Today I did not yell

It's true, I did not yell. I can't totally say that I wanted to yell and didn't; I just know that today, I did not yell.
There were plenty of things to yell about. There was a certain someone who was running around the perimeter of our room. This included running on top of any chairs that were in his way. He also took a prize pencil, from my desk: my desk, the only place in the room that you're not supposed to mess with. And when I picked up the phone to call the school counselor (because he was running around the room and taking things off my desk), he reached across my desk to the phone handset and hung up the phone.
"And now I have to call your mom," I responded.
"No no no no no!" he protested. "Don't call her!" he pleaded.
"You have to go to your seat and you have to return the pencil," I explained.

I watched as he walked slowly across the room, pencil still in hand.
I plotted ways to take it from him, ways to trick him in to putting it down, but then I told myself, "It's just a pencil. It is just a pencil. Even if he takes it home today and doesn't give it back, all it is, is a pencil."
Of course, all the kids around him started looking at it, asking him, "You finished practicing all our facts?" and "How come he gets a pencil?" (You get the pencil for turning in a completed sheet where you mark down all the minutes you've been practicing your times tables).

This was really hard to not react to. Inside my head, I was so afraid of the truth: "Oh, so it's okay for him to steal a pencil off your desk? He gets rewarded for this out-of-control behavior? Why does he get special treatment while all the "good kids" have to just sit there, and watch this blatant injsutice? And, what, you can't control this kid? He can just do whatever he wants and you don't do anything about it?"
But outside my head, inside the actual classroom that I was in, I knew what was really going on. He is in transition. His home life has completely changed in the last four days. He is running around the room because his body doesn't know how to deal with all the emotions that are going on inside him. He came across the pencil on my desk and picked it up because it was cool. He doesn't want to give it back because it's cool. He hung up the phone, not in defiance or disrespect, but out of absolute fear of going to "the office."
He is not bad. He is not trying to hurt me or anyone else. He is overhwhelmed by his current circumstance and any sort of safe haven he might have had before- home- has recently been turned upside down. I wish I could share this with the rest of the class, say to them "This is what he is going through. This is a lot to deal with. He needs space and understanding," but I don't know how he would feel having me announce this to them. I'm pretty sure I know how they would respond, they would want to help him and they would understand.

So I let him run, and then I suggest that he sit in the "swirly" chair instead. I explain to him that it's okay to move but that he can't distract other kids. I tell him that I have to call the counselor if he's going to be unsafe around other kids. And at the end of the day, when it's time to go home, I ask if he knows where the pencil is. He says he doesn't. I say to him that we have to find the pencil one way or another and that I'd rather not look through his things to find it, that seems kind of mean. He produces the pencil and asks why he can't keep it. I say that he can have it as soon as he finishes practicing his facts. He says he has. I tell him that as soon as he brings in his sheet he can have the pencil. He repeats that he already finished it. I tell him I'll hold the pencil for him; I'll put it in my desk in a safe place and that it will be his pencil, for when he brings in his sheet.
He hands over the pencil.

Outside, after school, we see his dad. Somehow, his dad has figured out that he didn't have the best day and there is a look of frustration or "if I have to get a phone call..." on his face. Little one looks at dad and I can see the tears welling up at the base of his eyes.
I say nothing about his day. There is some discussion about transitions, about jobs and housing and how this week, there is just a lot going on. We say goodbye and I see him almost skip as he walks up the street, keeping up with his dad.

What DO you do at the zen center?

In the past, when I thought 'buddhist,' I saw a bald guy in orange robes sitting cross- legged on the floor at the airport. I don't know why I thought this, I don't think I've actually ever seen a bald guy in robes sitting on the floor at the airport, but it's what I thought of, when I thought of a buddhist. And so when people asked me if I was a buddhist, I would say "No. I'm not a buddhist," because I'm not bald, I'm not a man, I'm not wearing orange robes, and I don't hang out at the airport.
Now, I have to admit that part of me knew exactly what a buddhist was because I was surrounded by buddhists every morning when I went to the zendo, every Monday night when I went to YUZ, every Saturday morning when I went the dharma talk, etc. So I acknoweldge that it was completely ridiculous of me to hold on to the whole orange-robed-airport-man thing when I actually know and am really good friends with actual buddhists. And to be honest, if someone asked me if I am a buddhist I would have to say, "Of course I'm a buddhist. I wake up every morning and meditate to free myself from thoughts. I try my very best to think of others and to connect with the greater world around me. I try to meet everyone equally with love and understanding." But in the past, I was still hung up on not being a buddhist. Not because I didn't want to be like the practitioners at the zen center but because I couldn't seem to change my image of what a buddhist was. It's my issue, it's delusional, it blocks me from actually seeing myself, but it was where I was at, and sometimes still am. I just can't seem to consider myself a buddhist.

This not-being-a-buddhist was fine, for a really long time. I think it actually helped me to continue to go the zen center as much as I was. I think that as long as I thought that I wasn't a buddhist, that this wasn't some spiritual or religious thing that it was okay for me to do it, that I wasn't really doing anything, that I was just showing up.
But as I went to the zen center more and more, this got harder and harder. After my last one day sit, in which I actually fantasized about being shuso (that means head monk during a practice period), it became pretty obvious to me that I wasn't just showing up. I was actually going to the zen center of my own volition, that I liked going to the zen center, that I was consciously choosing to do this, that I was actively practicing this... whatever this was. I couldn't really deny it anymore but at the same time, I didn't want it, because I didn't want to be the guy in robes at the airport and I didn't want to be someone who was religious.

I decided to ask my therapist about it, to talk about my relationship with religion in general, about why I had such a hard time with religion or being a part of one. My therapist suggested that part of what was tripping me up about all this was labels: am I a buddhist, am I a student, is this a religion, etc. She suggested trying not to see myself as one thing or to try to fit what I was doing at the zen center into a category, to just accept that it was what it was, it didn't have to be any thing or practice in particular.
So I tried that. I tried to just be whatever it was I was being at the zen center. I told myself to just let it be whatever it was, to do whatever I was doing and not worry so much about it.

But that didn't work either. I found that I really did want to be something at the zen center, I actually did want a label for what I was doing, I wanted to have an identity, to be someone who was doing something at the zen center. I still couldn't be a buddhist, because I still couldn't get over that image of the guy in robes at the airport, but I had to be something. I had to see myself at the zen center if I was going to accept that I went to the zen center, that it was an important part of my life.

So then my therapist and I talked about what I do at the zen center, why I go there as much as I do. We talked about the fact that I go there every morning to meditate and that I wouldn't meditate every morning if I didn't go to the zendo to do it. We talked about the fact that I won't meditate at home and that I have some issues around meditating anywhere other than the zendo or even admitting that I meditate. She pointed out the fact that meditation isn't religion and that many people practice it completely devoid of any faith, spirituality, or organization. Then she talked about the fact that people who run consider themselves runners and asked me if I would consider myself a runner. "Totally," I said. "I'm a runner, a rower, a cyclist, a reader, a baker...Oh," I thought. "I guess I'm a meditator. I'm just meditating, that's all."

But then we talked about how I do more than just meditate at the zen center; that on Saturday mornings, I do service and I do soji and that I do those things intentionally, that bowing and chanting are an intentional part of my practice. She smiled and asked about my intentions in bowing, recalling times that I had shared with her that I was bowing in order to get the forms right.
But I had to correct her on this one. "That's not why I bow anymore. It isn't really about the forms. When I bow, I'm doing it it to time myself with others, to align my movement with the movement of the group. I find that when I actually spend my mornings at the zen center, doing service (bowing and chanting) and soji (temple cleaning), I am less focsued on my self and more focused on others. It's like my focus literally changes during that time at the zen center, from my self to others."
I explained further, "And afterward, it kind of lingers. I am more aware of others as I ride my bike home, I notice the people around me and I notice them as part of me, as part of my community, not as separate, not as others."
"The best way that I can explain it," I went on, "is how I approach the doors at Safeway on Saturdays. You know how sometimes you get to the doors at the same time as someone else? If I have been bowing and chanting with others in the morning, I find that I step back, and let the other person go ahead. But on the mornings that I don't attend service at the zen center, I step forward and push my way in first."

"So you're developing compassion," she said. "That's what you're doing at the zen center. You're practicing compassion: awareness of others, treating others with kindness, seeing them as connected to you."

"Yeah," I said. "I guess that's what I am doing. Learning how to connect with others, seeing that I am connected to others, developing... compassion"

So that's what I'm doing. I'm practicing compassion at the zen center. And so, for now, I'm calling myself a compassionist; because I'm studying compassion, because I'm practicing compassion, and, because I have absolutely no history or image of what a compassionist is, I seem to feel fine actually being one.

This doesn't make sense

I know. It's not really supposed to. Which, I know, doesn't make things any better. But the thing is, when you really think about it, it does make sense, just not mental sense.
The best way that I can understand this is the truth that we are physical beings. You're with me on that one, right? Like, we are made up of cells and we are just as much made up of elements as the sun and the moon and the earth, etc.
So we are physical beings, we just are. And because we are physical beings, we are governed by the physical laws of the universe: we're born, we live, we die. We breathe, we need food and water, our cells regenerate and die, etc. These are the things that control us, these are the things that decide how things go.
But for some reason, we forget that, or maybe we deny that, I don't really know what we do with that, but I know I don't really think that that's how things work. I think that things should make sense. I think there should be a cause and effect to things. I think that I should be able to control things. I think that if I act one way, good things will happen to me; and if I act another way, bad things will happen to me. I want to believe that I am in control of my universe, instead of it being in control of me.
I also seem to think that there should be an order to things- that there is a sequence or an organization, or even just a basic logic to how things happen. I really do want things to make sense. Also, I'm totally confused when things don't make sense, and often try to change things or deny them so that they do make sense.

Here's my example from this week.
I went to the bathroom. Then I went to my room. About 10 minutes later, I had to go to the bathroom again. This did not make sense. I had just gone to the bathroom. It didn't make sense for me to need to go again. I hadn't drunk anything and when I had gone to the bathroom, I had actually gone so, logically, I should have been empty. But my body was saying it needed to go.
At first, I ignored it. I told myself that I actually didn't need to go. It had only been ten minutes! I really shouldn't have had to go. But then, I remembered about how I was trying to listen to my body, how it had helped me to feel better about eating. So I said "Fine! I'm going to the bathroom because apparently, you need to go." And when I went to the bathroom, I actually did need to go! It didn't make sense, but it was true.

And then I thought about the first teaching I ever got in dokusan. The teacher asked me what was coming up for me in zazen. I told him that I was afraid that if I sat zazen in the morning, I wouldn't be prepared for school that day. He responded by saying "You're afraid? Of sitting zazen? Because you think you won't? Be prepared for school in the morning?"
When he said it like that, I felt like an idiot. It made no sense at all. Sitting zazen had nothing to do with being prepared for the day. So I said that to him, I said "Well when you say it like that, it makes no sense at all, it just seems silly."
He answered: "It isn't about logic, it's about how you feel."

I listened to his teaching, took it literally, and focused my practice on learning how to feel. But part of me also thought it was a little weird. Here was this man, all experienced and wise and stuff and he was talking about feelings? In my mind, we don't talk about feelings, let alone suggest that they are more true than logic.
But now I think that he wasn't necessarily talking about emotions. I think he was actually talking about how we feel, like, physically. I think he was saying that this practice is about getting in tune with the physical aspects of our selves, learning to listen to the physical cues that our body gives us, understanding that in order to kind of make harmony with this physical universe in which we are existing and by which we are controlled, we need to attend to the physical aspect of ourselves, to give in to its laws, instead of trying to force our mental laws on it.

And I think that's what happened with the whole going to the bathroom thing. Physically, I had to go to the bathroom. Logically, I didn't. Physically, it made sense, because the body doesn't have to make sense, it just does what it does. Logically, it was out of time, it was out of volume, it wasn't in synch with my mental understanding of when and why we need to go to the bathroom. But time, and logic, are human creations, they are mental constructs, they're kind of delusional to the sun, the moon, and the liquid in my bladder.
So really, needing to go to the bathroom actually made sense- it just made physical sense, not logial sense. I don't know why I needed to go, but I needed to go, so it made sense to go.

Sorry, I don't think that made things any better. Bu I do think that the more we are in tune wiith our bodies and the more we accept, instead of fight, the physical laws of the universe, the more we will be in harmony with our existence.

Mindful Eating Part 4: Hungry for love

I had had a rough day. The day before, I had been super good with the kids. I hadn't tried so hard not to yell at them or not to control them, I just was present to them and just was in harmony with them. But this day, I had tried all day to be good with them, and ended up totally losing it at the end of the day. I used tricks that I knew would make them do what I wanted, that I knew would control them, but that made them feel controlled, rejected, and sorry about who they were. I was disappointed in myself and really bummed out that I had yelled and threatened and used my power over the kids.
As soon as I got home, I ate dinner...just so that I could eat dessert. It was chocolate pudding, my favorite. As soon as I finished it, I immedately wanted another one.
"How could you want another chocolate pudding cup?" I asked myself. "You just had one."

But then I decided that the reason I wanted another one was because I hadn't even noticed that I had the first one. I had just eaten it, because it was "dessert". I was so excited that I had finished my dinner that I just rushed right in to dessert, without even noticing that I was eating it. I hadn't slowed down to taste the chocolate pudding, hadn't felt the experience of eating it, I just ate it, because it was yummy and I ate it quickly because I liked it so much.

"All right," I conceded. "You can have a second pudding cup but this time, you have to be present to it. You have to slow down and actually savor each bite. You actually have to experience the chocolate pudding that you are eating."

I happily marched to the refrigerator for my second cup of chocolate pudding. I grabbed a spoon, sat down at the table, and slowly ate each bite. I tasted the sugar on my tongue, lavished the slow collapse of the roof of my mouth over the pillow of lush pudding, and savored the taste of chocolate as the pudding slid down my throat.
After much presence to my pudding, I got up, washed the pudding ramekin in the sink, and dried my hands. And then, I felt empty. I wanted a third dessert.

"What?!" I asked myself. "You just had two chocolate pudding cups. And you were totally present to that second one. You actually felt that chocolate pudding. How could you want another dessert? When are you actually going to feel satisfied about this dessert thing?"

And then I thought about what would make me feel satisfied, what it was that I actually needed to feel full.
"Oh," I realized. "You want love. You had a bad day and you're feeling sad. You want someone to tell you that it's okay, or that you're okay, or to just take you in their arms and hold you so that you can remove yourself from who you were today."
"Well no wonder you keep wanting more chocolate pudding. What you really want is love, and chocolate pudding is doing nothing to fulfill that need."

I looked around the kitchen. There wasn't really any love there.
I walked back to my bedroom. There wasn't really any love there either.
I sighed, got in to my pajamas, went on facebook for far too long, checked my emails over and over, and finally decided that it was time to go to sleep.

Mindful Eating Part 3: Fear of hunger

I had been experimenting with actually responding when my body told me to "put down the fork." Whereas in the past, when I felt full, I would rationalize eating more (you haven't finished your plate, you paid for this food you should eat it, one more bite won't hurt you); recently I was trying, instead, to just do what my body said: put down the fork and stop eating.
The first time I did this, it was fine. After I had eaten at the restaurant, I went home. About an hour after eating, I was hungry again so I just grabbed something from the fridge, ate as much as my body felt like, and went back to what I was doing. A little later, I was hungry again, and ate some more food from the fridge. I did all of this somewhat unconsciously. I just went to the fridge when I was hungry and ate what felt right.
But another day, because I ate only what my body wanted at the time, I later found myself, out and about, and feeling hungry.
"Oh," I thought to myself. "This is hunger. This is what it feels like to be hungry, and to not have food to eat right here, right now."
"Hmmm," I thought to myself. "I do not like feeling hungry. I do not like the feeling of emptiness at the pit of my stomach. I want to go home so that I can fill the emptiness inside me. Also, I don't like the fact that I have to go home to do this. I don't like the fact that I have to wait, that I have to exist with this emptiness in my belly until I can find a place to eat."
And so I came home, and ate a lot. I ate enough so that my belly would be full for a long time. At the next meal, I ate a lot again- filling up to avoid any chance of that empty feeling in my stomach. I had an absolute fear of that feeling of hunger, of not having food to fill me up.
For the next few days, I ate each meal with the future in mind. I ate more than I wanted based solely on an attempt to avoid that feeling of emptiness in my stomach. I also rationalized this behavior. I concluded that this whole "being present to what you're hungry for right now" wasn't all that doable in today's society. I decided that there was a reason we finished our plates, that we ate more than we actually wanted. We needed to eat more so that we could make it to our next meal.
After a few days of this, I started to notice that I was being silly. As I walked around my school, I noticed that there was food everywhere. I also knew that I had snacks in my bag that I could eat between meals. I also knew that at any time, I could walk across the street to the corner store, and grab a sandwich or a bag of chips. I didn't actually need to eat to avoid hunger. Anytime I felt hungry, I could probably eat. I might have to wait a little bit, might have to have a little bit of experience with that emptiness, but not for very long and, honestly, probably not at all.
And then I thought about that first day when I put down the fork- how I had gone to the fridge when I was hungry and eaten only what my body felt like eating at the time, and then stopped, and how I had come back several times throughout the afternoon- eating just enough to meet my body's needs. And then I thought about oryoki and I thought that I remembered that it meant something like "just enough." I thought about eating only what my body wanted, right then, right now. And I thought that this made a lot more sense- that I would feed my body what it wanted- just a little bit- and then feed it again when it wanted some more. It was like I was being present to my hunger and only giving it what it needed in that moment. Sure it was inconvenient, maybe it wasn't efficient, maybe it didn't work with my schedule, but it still seemed doable and it actually felt good.

Mindful Eating Part 2: Putting down the fork

Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I was feeling really full. I think it started with the overstuffing of the Thanksgiving meal and just kept going with all of the holiday treats that were around. I just kept eating, everywhere I went. At school each day, there was either leftover Thanksgiving baked goods or early Christmas candy. Then there were holiday parties with appetizers and desserts. And finally, there were gifts of chocolate or baked goods from the kids.
I tired to monitor myself around this. I tried to limit the amount of food that I ate: okay, you can have two treats, no more or okay, eat a small lunch so that you can save your appetite for the party tonight or have a sample of each dish, but don't go back for seconds.
This never worked.
After eating two treats, I would say "You only ate two, you can go back for more!"
When I would eat a small lunch, I would just use the fact that I had only eaten a little as an excuse to basically gorge myself on the food at the party.
And the whole "sample" every dish idea, totally backfired. I would "sample" every dish, but because they were only "samples," I would go back and "sample" every dish at least two more times and end up eating three times the amount that I actually wanted.

I didn't like this feeling. I really didn't like feeling overstuffed. So I decided to start paying attention to how full I felt. I decided that when I wanted to eat something, I would think about how full I was feeling. If I felt full, I would not eat. If I felt hungry, I would eat.
But then, this didn't work either. It's true that I would feel whether or not I was full, but then I would think about it. I would make a decision about whether or not to eat based on the level of full that I was feeling. I would evaluate my full and consider whether or not to eat something.
For the most part, anytime I got to think about whether or not I was "empty" enough to have a treat, I would always err on the side of eating, even if I truly felt full. The food was just too delicious for me to prefer not eating it to the idea of how bad it felt to feel overstuffed.

One day, post Christmas, I was eating breakfast with a friend. I had ordered a Belgian waffle, with strawberries and whipped cream. About a quarter of the way through the waffle, my hand put down my fork. And I stopped eating.
"What was that?" I thought to myself. "I'm not finished. I haven't even eaten half of this waffle. There's no way that I'm done."
But I didn't feel like eating. I definitely wasn't feeling any sense of hunger. So, I just kept talking to my friend, enjoying our time together. As I watched my friend finish their plate, I looked at mine.
"Dude, you payed bucks for this waffle, you should finish it. Plus, if you eat all of it now, you won't need as much for lunch so you can just have leftover soup instead of making a meal."
But when I picked up the fork, I just didn't feel like eating anymore. I took another bite anyway, probably because of the whipped cream, but after that, I was done. I just let it go, let them clear my plate. I didn't think about it anymore after that.
A few days later, when I was eating out with friends, the same thing happened. My food arrived, I started eating it, and then, without thinking, I put it down. 
"Darn it!" I said as I looked at my plate full of fries and a burger. "I totally want to eat those. They were super good!" But I didn't feel like eating anymore. My body wanted nothing to do with eating more. It was full, and it knew it.
I was kind of pissed this time, because I had barely eaten half of the burger, and really, it was good. But at the same time, I genuinely didn't want the burger, and I could feel this. Logically, it didn't make sense that I was full. It was lunch time, I had eaten breakfast hours ago, I really should have been hungry. And the amount that I had eaten, wasn't nearly enough for me to feel full. But here I was- I had put down the burger without thinking. I couldn't argue with that. I couldn't argue with my body and the fact that it felt full. I nibbled on the fries some more, because it felt like they might not fill me up too much. But after that, I just left my plate as it was. It felt weird to leave my plate half full, like I was wasting food or hadn't liked my meal; but I had to leave it like that, I really didn't want anymore.
"This is really insteresting," I thought to myself. "After all this effort I put in to feeling whether or not I was full, in to planning how I would eat less, in to watching what I was eating, it was my body that was the final decider. If I actually listen to my body- not think about what my body is doing, not try to decide when I'm full or not- when I actually allow my body to say to me 'You're full' I actually eat the appropriate amount and end up feeling good. And I mean feeling genuinely good- not "good" because I didn't eat too much, not "good" because I don't feel overstuffed, just good because I'm in tune with what my body feels."

This hasn't totally stuck around. There have been many times since these episodes when I have eaten way more than I should have, when I have "finished my plate," when I have eaten food even when I was feeling full. But there have also been times when my body has spoken up for itself and I have listened. I can't really figure out when it is that I actually listen to my body. I kind of think that I always hear it, always feel it, it's just a matter of actually responding to what it's feeling instead of thinking about whether or not it makes sense.

Mindful Eating part 1: Free food

Right after Thanksgiving, I noticed that I was eating... a lot.
I would stop by the office at recess time and eat any leftover treats from the morning "coffee time" for parents.
At lunch, I would cruise the "share bin" in the cafeteria and eat any discarded snacks/ lunches left by the kids.
After school, I would check the office again for any leftover snacks and then would often help myself to the snack that was offered in the afterschool program.
At the end of the day, I was completely full; but then I would go home and have my own "snack" of a banana, yogurt, and edamame. Then I would eat dinner.
I could feel myself growing in size. I could feel that I was eating too much. I could feel that I was eating when I wasn't hungry, but I couldn't seem to do anything about it.

At first, I tried to just remove myself from all of the eating situations: I tried to NOT go to the office at all, tried to walk OUT of the cafeteria before passing the share bin, and tried to walk up to my classroom via an alternate route so I wouldn't be tempted by the after-school snack.
This kind of worked. I definitely removed myself from the situations but when I did this, I felt like I was depriving myself, keeping myself from being "treated." So when I did it, though I felt "good," I only felt good because I was doing "the right thing." As a result, it would only last for about a week. After a week, I would end up "treating" myself for "depriving" myself by "letting myself" have the snacks again.

So then I tried noticing myself around food. I watched when I ate and what I was feeling when I chose to eat.
This is what I noticed: I ate things, that were free.
I would eat things in the kids' "share bin" that weren't all that great: a bag of crackers, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, string cheese... I would eat them with this dialogue in my head "If you eat that for lunch, you can save the lunch you brought today, for tomorrow's lunch!"
This made sense at first. It's always good to save on food, but it didn't seem to transfer to the food that I was eating at other times.
One day, as I was eating some random leftover cracker in the office, I asked myself, "If you had to pay for that cracker, would you eat it?" The answer was immediate: "No. If I had to pay a penny for this, I would not. I would not eat this if it weren't free."
So then I thought, "Why are you eating it? If you woudn't even pay a penny for it, you don't really want it. What's this free thing all about? In this case, you aren't really saving money by eating this cracker. It's not like you buy crackers anyway. You're not saving on crackers by eating this one."

So then I felt what this free thing was about. I tried to feel what it felt like when I got to have food for free. What I felt, was that I was given something for nothing. In some ways, it felt like I was beating the system, like I was one up, like I was being efficient or thrifty. It also felt like I was getting what I deserved, like I worked hard for little in return and this was a way of getting back what I hadn't been given.
But then I started to look at my history around food. I looked at the fact that I often bake things for people on their brithdays and I wondered where that idea had come from. And then I recalled that on my birthday every year, my dad would make me a cake.
"Oh," I thought. "Well that's where it came from."
But then I thought some more about that, about what it felt like to have my dad make me a cake, on my birthday, just because. I realized that this "just because," this being given something without doing anything to earn it, was pretty rare. I couldn't think of any other times in my life when I was given something without earning it.
And then I thought about my classroom- how often we "reward" kids for doing what they're supposed to, and "deprive" them when they do things wrong. I thought about how this must feel for them- how they might feel like they constantly have to earn praise and recognition, instead of just being given it for who they are. I thought how sad that must feel, to constantly be working to just be acknowledged.
But then I thought about our society, about how this is reality, you don't actually get things for free in this world, you really do have to earn them.
But then I recalled my walk in to work that morning. On my way to school, I had passed two different people, both of whom had apparent serious/ straight faces. As I passed each one, I smiled at them, and each one's face had changed to a smile in response.
It took me nothing to do this, it was free. I didn't do it for anything, I just smiled. And when each person smiled in response to me, I felt good, I felt connected, I felt like for a brief moment, we were together.
As I thought about this I realized that there are a lot of free things in this world. I realized that you can give freely and that it often makes you feel good to give and often it feels even better to give just because, not as a reward or as payback.
I also realized that I was wanting free food not to save money, but to feel loved. I wanted to be given food, without having to earn it. I wanted to feel loved, without having to earn it.
And that's when I realized that I needed to stop eating things, just because they were free. Eating free food didn't actually make me feel loved. But I also realized that there is free love, all over the place. I saw that people are acknowledging each other all the time, with a simple smile or kind look, and that I can do this too. Food has nothing to do with this; and there is an abundnce of love surrounding us, all we have to do is open our eyes to it.

How to STOP driving yourself crazy

There is someone in my class whom I'll call Mr. Silly. Mr. Silly is sweet and lovely, quite smart and articulate, but doesn't seem to see any of this about himself. Mr. Silly is also quite recent to the world of having friends. This year, Mr. Silly seems to have noticed that when he does funny things, people laugh with him, that people like these funny things, and (though I'm not sure about this) perhaps that people like him when he is funny.
I... am not too happy about this. I'm not all that excited about Mr. Silly thinking that the only way to make friends is to be silly. I'm also not all that excited about Mr. Silly... being silly. Because Mr. Silly, is being silly... publicly. He is doing things to make other people laugh, while I am teaching.
I've had class clowns in the past, but Mr. Silly is a little different. Mr Silly's attempt at comedy is intensely focused on getting the attention/ acceptance of a certain someone whom I'll call Mr. Distracted. Mr. Distracted... is easily distracted. Even in the front row, with me standing in front of him, Mr. Distracted's attention is easily drawn away from any task at hand by, basically, anything.
So, you can imagine my dilemna at having the two of them in one class. It looks a little like this:

Mr. Silly: "Poop!"
Mr. Distracted quivers with giggles and turns around to see what Mr. Silly is doing. Mr Silly is overcome with excitement at getting the attention of Mr. Distracted and starts giggling himself.
I attempt to refocus Mr. Distracted because he is in the front row (while Mr. Silly was intentionally placed in the back row so that he couldn't visually get the attention of Mr. Distracted) while also trying to give Mr. Silly a stern look to show my disapproval of his disruption. Mr. Silly is embarrassed by this stern look, by the idea that he might be in trouble, and this makes him feel a little more insecure, so he giggles some more.
I get frustrated and get verbally stern with Mr. Silly. "You need to stop!"
"Oh! Kaaaaaaay!" Mr Silly sings with a big smile on his face and the entire class laughs.
"Do you need to go to the back table?" I ask.
"No no no no no!" he genuinely pleads, and then tries his best to be good, for about five minutes, until he feels compelled to get the attention of Mr. Distracted again.
This is how it goes- a continuous cycle of attention getting, redirection, embarrassment, apology, and attention getting again. It drives me crazy. Literally, it does. I actually go "crazy" in this situation. I know what's going on with Mr. Silly, I know he's feeling insecure and wanting acceptance, I know my public admonishment of him makes him feel more insecure, and I even know that, in the same way that his silliness disrupts our lessons, my attempts to make him stop by staring at him, verbally directing him, threatening him with removal to the back table are just as disruptive as his silliness. I know all of this yet, when this cycle starts, I actually lose all of this knowledge and go "crazy:" I yell, I lose my patience, I waste time on trying to control him and the class, I get personal with kids and cross the line of respect, and I make up ridiculous rules that have nothing to do with learning or teaching, all in reaction to whatever it is that's going on between me and Mr. Silly.

This has caused me a lot of suffering, so I have been trying to "figure it out." I tried setting an intention to be "encouraging" of Mr. Silly. I've tried to shower him with praise. I've tried to whisper in his ear to redirect him. I've tried to help him draw his attention to his need for Mr. Distracted's acceptance. I've tried to help him see that the kids like him even when he isn't funny. I've also tried being stern with him, having consequences that he hates, removing him from the room and have threatened to "call home."
So far, none of this has worked. Not one of these things has stopped Mr. Silly from calling out, from reacting to my redirection by being even sillier, from giggling uncontrollably, or from distracting the class. Not one of these thing has changed him. He still does it, basically, every day. But one day, this week, I stopped going crazy about it.
I don't know what made me do it, I wasn't really trying to do it, (though I have been experimenting with and noticing myself around issues of control in my classroom, so maybe that's where it came from). But one day, this week, when Mr. Silly called out, I did nothing. He called out, Mr. Distracted laughed, Mr. Silly giggled some more, and then it was over. Two minutes later, it happened again. And again, I did nothing. A few minutes later, it happened again and still, I did nothing. I let it happen, let it rise and fall, and kept right on teaching. I didn't teach over Mr. Silly, I didn't ignore Mr Silly, I just let Mr. Silly and Mr. Distracted do their thing, without going crazy about it. I didn't try to control them, I just let them be.
And here's the most amazing thing:
Mr. Silly's calling out and Mr. Distracted's response turned out to be really small. Their stuff only takes up, like, ten seconds of class time, and then it stops. It definitely comes up again, way more than I would like, but still, it's really small in the whole of our day.
It turns out that what was big was me trying to control them. What was big was me stopping the class in an attempt to change their behavior. What was big was my reaction to them.
And when I stopped reacting to them, I stopped going crazy. Literally, I stopped "going crazy". I stopped yelling, I stopped getting frustrated, I stopped making up random rules, and I stopped publicly admonishing Mr. Silly. I stopped doing all those things that were causing me such suffering.
I didn't stop Mr. Silly and Mr. Distracted. They're still doing their thing, every day, but I'm not going crazy about it anymore.
I thought it was them, I thought it was what they were doing, but it was me who was going crazy, and all I had to... was stop.

Staying in the zen closet, but letting the door open

For a long time, I worried about how I would explain to my family that I was spending a lot of time at the zen center. I didn't know how to explain that I bowed and chanted, that I went there every morning to meditate, that on certain Saturdays, I would actually pay money to stare at a wall all day, interrupted only to sweep and do dishes, and that I liked doing this, and that part of me really needed this, that it brought me great comfort.
All of my worries came from me- from my own fears around what I was doing, what it meant, who I was, what zen was, etc. etc. etc. No one in my family ever seemed to have a problem with it (though my brother did ask me several times if I was going to shave my head and my sister just wanted me to explain zen to her, which I never seemed to be able to do because of its apparent inconsistencies).
Still, I thought there was going to be this big moment, this conversation I would have with my family in which I shared with them that, in fact, I really did go to the zen center, that it was a big part of my life. I imagined the different conversations I would have with each member of my family, how and when I would tell them about it, and foolishly pictured them talking about it with each other later, planning an intervention to "save" me from this "cult."
None of this ever happened. I never got around to telling anyone in my family. I don't know if it's because I was scared to, or if it never felt right, or if the timing just never worked, but it turns out, I didn't have to tell them. Instead, I was just truthful with them, and in the process of being truthful with my family, by just sharing myself with them openly and honestly, they ended up seeing for themselves that I went to the zen center.
I didn't intend to tell them about what I was doing at the zen center. And when I first started practicing at the zen center, I wouldn't be honest with them about it. I wouldn't lie to them, but I wouldn't share with them either. When they asked me why I couldn't make dinner on Friday night, I'd just say that I had a prior engagement with friends (instead of explaining that I was doorwatch- that I had volunteered to stand at the entrance to the zendo to help answer people's questions). When I started being jiko, I sort of explained what I was doing, enough for my brother to suggest that I had finally become an altar boy, but I explained it in a way that was dismissive, that denied the importance of it in my life, that separated my self from what I was actually doing.
Sometimes, I still do this, I think because I'm still unclear about what I really am doing as jiko. But lately, all I've been doing is being truthful with my family and sharing my life with them. My sister knows that I'm meditating at home now instead of meditating in the zendo because I shared with her about getting my bike fixed. My dad knows that I did the One- Day- Sit because when, at dinner on Friday night, he asked me what my plans were for Saturday, I just answered him truthfully: I'll meditate first thing, then come back for the dharma talk, hang out with my friends, and have lunch. And in this conversation, we ended up talking about meditation, and about how he knows someone who does it, and how he wondered why anyone would do that, and how he understands now that his friend needs to do that.
I'm sharing without worrying what my family thinks of me. I'm sharing all of who I am because I don't really have a choice in the matter: this is what I'm doing, I can't really help it, so it seems silly to hide it from them or present it in a way that's acceptable to them. That's just not being honest and I like them too much to want to deceive them anymore. Plus, the deception part doesn't really work, and it draws me farther away from them, instead of closer.
But here's the weirdest thing that has happened to me, with this whole "coming out of the zen closet" business. I have always, always had a hard time with the term buddhist. I have never ever considered myself a buddhist and would have walked an extra block out of my way to avoid the building had I known that it was a buddhist temple. I have nothing against buddhists, I actually had no idea what a buddhist was when I first started coming and still don't really know what it means to be a buddhist. My aversion has everything to do with my perception of any sort of organized group and me being a member of it, add on to that my perception that buddhism might be a religion, and you've got me in absolute refusal to associate with buddhism.
But this past week, on three different occasions, people have referred to me as a buddhist, and I have let them. The first time happened at dinner, with my brother, and I think it surprised both of us. We were discussing C.S. Lewis' take on religion, god, and life in general. My brother turned to me to ask my perspective on it, then explained to a friend of the family that I had become "quite the buddhist." In the past, I would have said "I'm not a buddhist, I just go to the zen center, so I can only tell you what I think the people there would say."
Instead, I just answered his question, and ended up explaining a basic principle of buddhism as it pertained to the conversation at hand. I watched my father as I explained this, his head bent forward to hear my explanation. I wondered what he thought about all this (we were raised Catholic) but I wondered less from fear of what he would make of it, fear that he would reject it or try to change it, and more from a place of just watching him, seeing how he was doing with me talking about buddhism this way. And I engaged in a conversation with my brother around this but it was more about buddhism and less about me. It was like the point about me becoming "quite the buddhist" had nothing to do with this conversation. It was just something that I knew, that I would speak about freely, that I had experience with.
The next night, a friend did the same thing. When she introduced me to her friend she said, "She's an old friend, a school teacher, and a zen buddhist." And I didn't deny it. I didn't say "No I'm not!" the way I would normally do. I didn't actually say anything, because no one was asking me a question or asking my opinion.
Later, I was reflecting on this, on why I didn't deny these descriptions of me as a buddhist. I wondered if I was okay being described this way because I felt comfortable considering myself a buddhist. But that wasn't it. I'm still totally uncomfortable calling myself a buddhist and really don't consider myself a buddhist. But what happened, for me at least, was that someone calling me a buddhist actually had nothing to do with what I am. I realized that before, when people would call me a buddhist, it would freak me out because I thought that it meant that I was a buddhist, that someone's label of me would determine what they thought of me or how they would judge me or perceive me. But this time, when people referred to me as a buddhist, it didn't feel like that at all. That label, someone saying that I am a buddhist, has no effect on my actions or my thoughts or my words. Their perception of me has nothing to do with what I'm about to say or do or how I'm about to interact with them. So I have no problem with them saying I'm a buddhist because their labeling of me has nothing to do with me, I'm still who I am regardless of what they call me.
Also, and this is where the closet part comes in, I just am who I am. Honestly, I feel like I'm still in the zen closet, because I won't refer to myself as a buddhist. But in the past, when I was in the closet, I didn't want anyone to know I was there. I was hiding in there and if anyone tried to open the door, I would pull it shut again, afraid to let anyone see what I was doing for fear they would dismiss me or label me or move on to another closet door and never open mine again. But now, it's like I'm in here but when the door opens and someone sees me, I kind of just sit still, shrug my shoulders and say, "That's right, I'm in here. This is where I am. You can keep opening the door and you can shine the light on me because this really is what I am doing. I'm not exactly coming out and showing it to everyone and I'm definitely not walking out of the closet all comfortable with it and everything, but I'm here, and I know I'm here, so you can keep the door open."

Feeling lonely, but only wanting imaginary friends

I was noticing something. I was noticing how much I enjoyed people's company, how much I liked being around others in general, and how much I enjoyed actually spending time with my friends. I was also noticing how easy it seemed to be present to them, to just listen, to just be engaged in what they were saying without wanting anything from them or worrying about our relationship and my responsibility or role in it.
I noticed too that as soon as I left the company of my friends, as soon as I was alone, my head filled with thoughts. And then I noticed that these thoughts were were actually imaginary conversations with people.
"Oh," I thought. "I must be lonely. As soon as I'm alone, my mind makes up these thoughts to keep me company. That's kind of sweet to notice that I really want the company of others, that I really do love to be with others."

But then I paid a little bit closer attention to these imaginary conversations. Guess what I noticed? In these imaginary conversations that my mind was making up, I was awesome. I had all kinds of insights and my friends were totally impressed by me. I was really helpful and supportive.
And guess who my imaginary conversations were with? They were only with the people who I totally get along with. Or, they were complete fabrications of suddenly harmonious relationships with people who I sometimes struggle with.

"Darnit!" I thought. "It's not so much that my mind is making up imaginary conversations to keep me company. I think my mind is making up pleasant company becuase I like pleasant company. I'm afraid of uncomfortable conversations between friends. I'm afraid of unknown relationships. I'm afraid of intimacy and border crossing and power imbalances and lack of control. I think my mind is filling my head with pleasant imaginary friends as kind of an elixir- a nice little pick me up to sooth me when I'm feeling alone. Darnit!"

And that's all. That's what I noticed: that I'm lonely, that it's something I need to practice with, to accept and see, and that the imaginary friends inside my head are like a security blanket for me.

Issues with buddha

I have issues with buddha. Let me repeat that: I have issues with buddha. There is nothing wrong with buddha or buddhists or buddhist practice... nothing. But I seem to have some very strong reactions to any connection between me and buddha. It just is. The sky is blue...and I have issues with buddha.
Recently, I was given a small buddha statue. It was given to me, along with many other people, so it didn't feel like it was intended for me as some meaningful thing. To me, it felt like a gift from a generous person who was sharing their practice with us. There were several different buddha statues given out and a friend of mine pointed out that the one that I received was a "teaching" buddha. I didn't make much of it but when I thanked the person who gave it to me, I remarked upon the fact that it was my first buddha and that it was a teaching buddha, and that I thought that was fitting.
The person took the buddha statue from me, looked at it closely and said, "It's a hybrid."
At which point I laughed out loud, quite rudely, right there in front of the person.
The person didn't get upset or even react to my laughter. They simply continued to explain about the different hand positions of the buddha statues and demonstrated, with their hands, how this particular statue was showing two different hand gestures- one for teaching and one for meditating.
"Well that's fitting too," I remarked. "I'm somewhere in between," and smiled.

Later, I felt pretty bad. This person had given us a gift, a sharing of their practice, and I had laughed at it, and that felt bad. I wondered about this, because I knew that I hadn't intended to laugh at this person, and honestly didn't feel like I was laughing at this person when I laughed. But still, they had been there, explaining something to me, and I had laughed.
I considered approaching them later, to explain: "I wasn't laughing at the statue, I was laughing at the thought of buddha being a hybrid. When I think of a hybrid, I think of a Prius, and I thought it was funny to think of buddha as both gasoline and electric powered."
But then I imagined the person's response to this and realized that I was trying to make them feel better, that I was assuming that they were hurt by my laughter. That seemed a little insulting to them, to suggest that they couldn't take my laughter at the situation, that they didn't see right through it for what it was...
And that's when I tried to see what it was.

It's true that I was laughing at the idea of buddha being a Prius but I also knew there had to be more to it than that. And there was. I didn't want the statue to be a buddha. I didn't want to be given a buddha statue. And so I think I was trying to reframe it, to turn it into something about me by making it a teaching buddha or by making it something that fit in to today's world: a Prius. Both these acts were unintentional but upon later reflection, I think that's what they were: a deflection of the fact that I was given a buddha statue, from someone who knows an awful lot about buddhism, from someone whom I have asked to teach me about their buddhist practice.
When I saw that, I cried.
"This is really hard for me," I thought. "I have issues with religion. I have issues with emotions. This whole practice is counter to how I was raised and what I was taught to value."
But then I thought that really, no one in my family had any problems with religion, that that was coming from me. And though the emotion part may have come from my causes and conditions, that was over and I honestly wanted to change my habits around that.
"Why is this so hard for me?" I asked myself. "Why am I fighting the thing that I want? Why can't I accept that this works for me, that I want to study buddhism?" and that made me cry some more.

"It's labels," I thought to myself. "It's you and your hangups about what a buddhist is and what it would mean if you were to become a buddhist too. Stop trying to make buddhism acceptable, just acknowledge that this is what you are doing...because it is what you are doing."
And then I thought about the fact that it's always about me, never about what I think it's about, and I thought, "Damnit! It's about me accepting me again. You won't accept this buddha statue because you won't accept yourself. You're judging your need for belonging, your judging your need for "religion," you're judging the absolute joy that you feel when you are part of a group, and you're afraid of your commitment and obsession with this practice. Once you accept this part of yourself, it's going to get a whole lot easier."
"I hate this practice," I said out loud. "I hate that it's right and that it's true." And by right I mean "right," as in when you're in an argument with someone and you are absolutely sure that their explanation is totally wrong and that they are an idiot for thinking that. But then you find out later, that they were totally right. And that you were totally wrong.
I hate that, I hate it when this practice turns out to be "right."

And so I put the little statue on my mantel, not in the center, that felt too much like an altar, but I stuck it where I could see it, because I knew that it was bumming me out, and I needed to feel that, to see that was going on with me and buddha.

The next morning, I got up early and actually went to the zendo to meditate because interim was over and I'm on vacation so I could actually participate in the whole morning program: zazen, kinhin, morning service, and soji. After soji, as I was walking out of the building, I heard the drum roll for breakfast. As soon as it started, this great feeling of affection rolled over me as I pictured someone inside the building, beating the drum, leading everyone to breakfast.
"Damnit!" I thought to myself, and I stamped my foot on the ground in anger. "Why do I like this so much?" I rode home and walked in to my room to see that statue, sitting right there on my mantel.
"Stupid buddha," I said under my breath as I took off my jacket and headed toward the kitchen to make myself breakfast.

I spent the day with a friend, completed a bunch of errands, went to work for a little bit, and ended up getting home quite late. This time, as I walked into the door of my bedroom and spied the buddha on my mantel, I smiled and my shoulders dropped. I felt an immediate release of tension when I saw that little buddha statue still sitting there, doing nothing, but looking at me.
"Well that's interesting," I thought. "Apparently I'm liking the buddha now."
And when I packed my bags for my visit with my family, I grabbed that little statue, and put it in my purse to make sure I didn't lose it in my travels.

Detaching from your family?

We are at the dinner table. A certain someone has their head on their placemat. Actually, a certain someone has their chin pressed against the base of the handle of their spoon and their nose pressed against the base of the bowl of their spoon, and is looking at me, smiling, apparently hoping for a laugh.
"Oh," I remark, and smile as I watch them rock their face from side to side, still thoroughly pressed against their spoon.
Then a certain someone's direct ascendant arrives. They sternly direct them to stop the behavior immediately, ask them what they think they are doing, and direct them to do more appropriate behaviors at the dinner table like sitting up straight and putting their napkin in their lap.
I watch this, with interest, and wonder at both the reaction of the direct ascendant and the lack of reaction from me.
I knew this behavior was inappropriate, but it didn't annoy me. I saw it, but had no interest in changing it, I just watched it. Meanwhile, the direct ascendant was clearly upset by this, felt an immediate need to correct it, and did things to ensure that it would never happen again.
"Hmmm," I wondered. "Why is this so important to the direct ascendant, but not to me?"
"Oh," I thought. "Because I'm not so connected to this certain someone. I'm not so caught up in their behavior because this certain someone isn't mine. They are mine, but indirectly. I'm not so responsible for their behavior. They don't feel like a reflection of me."
So then I did a little experiment. I imagined this behavior in my classroom. I pictured myself teaching a lesson and looking in to the front row and seeing someone with their head down, rocking back and forth, and making silly faces at me.
I would pretty much go ballistic. Well, that's not true, I wouldn't go ballistic at all because this behavior is clearly just a silly one, nothing malicious about it. But I can tell you that I wouldn't tolerate it. I can also tell you that I would totally read in to it. I would see the rocking back and forth as a sign of boredom. I would fear what this student was missing while doing this behavior and dread the amount of time that I would later have to spend with them one-on-one to teach them what they had missed while they were being silly. I would also fear the chain reaction of the other students. I'm pretty sure that, in the end, I would react the exact same way that this person's direct ascendant did: Get upset with this person, make them stop their behavior, chastize them for doing it, and do something (probably some sort of threat or consequence) to make myself believe that it will never happen again.

When I saw this, that the difference in our reactions was because of the connection between a certain someone and their ascendant, that it was the result of the closeness of their relationship that one of us had reacted while the other had responded, I thought, "Oh, that's what this is about. It's about creating space, it's about creating some detachment of our selves from the situation, that helps us to see it more clearly. If we could create some detachment, remove ourselves from the situation, we might be able to not get so caught up in it."

It feels weird to suggest detaching from a family member. It also feels weird to suggest that it's the closeness that causes a reaction instead of a response. I think there must be more to it than this, that it isn't as dichotomous as I am suggesting. I also know that intimacy is an important part of this practice and intimacy involves closeness and connection.
For now, though, I see a bit of a purpose in just breathing, in slowing down, in letting be. It seems to be what creates space, what allows me to remove my self from the situation, what helps me to step back and see this person for whoever they are being in that moment.

Watching your karma

I am home. I am home with every member of my family, in the same room. This is a little more than I can take. One-on-one with each family member, I seem to be able to just notice, to just observe, to even watch with fondness as I see the very same things about myself that I'm not so fond of, being played out right in front of my own eyes.
But when all of us are in a room together, it's almost unmanageable. This dynamic is colliding with that dynamic. What I can tolerate and give feedback on with one person, is not accepted by another person. How I interact with that person, doesn't fly with the other person. And then, in the middle of all of this, is the source of all our habits- our great conditioner- continuing to do what they have always done.
I watch this, I see the very behavior that all three of us have adopted, perpetuated, and manifested in our own way, and I am overwhelmed. It's still going. It's who we are. It's right there in this very person and we are little manifestations of it.

I know that I am supposed to have compassion for this, I know that I am supposed to just notice this, as neither good nor bad. I know that I'm supposed to just be curious about this, to have it inform my awareness of myself. But to see it, in this person, to see it still going is just too much.
So I lean my head against the wall, sigh, and just watch it. I watch it in this person. I recall myself doing a version of it 10 minutes prior, and then I see another family member doing it even as I am sitting there.
"Oh well," I think. "It's here to stay."
And then I laugh at this situation, because really, it isn't that bad.

And it isn't. This behavior that I am witnessing isn't actually a "bad" behavior at all: it's a propensity to help, to want to fix things, and to do these things without any interaction with others- to silently make things better. But underneath these actions is an assumption that we know better. There is also an attempt to control, a belief that we actually can make things better. And the silence, the behind-the-scenes helping which was always presented to me as some sort of valor or selflessness or serving of others looks to me, now, as another attempt at control- a fear of intimacy, a fear of rejection. an unwillingness to ask someone if they need help, to actually work with someone to solve things, to enter into the uncertainty of an equal relationship: actual intimacy.
Maybe that isn't what this behavior is. Maybe that's just what I think this behavior is. Regardless, it's still hard for me to see.

So I just sit there, not really having enough distance from it to see it objectively, not really getting caught up in it either, but certainly not looking at it with loving kindness or compassion.

For the rest of the afternoon, I see it in each of us and in myself. It feels inescapable, like we are all connected to it in some sort of cat's cradle web. But for now, it doesn't feel so binding or trapping or constricting, it just kind of is. I'm a part of it and so are they. We appear to be connected by it, like we all came from the same harvest or something, and so we are equally created and held by it. Maybe we will be free of it some day, though I kind of think we won't, and I don't know that we even need to. I guess I'm just seeing it, seeing that we all are in it, not that one of us handed it down to the rest of us and is now free of it.
And I guess that though it frustrates me to see that we all still carry it in us, that we continue to manifest it in what feels like all of our actions, it is something that we actuallly share, that connects us, that sort of makes us equals in this attempt to naviagte our way through life.

The teacher who will not save you.

I have been noticing my relationship with one of the teachers at the zen center. This is the best way that I can describe it:
I... am drowning.
I am in the ocean being thrown this way and that by large waves that toss me to one side or the other and make it difficult for me to surface and breathe. I manage to push my arms down enough to get my head above the waves and then wave my hands in the air to get the attention of this teacher. I shout to him, "Help me, help me! I'm drowning!"
The teacher (who is standing on the deck of a large ocean liner which is completely stable and could never possibly tip over) looks out at the ocean where I am drowning. His eyes come to rest on my flailing figure, and he appears to recognize that, in fact, I am drowning.
"Hmmmh," he says, as he nods in recognition to me. Then he leans back, and seems to give his attention to the other people who are on the boat with him (I'm not sure who they are, perhaps they are other students).
"Let me tell you a little bit about drowning," he begins. And then he does. He tells them about drowning, about the concept of drowning, about what drowning feels like, he might even share about his own experience with drowning. But basically, he just keeps talking. 
Meanwhile, I am drowning. I am in the ocean that he is now standing upon in his comfy ocean liner, but I...am drowning. And part of me, is really mad. Because part of me feels like he's the one who told me to go swimming, he's the one who suggested that the water might be fine, he's the one that was doing the backstroke and making it look like it was all heated and calm. And so part of me feels like it's really unfair of him to just talk about drowning while I'm the one actually drowning. Because I feel like I'm doing my part by actually jumping in and trying to swim but he's totally failing me by just standing there, and talking about drowning.

So I give up on him.
"F this!" I say and swim as far away as I can in the absolute opposite direction of him and his boat.

But then I stop, because I am tired, and I find myself, in the middle of the ocean, not exactly drowning, but not exactly getting anywhere either. Bascially, I am treading water- within sight of the ocean liner but it's pretty far off in the distance.

And then his stupid "talking" about drowning shows up in my head. I hear it, and it makes me angry, because it isn't picking me up out of the water and delivering me safe on to the deck of the ocean liner. But still, his words are there, in my head, and so I listen to them, mostly because they are there and I am in the ocean, still drowning.

And then I begrudgingly try them. I don't know exactly how I try someone's words or someone's talking but I do something related to what he was saying, and I find myself swimming. I'm not doing the backstroke, I'm not gliding powerfully and gracefully through the choppy waves of the coean, but I am moving of my own accord rather than being dragged down by the force of the ocean.
And I am still angry. I might even be angrier than before because his stupid words are what I listened to and appear to be what buoyed me to the point at which I was floating enough in the water to start to take some strokes of my own.

And so I swim, angrily, back toward the ocean liner. Eventually, I arrive, about ten feet away from the deck, and stay there, treading water, while the teacher continues his talk. At one point, he stops. His back is to me at that point as he is addressing the other people on the boat, but he turns his head sideways, so that he can see me from the corner of his eye.
"Oh," he says as he looks at me. "I see you figured that out," and then he goes back to talking to the people on the boat. I don't think he's talking about drowning anymore. I think that talk was just for me and probably ended a while ago. I also think that, though his back was turned to me by the time I got there, his gaze had been on me the entire time while he was talking about drowning, up until the part that I began to swim on my own. Honestly, I don't really know.

What I do know is that I am still in the water. I also know that I am still mad at him.
I also know that there are people on the boat who have, in the past, as soon as they saw me drowning, jumped into their life boat, rowed out to save me, wrapped me in a warm blanket, and lovingly let me sip hot chocolate as they did the hard work of rowing us back to the safety of the boat.

What I don't know is whether I could survive in the water if the only response to my drowning were talking about drowning.
I know for sure that if I were only saved by life boats and offered hot chocolate, I wouldn't ever bother jumping into the cold water again.

For now I know that I am still in the water. And I know that I chose to swim toward the teacher, not away. And I see myself, treading water, but keeping my head up enough so that I can hear what this teacher is saying.