I've been practicing something while I've been home with my family: I just listen. When they talk, I only hear what they say. I don't think about how to fix what they are saying, I don't try to correct them or help them, I just listen to their actual words. Sometimes, they ask me questions, and even then, I only listen. I don't interpret their questions or guess what they want me to answer, I just answer, truthfully. And then, if I wonder what they are thinking, I ask, and again, I listen just to their answer, not to my interpretation of it.
"Do you want dessert?"
"No."
A frown on the face of my family member after I answer.
"Did you want dessert but don't want to be the only one ordering dessert?" I ask.
A guilty smile comes across the face of said family member.
"I can order dessert so that you're not the only one ordering dessert. We can even split it."
And when the flan comes and a little one who forgot to order dessert is devastated by their lack of flan I say, "Why don't you two split it? I was only ordering it so that you could have dessert and not feel bad being the only one ordering," and it's true, that's exactly what I did.
When I ask about the food that was served at the party and my family member says they don't remember, I am disappointed. I want to hear about the party, I want to hear if it was a potluck, I want to know if the host made the food herself, I want to imagine the party and my family member being at it. So I ask again, in a different way, "Was it a potluck or did the host make all the food herself?"
My family member considers this new question and then answers the same way, "You know? I honestly don't remember." And he doesn't. And I remind myself, "Listen. He is telling you that he doesn't remember, listen to him."
But this listening, takes a lot of not asserting your self in to the equation. Because when I ask things, I have an idea of the answer, or there is an answer I want to hear, or a story I want to be true. But it doesn't always work out that way. What I expect isn't always what I get, but by listening, I get what is actually there, and that seems to cause a lot less suffering, on everyone's part. Frequently, I would hear myself expecting an answer, but instead, I would listen, and then let go of what I was hoping for and be open to what they were offering.
This worked really well on the first two days of vacation, when I had nothing to do, was well rested, and had been meditating every morning. But by the third day, I hadn't meditated, and things needed to get done, and this whole "letting go of my story" stuff was really getting to me. I noticed myself getting annoyed, reading in to what my family members were saying, coming up with clever responses to point out their own stories, and could feel my shoulders tightening by the minute. I don't have the comfort level with my meditation practice to announce ,"I'm going up to my room to meditate because you all are totally bugging me right now and I don't want to get caught up in it," so instead I say, "I have to use the bathroom," and excuse myself.
I suppose they wondered what I ate for lunch that day because I was gone quite a long time but I went to my room, and meditated. I suppose you could actually go to the bathroom, if you didn't have your own bedroom to go to, but for me, it was nice to just sit down, and breathe. I didn't get a zafu or even sit all posturey or anything. I just sat cross legged at the head of my bed, closed my eyes, and breathed.
At one point, a family member came and knocked on my door and walked in to see me sitting there. My first response was to uncross my legs and pretend I was sleeping or reading or something but that seemed silly, so I just sat there. They asked me questions about plans for tomorrow. I answered only what they asked and when I didn't have an answer, I just looked at them, and they seemed to answer that one for themselves.
When I finally came back in to the kitchen, I walked back in to the same things I had been experiencing before. But this time, as I felt myself wanting to snap back or assert myself in to the conversation, or do anything other than just listen and respond to what they were saying, I would take a deep breath, just like I had been doing when I was sitting on my bed, and listen instead.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Comparing yourself...to others
I was noticing that I was comparing myself to others: How close was I to this friend? Who had shared more about their lives with me? How much did I know about this person compared to how much someone else knew about them? I thought it was interesting that I had some sort of ranking system in my relationships with others and I wondered about it. Was I trying to judge myself to be a better friend? It didn't feel like that. It didn't feel like I was doing this to be better at it. It felt more like I was afraid of being left. It felt like I was checking to see who was going to be chosen as "the one." Like if I didn't get my stuff together, and figure out how to be the best, the other person would be chosen, and I would be left all alone, completely out of the competition.
I thought this was kind of weird, because friendships aren't like that. People have varying degrees of closeness and intimacy but you usually don't get left behind because of it. But then I thought about competition and our society. I thought about how often there is just one winner, and that no one hears anything about anyone else after that. Number two is just...gone. I thought about my classroom and our tests. I thought about applying to college and I thought about how so much of our society is about weeding people out- that we are constantly striving to be the best, not necessarily to be the best but just so that we aren't thrown out or demoted or left behind.
It made me understand the desire and fear I have around comparing myself to others. I feel like I need to know what to do to stay at the top. It's not so much that I want to be better than that other person, it's more that I don't want to be the one who's rejected, the number two that's never heard or seen from again.
I thought this was kind of weird, because friendships aren't like that. People have varying degrees of closeness and intimacy but you usually don't get left behind because of it. But then I thought about competition and our society. I thought about how often there is just one winner, and that no one hears anything about anyone else after that. Number two is just...gone. I thought about my classroom and our tests. I thought about applying to college and I thought about how so much of our society is about weeding people out- that we are constantly striving to be the best, not necessarily to be the best but just so that we aren't thrown out or demoted or left behind.
It made me understand the desire and fear I have around comparing myself to others. I feel like I need to know what to do to stay at the top. It's not so much that I want to be better than that other person, it's more that I don't want to be the one who's rejected, the number two that's never heard or seen from again.
You're doing it, right now.
If someone had told me this when I first started sitting, I think I would have punched them in the face. It's actually kind of a mean thing to say because it makes it seem like this practice is as simple as just breathing; like anyone can do it, like you're the only idiot who can't seem to just sit there, and breathe.
But, the truth of the matter is, it's true. You're already doing it. You're breathing, right now. And probably, you're sitting, right now. So, honestly, you're doing it, right now. You're sitting zazen.
I know, it doesn't feel like it. And often, as soon as you actually sit down and try to breathe, a million thoughts come in your head and you can't find your breath and your leg starts hurting and the cat starts meowing and the garbage truck decides to explode those air brakes....
But really, through all of that, you're breathing and, depending on the way you "sit zazen," you're sitting too. And that's all you have to do. In fact, your body is already doing it for you. Your body breathes whether you want it to or not (well, I guess that's not true, maybe you could hold your breath but I've heard that if you do it long enough, your body makes you pass out so that you'll start breathing again).
Like I said, I wouldn't have wanted to hear this when I first started sitting and, honestly, I wouldn't have wanted to hear it last week either. But this week, I've been sitting at home and there have been fewer distractions. Also this week, I've been almost closing my eyes. One of the leaders at Young Urban Zen explained the practice of closing your eyes enough so that your top and bottom eyelashes barely touch- but your eyes are still open. I had never done this before, I always just kept my eyes open and gazed a few feet in front of me. But now, as soon as I almost close my eyes, my shoulders relax completely, I slouch a little bit, but I totally feel my breath. I'm not feeling for my breath, I actually just am in to my body, probably because with my eyes almost closed, I have nothing else to do. Regardless of what causes it, I've been feeling my breath all week. And on Friday, as I was filling up the kids' water bottles before school, I felt a breath. It was the same feeling I had had when I sat zazen the morning before. It's the same breath, it's my body, breathing. I didn't ask it to breathe, I didn't focus on it, it just breathed, while I was filling up the water bottles. And I realized, that this was happening all the time. I'm breathing all the time. I don't even have to think about it, my body is going to do it for me. All I have to do is let it.
And I thought, "Darnit- this is a little too familiar. This sounds an awful lot like "just let things manifest, you're already perfect the way you are, just let your life live itself" blah blah blah. Darnit! But it's true. If your definition of zazen is "to just sit and breathe," half of it is already done for you. You're already breathing, so you can just sit down.
Sorry, it's not what I wanted to hear either but I just keep feeling it, all day long. That same breath that I'm doing as I walk around, it's the same breath that I'm deperately trying to focus on during zazen. We'll see what happens tomorrow when I try to just sit down with it. But still, I do know that I'm doing half of zazen (breathing), all day long.
But, the truth of the matter is, it's true. You're already doing it. You're breathing, right now. And probably, you're sitting, right now. So, honestly, you're doing it, right now. You're sitting zazen.
I know, it doesn't feel like it. And often, as soon as you actually sit down and try to breathe, a million thoughts come in your head and you can't find your breath and your leg starts hurting and the cat starts meowing and the garbage truck decides to explode those air brakes....
But really, through all of that, you're breathing and, depending on the way you "sit zazen," you're sitting too. And that's all you have to do. In fact, your body is already doing it for you. Your body breathes whether you want it to or not (well, I guess that's not true, maybe you could hold your breath but I've heard that if you do it long enough, your body makes you pass out so that you'll start breathing again).
Like I said, I wouldn't have wanted to hear this when I first started sitting and, honestly, I wouldn't have wanted to hear it last week either. But this week, I've been sitting at home and there have been fewer distractions. Also this week, I've been almost closing my eyes. One of the leaders at Young Urban Zen explained the practice of closing your eyes enough so that your top and bottom eyelashes barely touch- but your eyes are still open. I had never done this before, I always just kept my eyes open and gazed a few feet in front of me. But now, as soon as I almost close my eyes, my shoulders relax completely, I slouch a little bit, but I totally feel my breath. I'm not feeling for my breath, I actually just am in to my body, probably because with my eyes almost closed, I have nothing else to do. Regardless of what causes it, I've been feeling my breath all week. And on Friday, as I was filling up the kids' water bottles before school, I felt a breath. It was the same feeling I had had when I sat zazen the morning before. It's the same breath, it's my body, breathing. I didn't ask it to breathe, I didn't focus on it, it just breathed, while I was filling up the water bottles. And I realized, that this was happening all the time. I'm breathing all the time. I don't even have to think about it, my body is going to do it for me. All I have to do is let it.
And I thought, "Darnit- this is a little too familiar. This sounds an awful lot like "just let things manifest, you're already perfect the way you are, just let your life live itself" blah blah blah. Darnit! But it's true. If your definition of zazen is "to just sit and breathe," half of it is already done for you. You're already breathing, so you can just sit down.
Sorry, it's not what I wanted to hear either but I just keep feeling it, all day long. That same breath that I'm doing as I walk around, it's the same breath that I'm deperately trying to focus on during zazen. We'll see what happens tomorrow when I try to just sit down with it. But still, I do know that I'm doing half of zazen (breathing), all day long.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Accepting death, just death
I was having imaginary dokusan with one of the teachers at the zen center. In it, I was describing my struggle last March with whether or not I could include my mother's name in the well- being ceremony during sesshin. I wasn't sure if her name belonged because I didn't know whether the well- being ceremony was for people who were alive and sick, or for people who had died.
But my real struggle wasn't whether or not she belonged in the ceremony, it was whether or not she was alive, or dead...because at the time, for me, she was somewhere in between.
Cognitively, I knew she was dead: she wasn't here, I couldn't contact her, and for most of my life, she had simply been the "angel in heaven" that I had created as a six year old. But right before sesshin, I had gone through some experiences in which my mother had begun to become real to me. She was a real person, with feelings, desires, joy, happiness. She had actually become alive to me, in a way I had never felt before, and so I was confused. I didn't want her to be dead, I wanted her to be alive. And I was confused because she felt more alive to me than ever before, so how could I suddenly accept that she was dead?
I was telling the teacher that this struggle, with life and death, was the beginning of my sesshin, and I joked about how this had set in motion an entire week of crying, in every possible venue at the zen center.
"And where is your mother now?" the teacher asked.
The question struck me, pulled the grin off my face, made me look away.
But then I looked back at the teacher, and started to say, "She's dead."
And then I stopped.
It was hard to say it, and I didn't want to say it. Saying it meant that I didn't have a mother, that she was gone, that I had lived most of my life without a mother, and that was hard to accept. It also meant that I wasn't a six year old anymore, that I was a grownup who had outlived her mother, that I was 41, that I was an adult too.
But a voice inside my head said, "Accept this. You know it will be better if you accept it. So far everything has gotten better when you have gotten closer to it and seen it."
But still, I didn't want to.
And then I asked myself the same question the teacher had asked me, "Is she alive or is she dead?"
And I knew the answer to that one: she's dead.
I mean, that's just true. I know she's dead. She really is. She's not here. She's not alive.
I looked at the teacher. "She's dead," I said, and kind of shrugged my shoulders in detachment from this fact. It wasn't even debatable, it had nothing to do with me, she was just dead.
And I guess that's when I realized that that was all I was accepting: her death.
There were other things that went along with her death that I didn't want to accept: the experience of a six year old having her mother be gone suddenly, the experience of not having a mom, the experience of being a grownup now- someone without a parent. But those things, aren't my mother's death. Those are things that are hard to accept, those are things that I don't like, but they're things that I've added on, they're things related to my mother's death and to my life, but her death, that's just a truth, it just is. I can't deny the fact that she's dead. She just is... dead.
And... it's all I have to accept. I don't have to accept all the other stuff yet. In accepting her death I'm not necessarily accepting all that pain and loss and grief. That stuff will come, or maybe it won't. But I can accept her death, just her death, because it's true.
But my real struggle wasn't whether or not she belonged in the ceremony, it was whether or not she was alive, or dead...because at the time, for me, she was somewhere in between.
Cognitively, I knew she was dead: she wasn't here, I couldn't contact her, and for most of my life, she had simply been the "angel in heaven" that I had created as a six year old. But right before sesshin, I had gone through some experiences in which my mother had begun to become real to me. She was a real person, with feelings, desires, joy, happiness. She had actually become alive to me, in a way I had never felt before, and so I was confused. I didn't want her to be dead, I wanted her to be alive. And I was confused because she felt more alive to me than ever before, so how could I suddenly accept that she was dead?
I was telling the teacher that this struggle, with life and death, was the beginning of my sesshin, and I joked about how this had set in motion an entire week of crying, in every possible venue at the zen center.
"And where is your mother now?" the teacher asked.
The question struck me, pulled the grin off my face, made me look away.
But then I looked back at the teacher, and started to say, "She's dead."
And then I stopped.
It was hard to say it, and I didn't want to say it. Saying it meant that I didn't have a mother, that she was gone, that I had lived most of my life without a mother, and that was hard to accept. It also meant that I wasn't a six year old anymore, that I was a grownup who had outlived her mother, that I was 41, that I was an adult too.
But a voice inside my head said, "Accept this. You know it will be better if you accept it. So far everything has gotten better when you have gotten closer to it and seen it."
But still, I didn't want to.
And then I asked myself the same question the teacher had asked me, "Is she alive or is she dead?"
And I knew the answer to that one: she's dead.
I mean, that's just true. I know she's dead. She really is. She's not here. She's not alive.
I looked at the teacher. "She's dead," I said, and kind of shrugged my shoulders in detachment from this fact. It wasn't even debatable, it had nothing to do with me, she was just dead.
And I guess that's when I realized that that was all I was accepting: her death.
There were other things that went along with her death that I didn't want to accept: the experience of a six year old having her mother be gone suddenly, the experience of not having a mom, the experience of being a grownup now- someone without a parent. But those things, aren't my mother's death. Those are things that are hard to accept, those are things that I don't like, but they're things that I've added on, they're things related to my mother's death and to my life, but her death, that's just a truth, it just is. I can't deny the fact that she's dead. She just is... dead.
And... it's all I have to accept. I don't have to accept all the other stuff yet. In accepting her death I'm not necessarily accepting all that pain and loss and grief. That stuff will come, or maybe it won't. But I can accept her death, just her death, because it's true.
Hating yourself... isn't helping anyone
I've always had a hard time "loving" myself. Whenever we practice sending kind thoughts to ourselves or practice forgiving ourselves, I get kind of blocked and uncomfortable and just disengage. I never have a problem sending kind thoughts to others or extending compassion to strangers, it's just me I have a hard time being nice to. I'm not exactly hard on myself, but it's always felt really weird or wrong to "love" myself.
I never felt too bad about this. It didn't seem like there was any problem in not loving yourself. I mean, what's the harm in that? You're the only one who's suffering when you don't love yourself so it's not such a big deal if you're not doing it.
But then, I was having an imaginary conversation with a friend. In it, we were talking about the roles we played in each other's lives. We both agreed that there were times that I had brought her joy and ease. But we also agreed that I had done that because I had intended to do that, that my focus in our relationship was to make her happy.
Then we talked about what she brought to our relationship. We laughed because we both knew that the joy and ease she had given me had come through some suffering on my part. But we laughed because we knew that this suffering had come from a place of honesty and care, and that the suffering had kind of pushed me along, had helped me to see things about myself that I didn't exactly want to see but in seeing, helped me to kind of heal around it.
After the conversation, I had another imaginary conversation with this person and in it I said, "It's true that your role in my life was to be honest with me, to say those things that no one else was willing to say, but all I really wanted from you was love and acceptance. That's all I really wanted and it's something that you never gave me, that I don't think you ever will give me."
She agreed, "Nope, I probably never will give that to you. It's not my role in your life."
I knew this was true about her, at least about our dynamic together, that she would never shower me wih love and praise. But I was still kind of mad at her for it, disappointed in her for it, and I noticed that because of that, I just kept wanting things from our relationship that were never going to be given. I realized that I was spending our time together feeling angry with for her not giving me what I wanted.
And when I heard myself say "What I wanted," I realized that I wanted love and acceptance. I heard myself loud and clear: All I ever really wanted was love and acceptance.
And then I thought about how my therapist always says "It's never about the other person, it's always about you."
And I thought, "Oh, guess what, you're the only one who can give you love and acceptance. If you really want love and acceptance, you're going to have to start giving it to yourself."
And then I thought about how in asking this other person to give me love and acceptance, I was kind of messing up our relationship. It was kind of unfair of me to keep asking them to give me something that could only come from myself. In some ways, I was kind of shirking my responsibility around this- asking others to do it for me- and wasting a lot of time and energy on it.
And that's when I realized that hating yourself, or at least not loving yourself, is kind of harmful. Well, I don't know that it's harmful but it sure keeps you from loving others. If I keep looking to others to love me, I end up doing a couple of things. First, I'm not being present to them or what they offer, I'm too focused on looking for love and acceptance from them that I don't see what they are giving me. Second, I think that in not meeting my own needs, in not giving myself the love and compassion that I need, I'm kind of crippling myself. If I keep on hating myself, I'm going to keep on creating a need in me and that kind of keeps me empty and wanting. When I picture myself feeling loved and accepted, I picture myself smiling and full and that feels like I can be present to others- that when my needs are met, I have the space and presence to see others and respond to them with kindness and love.
I never felt too bad about this. It didn't seem like there was any problem in not loving yourself. I mean, what's the harm in that? You're the only one who's suffering when you don't love yourself so it's not such a big deal if you're not doing it.
But then, I was having an imaginary conversation with a friend. In it, we were talking about the roles we played in each other's lives. We both agreed that there were times that I had brought her joy and ease. But we also agreed that I had done that because I had intended to do that, that my focus in our relationship was to make her happy.
Then we talked about what she brought to our relationship. We laughed because we both knew that the joy and ease she had given me had come through some suffering on my part. But we laughed because we knew that this suffering had come from a place of honesty and care, and that the suffering had kind of pushed me along, had helped me to see things about myself that I didn't exactly want to see but in seeing, helped me to kind of heal around it.
After the conversation, I had another imaginary conversation with this person and in it I said, "It's true that your role in my life was to be honest with me, to say those things that no one else was willing to say, but all I really wanted from you was love and acceptance. That's all I really wanted and it's something that you never gave me, that I don't think you ever will give me."
She agreed, "Nope, I probably never will give that to you. It's not my role in your life."
I knew this was true about her, at least about our dynamic together, that she would never shower me wih love and praise. But I was still kind of mad at her for it, disappointed in her for it, and I noticed that because of that, I just kept wanting things from our relationship that were never going to be given. I realized that I was spending our time together feeling angry with for her not giving me what I wanted.
And when I heard myself say "What I wanted," I realized that I wanted love and acceptance. I heard myself loud and clear: All I ever really wanted was love and acceptance.
And then I thought about how my therapist always says "It's never about the other person, it's always about you."
And I thought, "Oh, guess what, you're the only one who can give you love and acceptance. If you really want love and acceptance, you're going to have to start giving it to yourself."
And then I thought about how in asking this other person to give me love and acceptance, I was kind of messing up our relationship. It was kind of unfair of me to keep asking them to give me something that could only come from myself. In some ways, I was kind of shirking my responsibility around this- asking others to do it for me- and wasting a lot of time and energy on it.
And that's when I realized that hating yourself, or at least not loving yourself, is kind of harmful. Well, I don't know that it's harmful but it sure keeps you from loving others. If I keep looking to others to love me, I end up doing a couple of things. First, I'm not being present to them or what they offer, I'm too focused on looking for love and acceptance from them that I don't see what they are giving me. Second, I think that in not meeting my own needs, in not giving myself the love and compassion that I need, I'm kind of crippling myself. If I keep on hating myself, I'm going to keep on creating a need in me and that kind of keeps me empty and wanting. When I picture myself feeling loved and accepted, I picture myself smiling and full and that feels like I can be present to others- that when my needs are met, I have the space and presence to see others and respond to them with kindness and love.
Because I love you
I was having imaginary dokusan with a teacher. I'm sure this is very bad practice, because it's delusional, and that's never a good thing, but in this case, it ended up being instructive.
In my imaginary dokusan, the teacher asked me what had brought me to practice. I didn't have an answer, and so I looked away to think about it.
"Answer me quickly," the teacher said.
Inside my head I heard, "Because I love you."
There was no way I was going to say that to the teacher.
Plus, I didn't come to practice because I loved that teacher. I don't love that teacher. I barely know that teacher.
But in my imaginary dokusan, the teacher was still looking at me and they had said "Answer me quickly" and I so I felt like I had to say something.
I looked at the teacher and said, "So, I get why you're saying 'answer me quickly' because it gets me to answer with my gut, with the essence of the answer but in this case, it isn't working. The words in my head are 'Because I love you,' and that's just not why I came to practice, it just isn't, so..."
The teacher was quiet. They didn't even raise an eyebrow or anything and they weren't looking at me or waiting or anything, they were just quiet, just there. And so I thought some more about my answer. I thought about what my therapist always tells me, that it's never about the person you're talking about, it's always about you.
"Oh," I thought. "It's because I love you. I love you. Like, I love myself."
But this didn't make sense either, at first. I'm not so good at loving myself. It's not so easy for me and I often feel wrong in doing it, guilty or selfish or undeserving.
But then I thought about why I started coming to the zen center two years ago. I came because I cared about myself. I came because my friend told me to go to church and I didn't want to go to church but I came because I cared enough about myself to try to help myself. I was lonely and I didn't have a community but I cared enough about myself to try to change that. I was actually taking care of myself when I brought myself to the zen center.
So it actually was the answer to the question. I came to the zen center because I love you. I have to admit that I still don't know who the I is in this statement, and I don't really know who the you is either, but someone cares about someone, enough to keep coming.
In my imaginary dokusan, the teacher asked me what had brought me to practice. I didn't have an answer, and so I looked away to think about it.
"Answer me quickly," the teacher said.
Inside my head I heard, "Because I love you."
There was no way I was going to say that to the teacher.
Plus, I didn't come to practice because I loved that teacher. I don't love that teacher. I barely know that teacher.
But in my imaginary dokusan, the teacher was still looking at me and they had said "Answer me quickly" and I so I felt like I had to say something.
I looked at the teacher and said, "So, I get why you're saying 'answer me quickly' because it gets me to answer with my gut, with the essence of the answer but in this case, it isn't working. The words in my head are 'Because I love you,' and that's just not why I came to practice, it just isn't, so..."
The teacher was quiet. They didn't even raise an eyebrow or anything and they weren't looking at me or waiting or anything, they were just quiet, just there. And so I thought some more about my answer. I thought about what my therapist always tells me, that it's never about the person you're talking about, it's always about you.
"Oh," I thought. "It's because I love you. I love you. Like, I love myself."
But this didn't make sense either, at first. I'm not so good at loving myself. It's not so easy for me and I often feel wrong in doing it, guilty or selfish or undeserving.
But then I thought about why I started coming to the zen center two years ago. I came because I cared about myself. I came because my friend told me to go to church and I didn't want to go to church but I came because I cared enough about myself to try to help myself. I was lonely and I didn't have a community but I cared enough about myself to try to change that. I was actually taking care of myself when I brought myself to the zen center.
So it actually was the answer to the question. I came to the zen center because I love you. I have to admit that I still don't know who the I is in this statement, and I don't really know who the you is either, but someone cares about someone, enough to keep coming.
Being honest in dokusan
I was still feeling unsettled about my whole dokusan realization that, basically, I was just looking for praise, acceptance, and a personal connection with a teacher when I went in to dokusan. I knew it was inappropriate to want these things, knew it didn't belong in zen practice, but still found myself feeling angry and hurt, and wanting to criticize the teacher instead of actually listening to what they had said to me in dokusan.
It had helped to write a blogpost about it, that was what made me see that the teacher's response to me was not a rejection of me but an appropriate response to someone asking a question about practice. They had actually answered my question and given me ideas to help me consider my relationship with control and acceptance.
But still, it kept coming up for me, so I decided to talk to my therapist about it. I figured that was the place to talk about personal connections and prasie and acceptance. In therapy, it actually could be all about me, not so much about practice, and I could do whatever I wanted in therapy- I didn't have to be present or just listen or sit zazen or anything, I could just blah blah blah the whole time.
So I told my therpaist all about it. And this is what she suggested:
"What would happen if you said to the teacher 'I'm looking for praise and acceptance from you.' What do you imagine their response would be?"
I looked at her wide eyed with the thought of actually saying that to the teacher. But then I thought about what they would say. "They would probably ask me a question that would help me to see my relationship with praise and acceptance."
"You mean they wouldn't hit a buzzer that said Anhh- you're out!"
I smiled. "No, they wouldn't."
"So they're not looking for you to get it right?" she asked.
"No," I answered. "They actually said to me in my first dokusan 'This practice is about being honest more than it is about getting it right."
"So they actually directed you to be honest."
"Yes," I answered.
But I was terrified to admit to the teacher that that was what I wanted. I was afraid that it would make me a bad student, that the teacher would find out that I was only here for personal connection, that I wasn't actually studying Buddhism like everyone else.
My therapist challenged me on this one. "Do you know what everyone else is doing? Are you so sure that no one else is here for personal connection too? Isn't the main tenet of Buddhism developing compassion for others? How can you develop compassion for others without having compassion for yourself? Isn't this mostly about personal connection? You might even find that the teacher came to this practice looking for acceptance themselves."
I thought some more about my desire to be a good student, how though part of me did want to have personal connection; there was also a really big part of me who wanted to hear that I was a good student, who wanted praise and acceptance around my understanding of this practice, who envisioned the teacher with their arm around me smiling at how well I had put into practice the teachings that they had shared with me.
"Oh shoot," I realized. "I don't actually want to be a good student, I just want a personal connection with a teacher and I know that the appropriate way to have that is to be a student of theirs. Darnit! Even my wanting to be a student isn't real- it's just a backdoor to intimacy. Darnit!"
And that's when I realized there was no escaping it. It was true, even if it was wrong, it was what I wanted from zen practice. I wanted praise and acceptance and personal connection. I could lie about it and pretend that that wasn't what I wanted but that would be silly and dishonest and not helpful to anyone involved.
Instead, I could be aware of it, accept that this is why I came to the zen center, that this is what I want, as scary as it is to admit it.
Now, I'm not going in to my next dokusan and sitting down and saying "Um, I have to admit to you that what I want from you is praise and acceptance." Or maybe I will. I don't really know. What I do know is that I'm just supposed to be honest about this, be willing to sit in front of the teacher and say "This is what's coming up for me. I'm terrified that you will reject me for sharing that with you but I'm trying to be honest so there it is," and then be quiet, and listen.
It had helped to write a blogpost about it, that was what made me see that the teacher's response to me was not a rejection of me but an appropriate response to someone asking a question about practice. They had actually answered my question and given me ideas to help me consider my relationship with control and acceptance.
But still, it kept coming up for me, so I decided to talk to my therapist about it. I figured that was the place to talk about personal connections and prasie and acceptance. In therapy, it actually could be all about me, not so much about practice, and I could do whatever I wanted in therapy- I didn't have to be present or just listen or sit zazen or anything, I could just blah blah blah the whole time.
So I told my therpaist all about it. And this is what she suggested:
"What would happen if you said to the teacher 'I'm looking for praise and acceptance from you.' What do you imagine their response would be?"
I looked at her wide eyed with the thought of actually saying that to the teacher. But then I thought about what they would say. "They would probably ask me a question that would help me to see my relationship with praise and acceptance."
"You mean they wouldn't hit a buzzer that said Anhh- you're out!"
I smiled. "No, they wouldn't."
"So they're not looking for you to get it right?" she asked.
"No," I answered. "They actually said to me in my first dokusan 'This practice is about being honest more than it is about getting it right."
"So they actually directed you to be honest."
"Yes," I answered.
But I was terrified to admit to the teacher that that was what I wanted. I was afraid that it would make me a bad student, that the teacher would find out that I was only here for personal connection, that I wasn't actually studying Buddhism like everyone else.
My therapist challenged me on this one. "Do you know what everyone else is doing? Are you so sure that no one else is here for personal connection too? Isn't the main tenet of Buddhism developing compassion for others? How can you develop compassion for others without having compassion for yourself? Isn't this mostly about personal connection? You might even find that the teacher came to this practice looking for acceptance themselves."
I thought some more about my desire to be a good student, how though part of me did want to have personal connection; there was also a really big part of me who wanted to hear that I was a good student, who wanted praise and acceptance around my understanding of this practice, who envisioned the teacher with their arm around me smiling at how well I had put into practice the teachings that they had shared with me.
"Oh shoot," I realized. "I don't actually want to be a good student, I just want a personal connection with a teacher and I know that the appropriate way to have that is to be a student of theirs. Darnit! Even my wanting to be a student isn't real- it's just a backdoor to intimacy. Darnit!"
And that's when I realized there was no escaping it. It was true, even if it was wrong, it was what I wanted from zen practice. I wanted praise and acceptance and personal connection. I could lie about it and pretend that that wasn't what I wanted but that would be silly and dishonest and not helpful to anyone involved.
Instead, I could be aware of it, accept that this is why I came to the zen center, that this is what I want, as scary as it is to admit it.
Now, I'm not going in to my next dokusan and sitting down and saying "Um, I have to admit to you that what I want from you is praise and acceptance." Or maybe I will. I don't really know. What I do know is that I'm just supposed to be honest about this, be willing to sit in front of the teacher and say "This is what's coming up for me. I'm terrified that you will reject me for sharing that with you but I'm trying to be honest so there it is," and then be quiet, and listen.
dokusan desire
I met with one of the teachers at the zen center to have "dokusan" (practice discussion). I think dokusan can be a lot of different things but for me, this time, it was a chance to ask a question of the teacher that was related to where I was at in my practice.
I knew what question I wanted to ask: Can you tell me about the first time that you didn't want to try to control things?
I was asking this question because I had had an experience in which I actually didn't like controlling the kids in my classroom. This experience had been brief, I felt it hours after the interaction between the students, and it didn't last- I was happy to go right back to contolling the kids the next day. But in that moment in which I didn't like controlling them, I saw that this might help me to begin to accept them. So I was curious to find out if the teacher had had a similar experience when they first stopped wanting to control things.
As I considered asking this question, I considered how the teacher would respond to it. I pictured them asking me a question in return, I pictured them praising me for noticing the connection between control and acceptance. Finally, I pictured the teacher smiling with me in a shared understanding of this practice.
That made me rethink my question: Why was I asking it in the way that I was asking it? If I really just wanted to know about how people experience letting go of the desire to control why wasn't I asking that?
And that's when I saw that what I really was asking for in asking this question was to have a shared experience with the teacher, to have a personal connection with them. I saw this and I noticed it and I considered rephrasing the question to remove the personal piece of it.
But as I did this, it changed the nature of the question- it turned it into "Do people do this?" or "Is it like this?" instead of "Tell me about it" and to me, the first two were limiting or assuming while the third one was broad and inquisitive. I also felt the first question, it really was what I felt and I thought that, even though I knew that it was inappropriate for me to try to create a personal connection with a teacher, it was what I wanted, it was what I felt, and so I decided to leave it the way that it was.
As I was waiting to meet with the teacher, I imagined what other things we would talk about, prepared my answers, and imagined their response: I wasn't in the zendo each morning because I was sitting at home. (what discipline you have to do it on your own!) I was doing yoga with the extra time I had not going to the zendo (oh good- that should help with your posture). I was focusing more on my breathing and my posture seemed more aligned (ahhh, you did your homework). How was my zazen? "Interesting" I pictured myself saying (and I pictured the thoughts in the teacher's head: Ahhhh, she's not evaluating her zazen, she's just noticing it- what a good student she is).
And the thing is, I actually felt totally fine in all of this because all of it was true. I had a question that was true to my heart and what I was feeling at the moment, I really was practicing at home intentionally and, as a result, was more focused on breath and posture, and I really was approaching my zazen with interest and curiosity (though this was only after three days of disappointment). I really thought that I was going in to dokusan with honesty and awareness.
But I wasn't. I was going in with desire.
Deep down, I wanted a personal connection with the teacher.
Deep down, I wanted them to praise me.
Deep down, I wanted acceptance from them that I was a good student, that this was what I should be doing with my life, that I was in-like-Flynn in the zen world and was made for this.
And I went in with these desires and because of that, much of my dokusan was spent doing two things:
feeling disappointed. The teacher answered my questions clearly and in a way that left me with tools to develop my awareness around my relationship with control and acceptance. It's just that I wasn't actually wanting answers; I felt disappointed because answers didn't give me what I wanted: praise and acceptance.
saying things that would illicit praise, acceptance, and personal connection; instead of actually listening to the teachings I was being given.
So I left dokusan disappointed. Actually, I left doksuan feeling confused, hurt, and unsettled. What I wanted was to be accepted and praised as a student but I left feeling foolish and like a beginner- which, now that I think about it, I probably was, probably am.
But I learned a few things:
For me, the main reason I'm not feeling praise and acceptance for being a student is because I won't even accept myself as a student. It's been one of the biggest obstacles to my practice. How can I possibly begin to consider myself a good student if I refuse to even see myself as a student at all?
Second, all I really "need" to do is be present to dokusan. There were about a million times during my doksuan where all I thought about was what I "should" be doing: I hear the breakfast bell, should I stop so they can make it to breakfast on time? I have nothing to say, should I just stare at the teacher? And there were times when I acted from my desires; I thought up stuff that was only slightly related to what they said, just to try to connect. I wasn't even present to my own doksuan.
Third: dokusan isn't a place for desire. Dokusan is a place to ask a question and to listen to the answer. That's all.
At least, for me, for now, I think that's all it is.
I knew what question I wanted to ask: Can you tell me about the first time that you didn't want to try to control things?
I was asking this question because I had had an experience in which I actually didn't like controlling the kids in my classroom. This experience had been brief, I felt it hours after the interaction between the students, and it didn't last- I was happy to go right back to contolling the kids the next day. But in that moment in which I didn't like controlling them, I saw that this might help me to begin to accept them. So I was curious to find out if the teacher had had a similar experience when they first stopped wanting to control things.
As I considered asking this question, I considered how the teacher would respond to it. I pictured them asking me a question in return, I pictured them praising me for noticing the connection between control and acceptance. Finally, I pictured the teacher smiling with me in a shared understanding of this practice.
That made me rethink my question: Why was I asking it in the way that I was asking it? If I really just wanted to know about how people experience letting go of the desire to control why wasn't I asking that?
And that's when I saw that what I really was asking for in asking this question was to have a shared experience with the teacher, to have a personal connection with them. I saw this and I noticed it and I considered rephrasing the question to remove the personal piece of it.
But as I did this, it changed the nature of the question- it turned it into "Do people do this?" or "Is it like this?" instead of "Tell me about it" and to me, the first two were limiting or assuming while the third one was broad and inquisitive. I also felt the first question, it really was what I felt and I thought that, even though I knew that it was inappropriate for me to try to create a personal connection with a teacher, it was what I wanted, it was what I felt, and so I decided to leave it the way that it was.
As I was waiting to meet with the teacher, I imagined what other things we would talk about, prepared my answers, and imagined their response: I wasn't in the zendo each morning because I was sitting at home. (what discipline you have to do it on your own!) I was doing yoga with the extra time I had not going to the zendo (oh good- that should help with your posture). I was focusing more on my breathing and my posture seemed more aligned (ahhh, you did your homework). How was my zazen? "Interesting" I pictured myself saying (and I pictured the thoughts in the teacher's head: Ahhhh, she's not evaluating her zazen, she's just noticing it- what a good student she is).
And the thing is, I actually felt totally fine in all of this because all of it was true. I had a question that was true to my heart and what I was feeling at the moment, I really was practicing at home intentionally and, as a result, was more focused on breath and posture, and I really was approaching my zazen with interest and curiosity (though this was only after three days of disappointment). I really thought that I was going in to dokusan with honesty and awareness.
But I wasn't. I was going in with desire.
Deep down, I wanted a personal connection with the teacher.
Deep down, I wanted them to praise me.
Deep down, I wanted acceptance from them that I was a good student, that this was what I should be doing with my life, that I was in-like-Flynn in the zen world and was made for this.
And I went in with these desires and because of that, much of my dokusan was spent doing two things:
feeling disappointed. The teacher answered my questions clearly and in a way that left me with tools to develop my awareness around my relationship with control and acceptance. It's just that I wasn't actually wanting answers; I felt disappointed because answers didn't give me what I wanted: praise and acceptance.
saying things that would illicit praise, acceptance, and personal connection; instead of actually listening to the teachings I was being given.
So I left dokusan disappointed. Actually, I left doksuan feeling confused, hurt, and unsettled. What I wanted was to be accepted and praised as a student but I left feeling foolish and like a beginner- which, now that I think about it, I probably was, probably am.
But I learned a few things:
For me, the main reason I'm not feeling praise and acceptance for being a student is because I won't even accept myself as a student. It's been one of the biggest obstacles to my practice. How can I possibly begin to consider myself a good student if I refuse to even see myself as a student at all?
Second, all I really "need" to do is be present to dokusan. There were about a million times during my doksuan where all I thought about was what I "should" be doing: I hear the breakfast bell, should I stop so they can make it to breakfast on time? I have nothing to say, should I just stare at the teacher? And there were times when I acted from my desires; I thought up stuff that was only slightly related to what they said, just to try to connect. I wasn't even present to my own doksuan.
Third: dokusan isn't a place for desire. Dokusan is a place to ask a question and to listen to the answer. That's all.
At least, for me, for now, I think that's all it is.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Will zen practice "fix" my life?
No.
It won't.
Sorry about that.
But here's what I have found has happened for me in the last 2 or so years that I've been "practicing" zen at the zen center. I have found that I'm not so interested in "fixing" my life anymore. Not because my life isn't bad or that there aren't things that need to be changed, its just that is isn't about that.
See, it feels like your life is what needs to be fixed, like if you could just do this or be like that, that your life would be all perfect and happy. But the thing is, it's not your life that's bumming you out, it's your evaluation of it that's causing you suffering.
It's hard not to evaluate your life, it's hard not to have some idea of who you want to be or how you want to live your life. But once you stop evaluating your life, once you start accepting that all of your life is living your life, that the acceptance of your life, just-as-it-is, is what allows you to live it in a way that kind of fulfills you and then helps you to be generous and open with others, then, well, I don't know what will happen.
I just know that I don't really think about good or bad anymore when I think about my life. I don't think so much about right or wrong. I think about whether or not I am experiencing the life right in front of me at that moment, or if I am adding stuff on to it or trying to control it. I think about whether or not I am seeing the people in front of me for what they are offering, not what I think they are doing or how I think they should be. And I notice this- I ntoice when I do it and when I don't and how I can try to do it more often.
I still get mad at myelf, I still get frustrated, I still cringe at the thought of things I've done that day. But that day is over and I'm here now and all I can do is try to live my life as the next moment presents itself to me... just live it, that's all.
It won't.
Sorry about that.
But here's what I have found has happened for me in the last 2 or so years that I've been "practicing" zen at the zen center. I have found that I'm not so interested in "fixing" my life anymore. Not because my life isn't bad or that there aren't things that need to be changed, its just that is isn't about that.
See, it feels like your life is what needs to be fixed, like if you could just do this or be like that, that your life would be all perfect and happy. But the thing is, it's not your life that's bumming you out, it's your evaluation of it that's causing you suffering.
It's hard not to evaluate your life, it's hard not to have some idea of who you want to be or how you want to live your life. But once you stop evaluating your life, once you start accepting that all of your life is living your life, that the acceptance of your life, just-as-it-is, is what allows you to live it in a way that kind of fulfills you and then helps you to be generous and open with others, then, well, I don't know what will happen.
I just know that I don't really think about good or bad anymore when I think about my life. I don't think so much about right or wrong. I think about whether or not I am experiencing the life right in front of me at that moment, or if I am adding stuff on to it or trying to control it. I think about whether or not I am seeing the people in front of me for what they are offering, not what I think they are doing or how I think they should be. And I notice this- I ntoice when I do it and when I don't and how I can try to do it more often.
I still get mad at myelf, I still get frustrated, I still cringe at the thought of things I've done that day. But that day is over and I'm here now and all I can do is try to live my life as the next moment presents itself to me... just live it, that's all.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Bunny Hop Flash Mob at the zen center (buddha's Enlightenment Ceremony Part 2)
I attended buddha's Enlightenment ceremony this morning at the zen center and for me, it seemed a little like a Flash Mob. The first part was all serious and formal, then we basically busted out into dancing and laughing and Alice-in-Wonderland madness, then we went right back to being all serious and quiet again. I loved it, especially seeing all the senior teachers being all serious again at the end- it just made the middle part of it all the more fun.
You know how in the Bunny Hop at weddings everyone lines up and prances around to music? Well, that's kind of what you do at buddha's Enlightenment ceremony. You don't hop or hold on to each other's waists but you definitely line up and walk together. It's just that you're walking to drums, and chanting-in-Japanese.
I can't remember how it started, but at one point, we started chanting the Haka Manya something (I think it's the Heart of Perfect Wisdom sutra in Japanese). As soon as we started chanting, people started moving. Some people turned to face the back of the Buddha Hall, some people turned to face the front of the Buddha Hall. I followed the person in front of me, and turned to face the front of the Budhha Hall. But then, we apparently were doing it wrong, so we turned and faced the other way. But then, when we turned that way, we were facing someone, instead of following them so we turned the other way. But then it happened with that person too, and so we didn't know what to do. Meanwhile, the line of people next to us was moving. At one point, the Ino directed someone to go one way but our line was still confused about how to follow. Finally, Paul came over and just told one of us to join in after the next person and the line started moving. But then the line went past us and I didn't know how to get in it and one of the senior teachers was in the line and approaching and I was afraid that he would be annoyed with me for just standing there and then, fortunately, some kind soul stopped, and invited me in to the line, and so it began.
I marched around the Buddha Hall, with a bounce, keeping time with the great drumming of the shuso and another practitioner who were hitting both sides of the huge drum in the room. I pretended to be chanting the sutra but mostly, I was looking around at all the smiling faces in the room. See, I don't know why, but part of this ceremony involves throwing flower petals...AT each other. Really, it's what you do, like, you aim for each other. So there were these people (only a few had bowls of flower petals) throwing flower petals at you. And there were all these people, being pelted with flower petals, which just makes you smile. Meanwhile, you're walking in time with a drum, chanting Japanese syllables, and passing right next to everyone because you're kind of snaking along the edges of the tatamis. Everyone is laughing and smiling while they're chanting and walking and it's just all around silly.
After the first round of the chant, I found myself face-to-face with my good friend. She grabbed a huge handful of flowers and threw them right at me. It was awesome. But at that point, even though we had apparently finished chanting, we hadn't walked around enough to end up back in the spots we started in, so I was confused about what to do. But then someone started us chanting again, and so I started marching again. Only this time, I tried to be all present and serious and pay attention to the chant sheet. I'm pretty sure I only did this because I knew that some of the senior teachers were near me and I didn't want them to think that I was just having fun. I watched as I tried to time my walking to the rhythm of the chant and it reminded me of my sister, how earnest she is in wanting to do things right. I thought about how I often judge her for this, perceive her as needing acceptance from others, and wanting to tell her to stop it- to not worry so much about other's opinions of you. Yet here I was, doing the exact same thing myself. "Have compassion for her," I thought. "Understand that this is where it's coming from and that you do it too- that you are together in this need."
We kept chanting, for a third time, and I somehow ended up near where I had started, but not next to the same people. And then someone rang a bell and it was time to bow. At that point, I was the third of what should have been only two people on a tatami mat. Before I could even think about how this was going to work, someone grabbed me from the back and pulled me to my original spot, where there was space to bow.
Then we bowed, three times. Afterward, the person who grabbed me (who turned to be another one of my good friends) turned to face me. I bowed to her in gratitude. As we turned to face the center of the room, I watched as she gently removed flower petals from the hood of the person in front of her and I was struck by the overflowing of care and love in the room.
Then the bell rang, and everything went back to normal. We all put our hands in gassho, and bowed. I watched as the doshis turned to the left, all serious and meditative, and followed all the forms for exiting the zendo. I thought, "Oh, this was kind of like a flash mob, where everyone goes all crazy in the middle of everything and when it's over, everything goes back to normal." Since it was the seventh day of sesshin, normal was abolute silence and no eye contact. So then we all went back to normal. We all waited for the person to the side of us, took a step forward, turned, and walked until the end of the mat, turned, walked to the altar, turned, stepped down, bowed, and exited the hall to line up for soji.
You know how in the Bunny Hop at weddings everyone lines up and prances around to music? Well, that's kind of what you do at buddha's Enlightenment ceremony. You don't hop or hold on to each other's waists but you definitely line up and walk together. It's just that you're walking to drums, and chanting-in-Japanese.
I can't remember how it started, but at one point, we started chanting the Haka Manya something (I think it's the Heart of Perfect Wisdom sutra in Japanese). As soon as we started chanting, people started moving. Some people turned to face the back of the Buddha Hall, some people turned to face the front of the Buddha Hall. I followed the person in front of me, and turned to face the front of the Budhha Hall. But then, we apparently were doing it wrong, so we turned and faced the other way. But then, when we turned that way, we were facing someone, instead of following them so we turned the other way. But then it happened with that person too, and so we didn't know what to do. Meanwhile, the line of people next to us was moving. At one point, the Ino directed someone to go one way but our line was still confused about how to follow. Finally, Paul came over and just told one of us to join in after the next person and the line started moving. But then the line went past us and I didn't know how to get in it and one of the senior teachers was in the line and approaching and I was afraid that he would be annoyed with me for just standing there and then, fortunately, some kind soul stopped, and invited me in to the line, and so it began.
I marched around the Buddha Hall, with a bounce, keeping time with the great drumming of the shuso and another practitioner who were hitting both sides of the huge drum in the room. I pretended to be chanting the sutra but mostly, I was looking around at all the smiling faces in the room. See, I don't know why, but part of this ceremony involves throwing flower petals...AT each other. Really, it's what you do, like, you aim for each other. So there were these people (only a few had bowls of flower petals) throwing flower petals at you. And there were all these people, being pelted with flower petals, which just makes you smile. Meanwhile, you're walking in time with a drum, chanting Japanese syllables, and passing right next to everyone because you're kind of snaking along the edges of the tatamis. Everyone is laughing and smiling while they're chanting and walking and it's just all around silly.
After the first round of the chant, I found myself face-to-face with my good friend. She grabbed a huge handful of flowers and threw them right at me. It was awesome. But at that point, even though we had apparently finished chanting, we hadn't walked around enough to end up back in the spots we started in, so I was confused about what to do. But then someone started us chanting again, and so I started marching again. Only this time, I tried to be all present and serious and pay attention to the chant sheet. I'm pretty sure I only did this because I knew that some of the senior teachers were near me and I didn't want them to think that I was just having fun. I watched as I tried to time my walking to the rhythm of the chant and it reminded me of my sister, how earnest she is in wanting to do things right. I thought about how I often judge her for this, perceive her as needing acceptance from others, and wanting to tell her to stop it- to not worry so much about other's opinions of you. Yet here I was, doing the exact same thing myself. "Have compassion for her," I thought. "Understand that this is where it's coming from and that you do it too- that you are together in this need."
We kept chanting, for a third time, and I somehow ended up near where I had started, but not next to the same people. And then someone rang a bell and it was time to bow. At that point, I was the third of what should have been only two people on a tatami mat. Before I could even think about how this was going to work, someone grabbed me from the back and pulled me to my original spot, where there was space to bow.
Then we bowed, three times. Afterward, the person who grabbed me (who turned to be another one of my good friends) turned to face me. I bowed to her in gratitude. As we turned to face the center of the room, I watched as she gently removed flower petals from the hood of the person in front of her and I was struck by the overflowing of care and love in the room.
Then the bell rang, and everything went back to normal. We all put our hands in gassho, and bowed. I watched as the doshis turned to the left, all serious and meditative, and followed all the forms for exiting the zendo. I thought, "Oh, this was kind of like a flash mob, where everyone goes all crazy in the middle of everything and when it's over, everything goes back to normal." Since it was the seventh day of sesshin, normal was abolute silence and no eye contact. So then we all went back to normal. We all waited for the person to the side of us, took a step forward, turned, and walked until the end of the mat, turned, walked to the altar, turned, stepped down, bowed, and exited the hall to line up for soji.
Buddha's Enlightenment Part 1: A Ceremony of Compassion
This morning, I attended Budhha's Enlightenment Ceremony. I hadn't originally planned on going because I thought it would be too crowded. But then my friend made it impossible for me to not go, "People will be throwing flowers at each other and you do a little dance," he explained. "Plus," he continued, "I've never attended an enlightenment ceremony where there wasn't some giggling involved." I couldn't pass on giggling at the zen center so I set my alarm for 6:10.
I entered the building as quietly as possible because the ceremony was taking place during sesshin (an extended period of meditation- seven days in this case) and did my best to respect the rules of sesshin: no eye contact and bow to everyone as you pass them. As I looked around the Buddha hall I saw three of my friends, right in front of me; and an old friend, across the way. One of my friends had a bowl of flowers behind her and I thought, "Cool, she got the job of flower thrower!"
The bells rang and the doshi came in, did some bows, and then there was this passing around of ornamental objects between the four people standing in front of the altar (I found out later that this was an offering to buddha). From my vantage point, it looked like one person was picking up something from the table in front of the altar, turning to pass it to the abbess, who then bowed with it to the altar, then passed it to the tanto, who then passed it to the senior dharma teacher, who then put it down on the other side of the table.
As I watched this, it reminded me of the relay race in track where you pass the baton and I started to write a comical blogpost in my head poking fun at the speed with which the objects were passed and the fact that, after all the passing, they ended up in exactly the same place: forget the tortoise and the hare, did you hear about the tortoise and the zen student? Who needs the 4 by 100 yard relay when you've got the 4 by 1 inch relay!
But then I noticed that in doing this, I was trying to separate myself from this practice, denying the fact that I had come this morning, that I was actually attending this ceremony, on a Saturday morning, when I could be sleeping in my nice warm bed.
So then I looked at the ceremony with different eyes. I saw that in passing the objects as slowly as they were, the participants were actually practicing being present to what was immediately in front of them, taking absolute care with them, treating them as equally important as themselves.
I also saw that in passing the objects to each other, and bowing as they did this, they were being present to each other; to me it felt as if there was an expression of gratitude for each other's support, an acknowledgement that we actually need each other and that we do things together.
And as I saw the last object being placed in, basically, the exact same place where it had started, I was reminded that this is all a practice, that we aren't doing it for something, we're doing it just to do it in the moment, to experience what we are doing, not what we've done.
And to me, all of this, was practice in developing compassion. Treating an object with utmost care, as equal to oneself, is practice in treating everyone as an equal and in treating everyone with utmost care.
Bowing to each other, acknowledging that we need each other, fosters respect for what we all have to offer.
And being present to what's in front of you, right now, allows for forgiveness of the past, keeps us from projecting in to the future, allows us to see each other, in this moment only, and that helps us to accept each other and love each other.
But apparently, those eyes closed and some skeptical ones opened as soon as the kokyo started chanting. The way I remember it, she called out something about how on this day, Buddha opened his mouth and a lion's roar came out. As soon as I heard this, I rolled my eyes and thought, "Oh brother, this sounds like the whole burning bush parable or walking on water thing..." Then she said that Buddha sat down and saw the morning star for the first time and I thought, "He did not! I'm sure he saw that star a million times before." I thought to myself, "Why are we making this in to this big moment? Doesn't everyone say that enlightenment doesn't come all at once?"
And then she said that in Buddha's eye there lies all of the universe (or something like that) and I thought, "Oh, well I can see that. Maybe it wasn't that he was literally seeing the star for the first time, it was that he was seeing the star with new eyes; he was seeing the star as connected to him, that they were part of the same universe, that they were equals. And that's why the universe was in his eye, because he was seeing that everything is connected."
Then we started chanting "All...hail...Shakyamuni Budhha" and I thought, "Oh...no... I am not hailing some guy! No way am I blindly chanting, basically, 'Buddha is all that and I'm just a lowly person. Isn't this about there not being a leader? Isn't this about everyone having something to offer?"
But the second time we chanted it, someone kind of shouted it, like, "Hail Buddha!" and it felt like "Go team!" like "Go Giants!" Then the kokyo said something about expressing gratitiude for all the teachers who, through their compassion, spread the teachings and I thought "Oh, I guess that is true. In their compassionate appraoch to teaching, their generosity with it, their belief that everyone is capable of it, they're sharing it with everyone." Then she said something about practicing with joy, and for the benefit of all beings, and I thought, "Oh, this isn't about buddha, this is about 'Yay this practice! Yay all these people who share it! And yay us for being lucky enough to have come across our teachers and everyone in this room for practicing."
And then the flash mob started...
I entered the building as quietly as possible because the ceremony was taking place during sesshin (an extended period of meditation- seven days in this case) and did my best to respect the rules of sesshin: no eye contact and bow to everyone as you pass them. As I looked around the Buddha hall I saw three of my friends, right in front of me; and an old friend, across the way. One of my friends had a bowl of flowers behind her and I thought, "Cool, she got the job of flower thrower!"
The bells rang and the doshi came in, did some bows, and then there was this passing around of ornamental objects between the four people standing in front of the altar (I found out later that this was an offering to buddha). From my vantage point, it looked like one person was picking up something from the table in front of the altar, turning to pass it to the abbess, who then bowed with it to the altar, then passed it to the tanto, who then passed it to the senior dharma teacher, who then put it down on the other side of the table.
As I watched this, it reminded me of the relay race in track where you pass the baton and I started to write a comical blogpost in my head poking fun at the speed with which the objects were passed and the fact that, after all the passing, they ended up in exactly the same place: forget the tortoise and the hare, did you hear about the tortoise and the zen student? Who needs the 4 by 100 yard relay when you've got the 4 by 1 inch relay!
But then I noticed that in doing this, I was trying to separate myself from this practice, denying the fact that I had come this morning, that I was actually attending this ceremony, on a Saturday morning, when I could be sleeping in my nice warm bed.
So then I looked at the ceremony with different eyes. I saw that in passing the objects as slowly as they were, the participants were actually practicing being present to what was immediately in front of them, taking absolute care with them, treating them as equally important as themselves.
I also saw that in passing the objects to each other, and bowing as they did this, they were being present to each other; to me it felt as if there was an expression of gratitude for each other's support, an acknowledgement that we actually need each other and that we do things together.
And as I saw the last object being placed in, basically, the exact same place where it had started, I was reminded that this is all a practice, that we aren't doing it for something, we're doing it just to do it in the moment, to experience what we are doing, not what we've done.
And to me, all of this, was practice in developing compassion. Treating an object with utmost care, as equal to oneself, is practice in treating everyone as an equal and in treating everyone with utmost care.
Bowing to each other, acknowledging that we need each other, fosters respect for what we all have to offer.
And being present to what's in front of you, right now, allows for forgiveness of the past, keeps us from projecting in to the future, allows us to see each other, in this moment only, and that helps us to accept each other and love each other.
But apparently, those eyes closed and some skeptical ones opened as soon as the kokyo started chanting. The way I remember it, she called out something about how on this day, Buddha opened his mouth and a lion's roar came out. As soon as I heard this, I rolled my eyes and thought, "Oh brother, this sounds like the whole burning bush parable or walking on water thing..." Then she said that Buddha sat down and saw the morning star for the first time and I thought, "He did not! I'm sure he saw that star a million times before." I thought to myself, "Why are we making this in to this big moment? Doesn't everyone say that enlightenment doesn't come all at once?"
And then she said that in Buddha's eye there lies all of the universe (or something like that) and I thought, "Oh, well I can see that. Maybe it wasn't that he was literally seeing the star for the first time, it was that he was seeing the star with new eyes; he was seeing the star as connected to him, that they were part of the same universe, that they were equals. And that's why the universe was in his eye, because he was seeing that everything is connected."
Then we started chanting "All...hail...Shakyamuni Budhha" and I thought, "Oh...no... I am not hailing some guy! No way am I blindly chanting, basically, 'Buddha is all that and I'm just a lowly person. Isn't this about there not being a leader? Isn't this about everyone having something to offer?"
But the second time we chanted it, someone kind of shouted it, like, "Hail Buddha!" and it felt like "Go team!" like "Go Giants!" Then the kokyo said something about expressing gratitiude for all the teachers who, through their compassion, spread the teachings and I thought "Oh, I guess that is true. In their compassionate appraoch to teaching, their generosity with it, their belief that everyone is capable of it, they're sharing it with everyone." Then she said something about practicing with joy, and for the benefit of all beings, and I thought, "Oh, this isn't about buddha, this is about 'Yay this practice! Yay all these people who share it! And yay us for being lucky enough to have come across our teachers and everyone in this room for practicing."
And then the flash mob started...
Mindless chanting... wtf?
I have no idea what the real reason is for chanting at the zen center. I just know that it has been the hardest part of this practice for me to accept.
At first, I didn't do it, because it felt disingenuous. It felt wrong to be chanting something that seemed meaningful or sacred when I didn't agree with it, or even know what it meant.
Then I didn't do it because it felt mindless. It felt weird to be following alng with everyone else, chanting this thing that I didn't understand, and doing it in this monotone voice that left no room for individuality or expression. It made me feel like the monkeys in the Wizard of Oz, blindly following the line of workers that snaked up the mountain.
Over time I got used to it. For a while I thought it was practice in not getting caught up in things, that in keeping your voice at one tempo and one pitch, you were practicing not getting carried away. During sesshin, I thought chanting was kind of like learning your ABC's. As I started to actually pay attention to the chants that we did in English, I saw that some of them were kind of helpful reminders about how to do this practice.
But I have to say that the most confusing part of the chanting for me was the chanting of syllables in Japanese. See, someone explained to me once that one of the chants was just syllables. That even when people who could read Japanese read those chants, they didn't make sense to them either- they were just syllables. This didn't make sense to me. Why would you chant just syllables?
But here's what I have found.
Well, let me back up a bit and explain a little about reading. When you read, your eyes scan ahead about 3-5 words. This is what allows you to read things with expression and understand the concept or idea of the entire sentence which allows you to figure out unfamiliar words, etc. So even though you're reading the word reading right now, your eyes and your mind are two steps ahead of you, figuring out the rest of the sentence to help you read.
But do you ever notice that when you chant the chants in Japanese (or in English if you're someone whose native tongue is Japanese), you don't really chant them with expression? You don't really chant them with yourself involved, with any interpretation or any meaning of them, you just kind of say them, exactly-as-they-are? Sound familiar? Ha ha ha- gotcha!
Here's what I think. I think that chanting chants in a foreign language, especially chanting syllables, forces you to do two things. The first one is what I just explained: it forces you to focus just on the chant as-it-is, without meaning, without interpretation, without yourself getting involved.
The second thing, and this is especially true of the syllables, is that it forces you to stay in the moment. When you are chanting syllables, your eyes and brain actually can't be two steps ahead of you. I mean, I guess they can but it doesn't help you at all. Each one of those syllables is its own thing, its own moment in time. You can't possibly connect them to each other, make a story up about them, predict into the future. All you can do is read that one syllable at that one moment.
It's just more practice at being present and giving up yourself. At least that's been my experience with it but, like I said, I have no idea what the real reason is for chanting.
At first, I didn't do it, because it felt disingenuous. It felt wrong to be chanting something that seemed meaningful or sacred when I didn't agree with it, or even know what it meant.
Then I didn't do it because it felt mindless. It felt weird to be following alng with everyone else, chanting this thing that I didn't understand, and doing it in this monotone voice that left no room for individuality or expression. It made me feel like the monkeys in the Wizard of Oz, blindly following the line of workers that snaked up the mountain.
Over time I got used to it. For a while I thought it was practice in not getting caught up in things, that in keeping your voice at one tempo and one pitch, you were practicing not getting carried away. During sesshin, I thought chanting was kind of like learning your ABC's. As I started to actually pay attention to the chants that we did in English, I saw that some of them were kind of helpful reminders about how to do this practice.
But I have to say that the most confusing part of the chanting for me was the chanting of syllables in Japanese. See, someone explained to me once that one of the chants was just syllables. That even when people who could read Japanese read those chants, they didn't make sense to them either- they were just syllables. This didn't make sense to me. Why would you chant just syllables?
But here's what I have found.
Well, let me back up a bit and explain a little about reading. When you read, your eyes scan ahead about 3-5 words. This is what allows you to read things with expression and understand the concept or idea of the entire sentence which allows you to figure out unfamiliar words, etc. So even though you're reading the word reading right now, your eyes and your mind are two steps ahead of you, figuring out the rest of the sentence to help you read.
But do you ever notice that when you chant the chants in Japanese (or in English if you're someone whose native tongue is Japanese), you don't really chant them with expression? You don't really chant them with yourself involved, with any interpretation or any meaning of them, you just kind of say them, exactly-as-they-are? Sound familiar? Ha ha ha- gotcha!
Here's what I think. I think that chanting chants in a foreign language, especially chanting syllables, forces you to do two things. The first one is what I just explained: it forces you to focus just on the chant as-it-is, without meaning, without interpretation, without yourself getting involved.
The second thing, and this is especially true of the syllables, is that it forces you to stay in the moment. When you are chanting syllables, your eyes and brain actually can't be two steps ahead of you. I mean, I guess they can but it doesn't help you at all. Each one of those syllables is its own thing, its own moment in time. You can't possibly connect them to each other, make a story up about them, predict into the future. All you can do is read that one syllable at that one moment.
It's just more practice at being present and giving up yourself. At least that's been my experience with it but, like I said, I have no idea what the real reason is for chanting.
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