This is important

Okay, I need you to stay with me the whole time on this one...

I mentioned in an ealier post that I had an encounter with a woman and her daughter and that, in that encounter, my gut reaction was to treat them with dignity and respect. I've been thinking a lot about that enounter and I honestly believe that the reason I did that was because I have been bowing and chanting and not thinking.
And this is why I need you to stick with me on this one. For me, it doesn't make sense that the least personable/ least feeling/ most mindless aspects of this practice are what actually lead me to have the most feeling: to treat an absolute stranger with dignity and respect.

It started with bowing, during sesshin. I bow a lot at the zen center. I do the whole full-prostration-bow thing during ceremonies, but most of my bowing at the zen center...is social. Bowing is how you acknowledge each other: it's kind of like a hello, kind of like a hug, not really a handshake. And, I have to admit, that I bow differently to different people at the zen center. I do the we're-passing-in-the-hallway simple dip of the body bow, the yay-my-friend deep bow, and the oooh-it's-the-abbot hope I get it right bow.
But during sesshin, I did none of this. During sesshin, I did a completely different kind of bowing. 
See, during sesshin the rule is that you're not allowed to make eye contact. This always made sense to me. People are dealing with all kinds of stuff, and not having to make eye contact keeps you from feeling like you have to put on a happy face or worry about your interaction with someone. But it also keeps you from knowing who you're bowing to.
During sesshin, I bowed to whoever passed me in the hallway. I bowed to whoever sat next to me at lunch. I bowed to whoever sat next to me in the zendo. I bowed to whoever sat next to me at tea. I bowed, to any...body and I bowed the same to everybody because I had no idea who I was bowing to. I didn't bow more to the person who brought me kleenex when I cried, I didn't bow more to the practice leaders, I didn't bow more or less to anyone. I bowed to everyone....the same.
And to me, this seems really cold- this practice of bowing to everyone the same- it feels like you have no feeling, like you don't care about anyone, like you won't acknowledge the individuality of all these people around you- you're just bowing because you bow.

And then I thought back to that encounter I had with the woman and her daughter. I thought about what made me stop and give her the space and respect that she deserved. What stopped  me, was my body. It was a habitual response, a habit I had developed after spending a week of stopping and bowing to any body that I encountered during sesshin. My mind definintely noticed that I was rushing past her. My mind noticed that I wouldn't have passed her if she were someone else. But it wasn't my mind that made me stop. I didn't think and stop, I stopped without thinking.

And then it hit me: This, is compassion.

Compassion isn't feeling for your friends and family. Compassion isn't feeling for a victim. Compassion isn't feeling for the perpetrator. Compassion isn't even feeling for that person whom no can seem to feel for.
True compassion is feeling indiscrimately. It's not feeling more for one person or less for someone else. It's not feeling so that something will change about them. It's not judging their actions or valuing their worth. It's feeling for someone because you feel for someone. It's feeling without thought, without judgment, without value.

And that's what I did with this woman. I just stopped because she was another human being. On the surface, this feels really cold, like I'm only stopping for her because she-is-just-another-human-being. But in practice, this is what I want to do. I want to treat everyone with dignity and respect, I want to give everyone the space that they deserve, I want to have compassion for you, regardless of who you are and what you are doing.

And then I thought about the practices at the zen center that have been difficult for me, the ones that felt really mindless: follow the schedule, don't try so hard to figure this out, just show up. I thought about chanting and how mindless it feels, how insincere it seems, and how much I feel like I'm giving up my own voice, just becoming a part of this monotone drone of sounds.

Then I thought about Buddhism and how many of its practices have made me feel like I had to give up my feelings: don't get caught up in emotions (don't relish the good times or try to end the bad), don't value one thing over another (don't see "good" as any better than "bad"), and give up youself: your thoughts, your perceptions, your ideas about who is who and what is what.

And I thought, "Oh, all of this is practice in bowing-because-you-bow. All of this removal of judgment- the whole 'is hot really hot? is cold really cold?- that keeps you from thinking that you know that person, that you know what's going on with them and that you know how you should respond to them. You don't. You don't know anything about them and even if you did it wouldn't matter. All they need is your respect and your compassion.
And the valuing thing? The not liking happy over sad, pleasure over pain, pleasant over difficult... We are bombarded with messages about good and evil, clean and dirty, safe and dangerous all day long. And these messages get transferred to people and scenarios and neighborhoods and they keep us from seeing each other as who we are: human beings. Removing this valuing system, that's what allows us to connect, to reach out, to treat each other as equal human beings.
And thoughts- my arch enemy and best friend. I have been studying issues of race, prejudice, privilege, etc. for ten years now. And this studying has definitely allowed me to see my habits, my values, my actions, and the systems in our society that have created and continue to support these actions that often benefit me at the detriment of others. But for all that thinking I never really stopped and saw everyone as equal to me, until I stopped thinking and just felt for the people around me.

I think that this is the only way that the Dalai Lama can do what he does. If he thought about the things that people have done, if he considered their actions within some sort of value system, there is no way that he could meet people with the compassion that he does. When he meets people, I don't think he thinks about them, I don't think he values them one way or another, I think he just meets everyone, equally. (but I have no idea, I've never met him and I certainly don't want to speak for what he does...)

And so I guess that's what this practice is about: giving up those thoughts that separate us, giving up those values that justify our treatment of each other as more or less than, giving up the self that makes the decision to love one person more than another.

Okay, I'm done, you made it, you stayed with me the whole time. Thanks.

Ready or not Part 2 (the self dances and sings)

I had been freaking out. My self was approaching and I wasn't so sure about how she looked. Actually, she looked just fine- all confident and comfortable with herself- but I was scared about what she was doing, who she was. It didn't help that I stayed for service that morning at the zen center. As we were chanting, I zoomed out away from myself and saw myself: kneeling on a tatami mat, chanting Japanese syllables that will never mean anything to me.
"This is what you do on a Saturday morning while everyone else is asleep?"
I started crying. I started freaking out. But then I told myself to be silent and still and I just sat with it. And then it was hard to read the chant book through my tears so I told myself to get it together and get back to chanting so I did.
After oryoki, I headed over to the East Bay for my class on Being Mindful and White. When I got off the BART I checked my watch. When I realized I got there early, I decided to walk up and down Telegraph to scope out a place for lunch. Then I laughed at myself: for all your work around "letting go of time," you're still a clock watcher, and for all your awareness of your fears about what to "do" in social situations, you're still afraid of showing up early, of that unstructured social interaction in which you think you might "fail."
"Huh," I thought. "I guess I'm still me."
The class was good but it was hard for me to focus because I was still freaking out about who I was. I had my oryoki bowls with me and it was hilarious to watch myself with them. They were on the top of my backpack and so I had to take them out to get stuff at the bottom. And, honestly, I wanted people to see my oryoki bowls. I wanted them to say "Oooh, look at her, she can do oryoki!"
When the facilitator asked how many people in the room were new to meditating and then lead them in a guided meditation, I pompously sat down on a cushion and did my own meditation, feeling all experienced with my posture and my ability to just focus on the breath.
"Dude!" I thought. "How come you cry about chanting but you're all show offy about meditating? What's your deal? Are you into this or not?"
And I didn't know the answer, and I started to think about what it would be like if I did this all the time, if I, like carried my oryoki bowls around or something, if, I, like were a student at the zen center or if I, like, became someone like Blanche some day.
And then I totally freaked out and took a deep breath and focused on what the teacher was saying instead of what was coming up for me.
By the time lunch rolled around, that whole freak out had mostly passed. It didn't feel so pressing or urgent or monumental for me. I walked across the street to Ike's Lair- the Oakland version of that amazing sandwich shop in the Mission. I ordered my meatless meatball sub and a red velvet cakelet and I was totally looking forward to them. There were metal lunch boxes on the wall from the seventies and I was feeling all nostalgic and happy for my childhood. Then that eighties song came on- that one that goes "Oh you.... You make my dree eeams come true...oooh ooh,  ooh ooh, ooh ooh, ooh ooh , ooh ooh" And I totally sang along, and I danced along, in Ike's Lair, around all the strangers ordering their sandwiches.
And then I zoomed out again, and I saw myself doing this and I saw that that was okay, it was okay to sing and dance in Ike's sandwich shop. Singing and dancing in a sandwich shop doesn't preclude me from bowing and chanting in a zen temple. What I saw, and this is scary for me, is that all of that is me. That person who gets up on a Saturday morning and goes to the zen center to meditate, that person who stays for service and soji because it's as close as she can get to sesshin for now, that's me. And the person who tries really hard not to check her watch but does anyway, the person who walks alone up and down Telegraph 'cause she's afraid about what to do when you get there early, that's me too. That person who talks about her experiences around racism and how meditation and Buddhism is helping her with that, that's me, and I have wisdom and experience around it. And that person, who sings and dances to Hall and Oats around complete strangers, that's me too.
All of this is me. It's a bizarre mix, but it isn't a giving up of one in exchange for another. I can coexist with all these parts of myself. They aren't separate from each other. And also, I don't have actually have a choice in this matter. This is who I am, I can't help it. Well, actually, I've tried, I've been trying for the last year and a half to run away from these parts of myself, to show how much this is not me. But all it's done is made me sad and confused and lonely.
This isn't, like, all good. I'm still not settled about this. I'm still not happy about chanting and bowing on a Saturday morning. But the only time I'm not happy about it is when I do that zooming out thing- when I see myself from a distance, when I see myself from some "other" person's point of view. I don't know who that other person is, that person that sometimes gives me insight but other times labels me with judgment and doubt. Oh, great, maybe she's part of all of me too. Guess I'll just have to accept her along with the rest of me...

Ready or not, here you come (the self approaches...)

I had a weird experience at Young Urban Zen on Monday night. After small groups, I made a comment about something someone else had said. Then another person referred to what I had said when they made a comment. I heard the words: “It’s like Eli said…” and I thought, “Eli who?” Not, like, which Eli are they referring to but, like, “Wait, Eli said something? Elli offered advice? Who’s Eli?”

It was weird to have this other person in the room, this Eli. It was weird to be separate from myself. And then I thought about it some more and I thought, “You know that’s you, don’t you? That Eli who offered advice? That’s you. You’re here. You’re at Young Urban Zen on a Monday night. You know when you saw people walking up the steps in front of you tonight and it reminded you of people going to church on a Sunday morning and it freaked you out? You were right behind them, and you walked in that same door. You’re here and you’re doing this.”

But it was a little too much for me to take so I stopped acknowledging that.

Then the leader for the evening asked me if I was still going to give my Way-Seeking-Mind-Talk next week and I said yes and then I freaked out some more.

I freaked out for a couple of reasons. The first one was the reality of it. See, I’ve been thinking about my talk since last fall, when I was first asked. I know pretty well what I’m going to say and I thought I felt comfortable saying it. But when he reminded me of it, I looked around and saw the room that I would be in, and the people, and I thought, “Oh @#%$, I’m really going to do this. I’m really going to say what I’m going to say and these very people in the room, they’re going to be there, listening.”

The second thing that freaked me out was the fact that I was going to be giving a way-seeking mind talk. I’ve always been uncomfortable with the phrase the way. It makes me feel like there’s only one way, and that I’m on it.  I don’t want to be on a way. I don’t want to accept what I’m doing at the zen center. I have no idea why I don’t want this, I just know that it terrifies me to see who I am and what I am doing.

So then I started to make myself different.

“It’s not fair,” I thought. “Everyone else came to the zen center. They were studying Buddhism or they wanted to meditate. I just showed up. I didn’t know it was a temple. I didn’t want to meditate. I only came because my friend told me to go to church and I didn’t want to go to church.”

But then I thought, “Yeah, but you kept coming. And you took classes. And you started meditating twice a day. And you did the summer intensive on line. And you did a practice period incognito. And then you signed up for a real practice period. And, well, I don’t mean to be rude about it but you write a blog about coming to the zen center. I’m not sure who you think is writing that blog, but that person is definitely coming to the zen center.”

Then I got really mad, ‘cause my real self was walking toward me. It was tall and it was comfortable with itself. It had no problems with what it was doing and also, it wasn’t stopping. It was walking right to me, slow and confident and deliberate.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t run away, that would be silly. It was going to catch up with me no matter what I did.

And I thought a little more about myself, and how much I wanted to be in the building, how much I wanted to be a part of the zen center and was but still couldn’t feel it. And I thought about my post about feeling alone- how that came from not accepting myself, from not seeing myself for who I am. And I thought, “You should just give in on this one. If you really do want to be a part of the zen center, and you do, you have to see that you really are a part of the zen center. You have to accept it instead of trying to label it or seeing it as anything other than it it. It just is. You’re just here. This is you, no matter how much it freaks you out.”

And so I’m here. I’m about to be approached by myself. I don’t know what I’m going to do when It gets here, and I'm scared of what it's going to feel like. But I’m not turning around and I’m not running away and I'm totally frightened by this decision to stay still.

Eureka!

We were in the kitchen early in the morning when the phone rang.

“Hello?” my sister answered.

“Oh! Hello!” my father replied. “I was expecting the answering machine. I had a great idea in my sleep and I wanted to remind myself about it by leaving a message on the machine.”

I was hoping he’d call back and leave a message so that I could hear his great idea, but he didn’t. I’m not sure if he wrote it down or if it was lost forever, but it got me thinking.

You know how you have those great ideas? Those things that come to you out of the blue and they’re, like, genius? They always seem to come when you’re in the shower or picking something out of the garbage disposal or in the middle of the night. It’s like when you’re NOT thinking, that’s when those things come to you.

And then I thought about sesshin- and about how it was kind of a full seven days of not thinking. I thought about how those things that just came up for me during sesshin, those were truths about me, actual insights into myself, instead of my own theories or explanations about who I am.

And I wondered if that’s what that ‘Eureka’ feeling is about. I wonder if those ‘Eureka’ thoughts feel like that because they are the truth. That in those moments, we are actually seeing this world as it is. And that’s why it feels so beautiful and powerful, and important. Because this life pretty amazing, in all its complexities and things that are unexplainable. But we tend to only see the world as it is when we’re not trying so hard to see it, when we’re busy doing something else, or when we are relaxed. And I guess that’s what zazen is about- creating that same state of mind in which the truth… can show itself to us and we… can see it.

With family... AFTER sesshin.

We are up early. We are attempting to go to Target BEFORE THE KIDS GET UP. As I am checking my email, my family is attempting to speak with me. Unlike yesterday when I was happy to listen, today I am annoyed. And, because I felt all good about being present for them yesterday, I am now annoyed that I am annoyed.

“How come I could be ‘present’ to my family yesterday but not today?”

“Because yesterday you had nothing to do- you were just hanging out and everything was taken care of.  All you had to do was hang out. Now you have to..." and I look at the screen in front of me: check email.

"Check email? Really? Do you really have to check your email, right now, while your family is trying to talk to you?”

I turn away from the computer and listen. We finish talking. I go back to my email. I check the time. We should leave in ten minutes. I check my other email accounts. We should leave in 5 minutes. I consider going on facebook, instead I click off of the internet.

My family is now also on the internet. I look at the time. We had decided that we would leave now.  I consider telling this to my family. But then I think, “We decided on this time because we wanted to get to Target and back before the kids got up. The kids are still asleep. If we leave five minutes later than we had agreed upon, we will probably still get back before the kids get up.”

I sit down next to my family. My family is researching census data, trying to find the page with our mother’s home address. I look at the clock. We are five minutes late. I remember that our other family member said they might meet us at Target. I consider saying this but don’t want to interrupt the progress through the pages. I think, “This is just you- you’re totally a clock person. Time is arbitrary, you’re still going to get to Target before the kids get up.” But then I remember the person in front of me who is totally not a clock person and who has actually expressed their gratitude to me when I have kept them on schedule.

“I am aware of the time,” I say, and then I laugh at myself. I’m saying this phrase as a way to point out that we’re late but I’m also, literally, telling this person my ‘shape.’ I am saying, “I’m a total clock person and it’s driving me crazy that we’re late and what I really want to say is ‘We need to go! He might be waiting for us and… we’re LATE!’ but instead I am saying: I am aware of the time.

 And I’m saying this because I’m trying this out, this knowing my shape, knowing the shape of my family, and trying to find my place in our togetherness in a way that allows us both to feel whole and loved.

“I know, I know,” is the response, and I feel better.

 But then my family continues to scroll through pages. I think, “Why aren’t we stopping? Why are we still going” and I remember: because we are not a clock person. I take a deep breath and continue to watch. We get closer to the address and now I am interested and I agree, just one more page. And then I think, “Oh no, I’ve encouraged this! Now we’re never going to get to Target and back before they wake up.”

I look at the clock again. I imagine our other family member waiting outside Target I say, “He said he might meet us at Target.”

“Oh, you’re right, we should go!” and so we go.

We were late, 20 minutes late. But it turned out that REI didn’t open until 10 so if we had been on time for Target we couldn’t have gone to REI. So I guess it was good that we were ‘late’ but, that’s not really what this was about.

This was about how I feel: my shoulders are not hunched, I am not resentful, I have not made someone feel bad for ‘making us late,’ and I don’t feel like I missed something by getting to Target late. We did what we did, we came home, we had lunch, I made bread pudding and my niece helped me. I existed with my family. I didn’t think or try to change anyone or judge anyone. I didn’t get upset or sad or want to go away. I just existed- we just existed.

Sesshin Day 1: Creating Harmony

For me, the first day of sesshin started on Sunday morning and it started with making harmony.

After the first period of zazen, I noticed the person sitting next to me waiting, as I fluffed my cushion. Then, as I bowed to my cushion, she bowed to her cushion, in time with me. Then we turned, together, and bowed to the zendo, together.

I smiled, and I remembered some part of the admonition talking about trying to create harmony and I thought, “Oh, we’re in this together. This isn’t just about sitting, it’s about being together too. And it’s about creating harmony with the people around you.”

After service we did soji and I got to sweep the steps again. As we swept, I noticed my interaction with the other two people sweeping: how we each did our own part of the job but overlapped at the same time, how what they thought was done, I thought still needed work, and how we moved around each other in this same space, doing this task alone and together at the same time.

“It’s kind of like that ying and yang symbol,” I thought. In that ying and yang symbol, one shape’s fullness fits in to the other shape’s emptiness, and together, they make a complete circle. I thought about making harmony with this world, about falling in to it instead of fighting against it and I thought, “If I’m going to fit in with this world instead of bumping up against it, I think it would help to know my own shape. Maybe that’s what zazen is about, getting to know yourself, your shape, so that you can see how you fit in to this world, how you affect it and interact with it. Maybe, in knowing that, it helps you to make harmony with it.”

The Lonely Blogosphere

Blogging is funny, you have no idea who reads you.
There are days when no one reads your blog and you think, "Well, I guess it was all a delusion. I thought I was writing for others, I thought people needed my blog or felt inspired by it or did things because of it; but clearly, no one is reading it, so, what's the point?"
And then there are others days when people comment on your blog and it's like, "Okay, there is a purpose to this, there are people involved," and it makes you want to write more.
This week, I opened my blog to see three lovely comments, inspiring me to write more. One of them was actually an "inspiring blog" award from Pam Wight whose blog Roughwriting I follow. She was one of the first people to follow my blog and it was her encouragement, her comments on my writing that kept me going when I first started this blog. I continue to be inspired by her own writing, which is actually quite zen. She recreates moments in her everyday life in a way that makes you present to them, but then her style carries you to a place of new discovery. I only wish she would write more than once a week!
Part of the rules of receiving the inspiring blog award is that you share 7 things about yourself and that you list 7 other blogs that have inspired you. I support this wholly, and hope you visit these blogs. Us bloggers share a lot, but we get kinda lonely, so I'm happy to send you off to say hello to these other blogs too.

7 things, eeek, I feel like you know more than that already...

1) I lived in Tahiti, on a coral reef, with friends, for three weeks. It changed my life.

2) The one place in this world that I've felt totally at home, like 'Oh, this is who I am" was when I visited Ireland. Everyone there was genuinely curious, friendly, and talkative, to everyone.

3) I've never moved. The house I grew up in is still there and my dad still lives in it. If I want to, I can go home and sleep in that same childhood bed I slept in for 18 years, I really can (and yes, the stuffed animals are still on my bed).

4) I used to be addicted to television. I couldn't watch it for anything less than 2 hours. I tried, I really tried, but when my room mate moved out and took the TV with her, I had to make a no-TV-in-common-areas rule for our apartment. I'm pretty sure I'm over it now but I'm not taking any chances.

5) I used to hate to eat. I wished there were a pill I could take, once, and be done for the day. I dreaded eating in restaurants 'cause there was never anything on the menu that I liked. Then I went to Tahiti, then I lived in Boston, then I had no money... now I love to eat and the best treat ever is either going to a new restaurant or having friends come over and share their favorite recipes.

6) I love hieights. I love to be up, above everything, and I feel as safe on the edge of something high as I do sitting on the ground in the middle of an open field.

7) I love being small. Being next to an ocean or surrounded by big trees makes me feel cared for, makes me feel like I'm not responsible for things, like in the grand scheme of things, it's going to be okay.

7 blogs (I'm inspired by many but I'm posting the ones that I think you might not run across in the zen sphere):

Pam's (of course): http://roughwighting.net/

My friends in Tahiti: http://coconutradio.blogspot.com/ http://buy.kamokapearls.com/blogs/pearly-blog

My friend Vikki: http://thevoiceofvikki.blogspot.com/

The brownies I didn't bring: http://www.kevinandamanda.com/whatsnew/new-recipes/ultimate-chocolate-chip-cookie-n-oreo-fudge-brownie-bar.html

My friend Kelly (in Austin) http://standinginwaves.wordpress.com/

And the indescribable Rumpus: http://therumpus.net/

Enjoy...

Be silent and still... and it will be (sesshin).

These are the words I read as I returned to my cushion after ‘rest’ period on the fifth day of sesshin: Be silent and still. I knew what they meant immediately. I was talking, during sesshin. I wasn’t talking out loud, but I was talking. Thoughts were coming up for me during zazen, and I was being present to them, but I was also talking about them.

 I would see stuff about myself and then I would judge it:  ‘poor me’ or ‘why do you have to be like this’ or ‘it was awful that you had to experience that.’ Other times, I would explain what was coming up: ‘that’s because this happened’ or ‘that’s because they’re this way.’ As a result, I blamed others, saw myself as a victim, harbored resentment, and ultimately perceived myself as different, separate, alone.

I wasn’t being still either. I may have been sitting still, but I was grasping: trying to figure things out, holding on to the past, making things up about my future, conjecturing instead of just witnessing my existence.

As I read the words, I thought about the analogy that Fu had given (when we were at Green Gulch for the YUZ retreat) about snakes in containers. She explained that when you put a snake in a tube, they coil and writhe and fight against it. But as soon as they relax, as soon as they are still, they slide right out, and are free. I decided that the reason the Ino had written this note to me  (it was in response to a note I had written to him) was because he saw me grasping for human contact, trying to figure things out, fighting against the whole point of sesshin:  seeing yourself. So I trusted his advice and took it. I got completely still. I didn’t get silent right away, I kept talking for a long time, but I finally saw this talking for what it was: a distraction to keep me from seeing myself.

For the next 48 hours, I tried to be still and silent. I moved slowly, literally trying not to disturb even the air around me. I stayed silent, with my body at least, trying not to make any noise, any impact. I didn’t go to yoga after the note- I didn’t want to move my body intentionally, I wanted to be still. I sat and I did kinhin and things came up. When they came up, it hurt and I cried. But I stayed still. I didn’t justify what came up, I didn’t put a value on what came up, I didn’t interpret what came up, I just stayed with it. It wasn’t even acceptance, it was just existence.  

That night, I even rode my bike home in stillness. When I got home, I saw the picture of my mom that I had moved to my bedside after having dokusan with Blanche. For the first time, I saw my mom. She wasn’t a photograph anymore, she was a real person. She had lived and she had suffered. She had been a happy 38 year old and she had loved me. Then I picked up the picture of myself and my mom the year before she died. I was a happy five year old. I was next to my mom and we had been happy together. Yes, she died and I probably was confused about all that but I also kept on living. It wasn’t all suffering and sadness, we had lived too.

And then I saw my watch- it’s a women’s version of my dad’s watch – and I started crying. I cried in apology, in empathy, in compassion, in acknowledgment that my dad was there for me after my mom died. He really was there, and he was solid and stable and I was taken care of. And he experienced suffering too. We all did.

I’ve thought a lot about what happened after I read the note- whether my realizations were more intense or deeper or more real, but that’s not what it was at all. It wasn’t the realizations, it was what I did with them. I just existed with them. I was silent and still with them.

And to me, this silence, this stillness, is the essence of this practice. When you are silent to your existence, things just exist. You don’t add to them with your words or your thoughts if you are silent. And stillness, that’s just letting the world be- that’s being present to it; not grasping at it or trying to hold on to what’s already passed, you’re just being still with it, letting it exist.

And I think that’s what allowed me to finally see my mom, to exist with her. I stopped trying to decide whether she was alive or not, whether she suffered or not, who she had been, who she was now. I just saw her, without an attempt to make her anything other than the person I saw in the photograph. And I saw myself too- not as a poor five year old, or as a loss of childhood, or a broken person as a result- but as a happy five year old; because in that picture, I’m a goofy, happy, cheesy five year old, sitting next to her mom. 

And my dad, he existed too.  He was a man who was dealing with the loss of his wife and the sudden responsibility of three small children. And he did an amazing job of dealing with this. And he loved me and took care of me and still does. That’s who he is.

I’m still working on who I am. I’m working on only seeing myself, not adding to what I see with judgment or labels or desires or expectations. And I’m working on being still too- not trying so hard to figure things out or make things go one way or another; just being.. still.

Awareness of others (post sesshin)

I've definitely noticed that I have an increased awareness of others since sesshin. I guess it makes sense because I was, basically, living, breathing, sitting, and working with all the other people in sesshin, for 16 hours a day. Physically being in such close quarters, during such a sort of intimate experience, seems to have saturated me with a natural inclination to be aware of and present to those around me. This kind of embodiment of awareness of others, combined with some insights to my self and my habits (as a result of a class I took with Lien) helped me to notice, and interrupt, a mistreatment of another human being and her daughter.
I was rushing from MUNI to BART in order to make it to a class at EBMC on time. I swiped my Clipper card at the BART turnstile and started to run toward the escalator in the hopes of somehow catching the BART train that had left 3 minutes ago. As I ran past a woman and her daughter I stopped, because I noticed something. I noticed that if that woman and her daughter were different than who they were, I wouldn't have passed them. I would have slowed down, given them space, and respected that they were a mother and her daughter and I had no right to rush past them. I would have treated them as equals or, even more, as someone not to disturb, challenge, or inconvenience.
When I say 'if a woman and her daughter were different than who they were' I am referring to my perception of who they were based on my habits around all kinds of signifiers in our society: class, race, attire, etc. I suppose I could describe this woman and her daughter, but I think the more important thing was that I had placed a value on them, that I felt comfortable treating them as 'less than,' that I was comfortable asserting my needs over theirs and, most importantly, I knew that I wouldn't have done this if I perceived them in a different way. My perceptions about who they were weren't just stereotypes or labels, they were actual value statements that allowed me to treat them as something less than myself.
This is not a lovely thing to discover about yourself. It's also not something new to my awareness of myself, I've been studying my patterns around race, class, etc. for almost ten years now. But, this time, it wasn't just a study of myself. I actually saw what I was doing and stopped. And it was different too. In the past, when I learned about my perceptions and assumptions of others, it stayed in this concept of "other." Like, I notice that I make assuptions about this group of people or I notice that I tend to act this way around this group of people.
But on Tuesday, when I saw this mother and her daughter, what stopped me was that I knew that they were the same as me, that they were equals to me, that I wasn't treating them with the respect that every human being deserves.
And maybe that's what made me stop- whereas in the past I would have just brushed past them, noticed it and did it anyway, and just felt guilty about it later. Maybe it's this awareness that we really all are a part of a community, that we actually aren't any different from each other. I don't really know what made me stop but I do know that I didn't have a choice. I physically stopped- my treatment of them was absolutely the most important thing at that moment. I didn't even consider how much later I would be for the BART. I just needed to slow down, to give them the space that they deserve in this world.

I don't know if it will happen again but if this is the after effect of sesshin, or of a year at the zen center, or classes at the zen center, or the practice period... whatever it is that made my natural inclination to be to treat absolute strangers with respect and dignity, I just, I don't know, this is bigger than I thought it was. In some ways, I feel like I have a responsibility to continue, that in knowing that this is the effect of whatever it is that I'm doing, I can't not do it. It wouldn't be fair to live my life the way I did before, unaware of things, treating people as "others." I don't know. I guess I'll just be in the zendo tomorrow morning for sure...

Risky Business...in the zendo

There were a couple of times, during sesshin, when I was the only one in the zendo. The first time it happened, I was a little bitter. I walked down the stairs to the zendo and saw that there was not even one pair of shoes on the shoe rack.
"Really?" I said to myself in a high pitched squeaky voice. "Really? I am the only one sitting zazen, during sesshin?!"
I took off my shoes and walked down the gaitan; pretty sure that somehow, someone else would be in there. I stepped my three steps in, bowed, and raised my head to see that, in fact, I was the only one in the zendo.
So, I did what any child of the eighties would do: I turned the corner, ran three steps, and slid across the hardwood floor in my socks. I didn't sing: "Just take those old records off the shelf," I wasn't in boxers, and I definitely did not look as cool as Tom Cruise but I had fun- childhood fun.
It lightened up some resentment I was feeling at the time, and a few minutes later, two other people showed up to sit.
The next day, the same opportunity presented itself: I was the first one in the zendo again and I was pretty sure no one would see me if I ran and slid. But it just didn't feel right: the thrill of doing something slightly forbidden, the risk of being seen, had passed. It was just a zendo the second time, I was just a sitter who showed up early.

Feeling alone

Have you ever felt all alone in a room full of people? Have you ever felt all alone even when you're with someone you really love and care about? I guess if I had a koan, this would be it: how to actually feel connected to people, how to actually feel the love of others. Because I know that people like me- they tell me this, and I can see it on their faces when I do those things that only I do. And also, cognitively, I like myself too. I know I'm not a bad person, I know I try really hard, and I know that I'm a good friend and a good listener and that I genuinely care about people: people I know and love and, honestly, just humans in general- I know this.
But, I just, I couldn't seem to figure out why I still felt so alone. For quite a while, I thought I actually had figured this out. After much zazen and the support and guidance of my AMAZING therapist, I saw how much the habits that I developed as a child around intimacy kind of set me up to be all alone. As a little girl, I decided that the best way to get someone to love you was to make yourself small and contained: to not have any needs, to not express any emotions, to kind of shrink into a corner. As an adolescent, I decided that I was responsible for my own happiness, that I didn't need others, and that my best bet was to just take care of myself.
But as a grownup, I started to see that none of those things are true. Intimacy- connection to others- actually comes from sharing yourself with others: your feelings, your needs, your joy, your concerns. And emotions? They're as much a part of life as breathing. They're not something to be contained, they're something to experience, with others... not alone, in your room. And with this I started to see that, even though it might feel like I can take care of all of my needs myself, I can't. And also, people like to help me, we all like to help each other. Honestly, we're all better when we're with others, even when we don't exactly get along.
So I had put these things into practice. I had intentionally started to share my self with others, I stopped hiding my tears and my bad days, and I made an effort to stick around even when things got uncomfortable or scary for me in relationships. This helped, a lot. And I did start to feel the love of others and my new friendships became deeper.
But even during sesshin, when I pictured myself going home at night, I pictured myself alone. Even in dokusan with Paul I admitted that I feel totally alone in this world. And even when people did give me attention, even when they showered me with praise, love, and affection, I felt myself wanting more or feeling like it wasn't enough, and I couldn't figure it out. Why did I need so much recognition? Why did it always have to be about me? Why couldn't I ever feel like I was secure? Like I was loved, for sure? I thought it was because my mom had died when I was young. I thought it was because of my habits around intimacy.
But during sesshin, or maybe it was even after sesshin, I kind of saw what was true: It was me who needed to love me. All the crying out, all the grasping for more attention, for more praise, for guaranteed and secure love, none of that was ever going to be felt until I finally settled down and accepted myself- really accepted myself as who I am. Not like, this-is-all-there-is but, like, this is you and I accept you. You are okay. Not even you're who you wanted to be or you have arrived just, this is you. I see you.
I'm not there yet. I don't know why I'm not there yet, but at least I see what I need to do. I imagine that I'll get there by stopping judgments of myself, by not trying to make myself be a certain way, by kind of relaxing around all of this, by letting myself be and then seeing that person, seeing my self, just as I am.

Young, urban, and... zen

I go to Young Urban Zen (YUZ) on Monday nights. I’ll write more about it in another post but I just wanted to share what we talked about this week.

Normally, we read from a text and break in to small groups to talk about it. Last Monday we had a way-seeking-mind-talk. I was late so I missed the talk but I was there for the second part, when we split into two large groups to respond to a simple question:

If you’re new to YUZ, why did you come? If you’ve been coming for a while, why do you continue to come?

I was awed and inspired by what the people in my group said.  I can go on about it but, it makes more sense to just say what they said: (apologies for any misrepresentation- it’s how I heard and remembered what was said)

I get a broad perspective on life, it keeps me from only seeing things from my point of view.

I have all kinds of questions about life and, sometimes, I get answers to them here.

I want to be present to my life, I want to be awake.

I don’t want to daydream, I want to experience this life.

Sometimes, I go to the dharma talk and hear this profound teaching and then we all leave, and we never talk about it. It’s nice to have a place to talk about it.

It’s really different to sit with others. Coming here I get encouragement and support.

It makes me feel grounded to come here.

It’s nice to be around like-minded individuals.

I don’t experience what many of you describe during zazen- it’s not enjoyable for me. Maybe, after coming here, I’ll start to experience that.

I like having a place where I can talk about this practice with people who practice… I don’t have to explain the whole thing just to be able to talk about it.

I know the people at the zen center are super nice, but it’s nice to have a place where I can ask questions and not feel, I don’t know, it’s just nice to be able to have people to talk to.

It’s nice to know that there are other people like me- who want to live their life in this way.

It gives me hope- it’s a salvation for me.

I can’t help it, I need it. 

I heard all of this and I just thought, “Oh my gosh these people are amazing! This is how they’re choosing to spend their Monday nights: to learn how to be present, awake, aware… to live their life in a way that benefits others.”

I couldn’t tell who I was more grateful for- the people who were coming to YUZ or to YUZ for giving them a place to do this.

Oh, I guess I don’t mean them, like I’m not the people in YUZ, ‘cause I am the people in YUZ. It’s just inspiring to be surrounded by such genuine and sincere intent to truly live this life.

Blog apologies

This one is tricky.

During sesshin I noticed lots of things about myself. One of those things was how I have been writing about “the zen center” on this blog.  I have been writing about “the zen center” as if it were an object, as if it were an institution, as if it were this thing.

But the thing is, “the zen center” isn’t a thing, it’s people. And on top of that, it’s the people I’ve been sitting with each morning. It’s the people who give me soji on Saturdays. It’s the people who bow while I chant. The people who teach me, who laugh with me, who let me have bad days, who silently exist with me while somehow making me feel not so alone.

And I know that those very same people have compassion for me. And I’m pretty sure that in watching me write about all my misgivings about the “zen center” they have understood that it wasn’t intended toward them.

But at the same time, I see that I’ve been pretty careless in writing this blog. At times, I’ve written about zen practice in a somewhat dismissive way. I don’t want to acknowledge this but it’s true: I’ve scoffed at the zen center, I’ve laughed at advice from the abbot, I’ve talked about this practice as if it were a ‘foreign object.’ I haven’t treated this practice with the care and concern that it has given me. And, because this ‘practice’ is people... I see now that, by writing this way, I’m doing the same thing to them, to you.

I know that no one is mad at me and I don’t think that anyone thinks that I meant offense. But still, I wrote without thinking about the people I was writing about.  And I want to apologize for that.

With bows…

Sesshin begins....now?

I attended a sesshin- a multi- day meditation retreat- at the zen center. It's taken me a while to process exactly just what went on during those seven days but I'm working on it. Regardless, the next few posts will be about my epxerience at the retreat, and afterwards. Basically, if you see the word sesshin in the title, that's what it's about.

I have attended one-day sits before, and they always include an orientation on the night before the sitting starts. The orientation usually includes a brief overview of the schedule of the sit, an opportunity to ask any questions, and then a reading of the admonitions (guidelines) for the sit.

So, on the night before sesshin started, I showed up at the zen center for orientation. And, like always, we talked about the schedule, they answered our questions, and then the Ino read the admonitions. As he read the last line of the admonitions, it felt kind of final, almost like a command:  Sesshin begins now.  I got up along with everyone else, but then I noticed that a lot of people were going in the same direction: toward the stairs that lead to the zendo.

“Wait, are we going to the zendo now?” I thought to myself. “It starts… now?”

I looked behind me, toward the door that leads to the street, checking to see if any of the non- residents were leaving the building. No one was, everyone was heading downstairs.  And then I thought, “Nah, the men’s dorm is downstairs, people are just going to their rooms.”

 And then I glanced to my right and saw the face of Blanche’s assistant, smiling and gently gesturing her head in the direction of the zendo. 

“Oh,” I sighed. “Sesshin begins now.”

I was in jeans. I had things to do. I was going to send emails, I was going to tidy up…

“Well,” I thought. “There goes your plan to practice oryoki one more time…”  and  I just followed everyone else, down the stairs and into the zendo.

I don’t really remember much about the first night’s sit. I remember reading from the chant sheet at the end of the night and thinking, “I think I can remember this chant, I don’t think I need the sheet.”

And I remember riding home and just going straight into bed because, apparently, sesshin had begun.