly. I think it's because I am feeling like something big is going on, but it's all inside me, like it's contained in there and filling me and I need to walk gingerly or slow enough to let it do what it's doing.
why would you turn away from something that feels like home?

I think this is about not turning away. I think this is about being willing to feel what's coming up for me instead of denying it or pointing out why it won't work for me or what will happen if.
I think the question to ask is why, but I think the action is to watch myself to notice my response to this-to notice if I am turning away from something that my life is showing me.