I had an interesting realization on my third day of sesshin. I was noticing how often my teaching came up during zazen: how often I thought about my lessons, the kids, what the parents thought of me, etc.
"Wow," I thought. "Being a good teacher is really important to you."
"Well, duh," I responded. "Of course being a good teacher is important to me. What would I be if I weren't a good teacher?"
And then I thought about it. What would I be if I weren't a teacher? What would I be if my identity weren't caught up in how my students felt each day, whether or not the lesson went well, how the parents felt I was doing in terms of keeping their kids engaged in and excited about school.
"You'd just be your self," I suggested.
"My self?" I thought for a second, and freaked out. "Who would that be?"
And I had no idea. Who would I be if I weren't a teacher? Who would I be if I weren't all the things I hope and desire and want to be? How would I know if I was doing okay or being right or living the way I was supposed to if I weren't all those things I thought I was supposed to be? Who would I be if I weren't trying to be what I thought I was supposed to be.
And that's when I realized that I wanted to be a thing. I wanted to be a teacher, I wanted to be a good person, I wanted to be a good friend, I wanted to be someone you can rely on. I wanted to be all those things that I could evaluate, that I could use to judge myself, that I could use to determine if I was safe, accepted, and right.
Being my self? That was scary. Who knows what being myself is? Who knows what that's supposed to be? Being a teacher, a good one, that's easy. It's not that it's easy, it's that it's clear whether you're doing it well or not. But being your self, especially when you don't know who that is, is totally wild. You have no idea whether you're right or wrong and so you can make mistakes and mess up at every turn. Being yourself is really vague so I think I wanted to be a teacher- a thing- because it was clear, it was easy, it was definable.
But in the end, when I thought more about it, about who I would be if I weren't a thing, if my identity weren't defined by my ability as a teacher; I realized, that I'd just be me, being a teacher. My identity as a teacher would be secondary, it would be part of who I am, but not all of who I am. And to be honest, it really is who I am. It's true that I'm a teacher and it's true that I think a lot about how to be a good one but in the end, I'm never only going to be a good teacher or a bad teacher and I'm never going to be either of them; I'm only going to be me.
I think it's normal to want to be a thing. I think it makes sense. But I realize that I'm not. I'm really messy and all over the place and I have good days and I have bad but I'm not a thing, I'm not fixed, I can't ever be good or bad, it just doesn't work that way. All I can be is me.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
30 days in Japan... with no plan.
Lately, people have been asking me what I am going to do this summer.
"I'm going to Japan," I answer, "for a month."
"Wow!" they respond. "How exciting! What are you going to do there?"
"I don't know yet," I answer.
"Who are you going with?" they ask.
"I'm just going by myself," I answer
That's usually when their eyes get big. They also often ask, "Do you speak any Japanese?"
To which I answer, "Nope, not a word."
"Whuh.....oh!" they reply and then they say something to the effect of "You are really brave!" or "That's more adventure than I could handle!"
And then I don't know what to do.
Because when they say that, I realize, that I, am going to Japan, for thirty days. I have no accommodations, no plans for where I am going, and I don't speak a word of the language of the country in which I will need to navigate my way around for an entire month. All I know is that I have a flight, to Tokyo, which arrives on June 2nd and leaves on July 2nd, that's all.
This should be concerning, this should be cause for alarm (or at least cause for a visit to a tourist bureau or a good read through a guide book), I should be doing something so that when I get to Japan, I won't be totally lost and dependent upon the people there to help me.
But everytime I think about going to Japan, all I see is people being friendly and trying to help me. I picture a train station, with lots of trains and figure that one of them will get me to where I am going. I picture hotels, with lots of rooms, and a front desk person. I picture guest houses, with really happy owners, anxious to know if my stay at their home was nice. I picture mountains with trails on them that I can walk on, temples with gardens that I can visit, and a really busy city, with noodle bars and maybe some sake. Hmmm, I wonder what I'll drink when I'm in Japan- I wonder if they have juice. Oh...tea...I guess I'll learn to like tea.
Honestly, I don't know if it's because I'm being ignorant or delusional. I don't know if it's because of my experience in Myanmar last summer in which I didn't know the language but was ferried from person to person with loving kindness. I don't know if it's stupidity and poor planning. All I know is that everytime I sit down to plan what I'm doing, it seems so foreign, so removed, so far from the reality of being there, it seems like a waste of time.
I have tried to make plans. My original plan was to hike, from hut to hut, in the Japanese alps. But as soon as I got the "Hiking in Japan" guidebook, I discovered that the huts don't open until after I leave the country, in July. I had also planned to visit Ei-Hei-Ji (Dogen's temple) for a three night, four day "practice" program. I applied for this, via fax, way back in March. But, as of yet, I haven't heard back from the temple whether or not I can come visit.
So maybe that's it. The plans I've tried to make, didn't really help: there's still snow on the alps so I can't hike them, and, for whatever reason, the temple hasn't responded. So now it seems silly to plan for my visit. It feels like I won't really know what I'm going to do until I get there.
Mostly though, it feels, like a country full of people. I'll arrive, I'll get on train, I'll go somewhere. I'll find a place to stay. see the surroundings, and then get on another train, to somewhere else.
When I really think about it, it feels kind of risky, and might be really expensive. But when I don't think about it, it feels like there will be a place to stay each night, food to eat each day, and a way to get from one place to another.
I think I'm going to look in to a train pass, and accommodations for the day that I arrive and for the night before I leave- that seems like a wise thing to do.
The funny thing is, in mentioning to people that I'm going to Japan, with no plans, I've had people telling me about their adventures in Japan or the friends that they know of or places they've heard of. In having no plans, I'm actually getting all kinds of plans for my visit- ones that I never would have thought of on my own and probably wouldn't have found in a guide book.
So for now, I'm going to Japan, with no plan, and am open to suggestions...
"I'm going to Japan," I answer, "for a month."
"Wow!" they respond. "How exciting! What are you going to do there?"
"I don't know yet," I answer.
"Who are you going with?" they ask.
"I'm just going by myself," I answer
That's usually when their eyes get big. They also often ask, "Do you speak any Japanese?"
To which I answer, "Nope, not a word."
"Whuh.....oh!" they reply and then they say something to the effect of "You are really brave!" or "That's more adventure than I could handle!"
And then I don't know what to do.
Because when they say that, I realize, that I, am going to Japan, for thirty days. I have no accommodations, no plans for where I am going, and I don't speak a word of the language of the country in which I will need to navigate my way around for an entire month. All I know is that I have a flight, to Tokyo, which arrives on June 2nd and leaves on July 2nd, that's all.
This should be concerning, this should be cause for alarm (or at least cause for a visit to a tourist bureau or a good read through a guide book), I should be doing something so that when I get to Japan, I won't be totally lost and dependent upon the people there to help me.
But everytime I think about going to Japan, all I see is people being friendly and trying to help me. I picture a train station, with lots of trains and figure that one of them will get me to where I am going. I picture hotels, with lots of rooms, and a front desk person. I picture guest houses, with really happy owners, anxious to know if my stay at their home was nice. I picture mountains with trails on them that I can walk on, temples with gardens that I can visit, and a really busy city, with noodle bars and maybe some sake. Hmmm, I wonder what I'll drink when I'm in Japan- I wonder if they have juice. Oh...tea...I guess I'll learn to like tea.
Honestly, I don't know if it's because I'm being ignorant or delusional. I don't know if it's because of my experience in Myanmar last summer in which I didn't know the language but was ferried from person to person with loving kindness. I don't know if it's stupidity and poor planning. All I know is that everytime I sit down to plan what I'm doing, it seems so foreign, so removed, so far from the reality of being there, it seems like a waste of time.
I have tried to make plans. My original plan was to hike, from hut to hut, in the Japanese alps. But as soon as I got the "Hiking in Japan" guidebook, I discovered that the huts don't open until after I leave the country, in July. I had also planned to visit Ei-Hei-Ji (Dogen's temple) for a three night, four day "practice" program. I applied for this, via fax, way back in March. But, as of yet, I haven't heard back from the temple whether or not I can come visit.
So maybe that's it. The plans I've tried to make, didn't really help: there's still snow on the alps so I can't hike them, and, for whatever reason, the temple hasn't responded. So now it seems silly to plan for my visit. It feels like I won't really know what I'm going to do until I get there.
Mostly though, it feels, like a country full of people. I'll arrive, I'll get on train, I'll go somewhere. I'll find a place to stay. see the surroundings, and then get on another train, to somewhere else.
When I really think about it, it feels kind of risky, and might be really expensive. But when I don't think about it, it feels like there will be a place to stay each night, food to eat each day, and a way to get from one place to another.
I think I'm going to look in to a train pass, and accommodations for the day that I arrive and for the night before I leave- that seems like a wise thing to do.
The funny thing is, in mentioning to people that I'm going to Japan, with no plans, I've had people telling me about their adventures in Japan or the friends that they know of or places they've heard of. In having no plans, I'm actually getting all kinds of plans for my visit- ones that I never would have thought of on my own and probably wouldn't have found in a guide book.
So for now, I'm going to Japan, with no plan, and am open to suggestions...
The community of HoHos and birthday cake
I have a funny response to eating meals at the zen center. Often, after eating there, I leave with this desire to have a doughnut, or a HoHo, or something which, to me, feels especially gluttonous or luxurious, or indulgent.
I always assumed that I was doing this- "treating" myself to these "indulgences"- because I felt like I had "deprived" myself when I ate at the zen center. I think this perception of "deprivation" came from the fact that I often ate lunch there- which is usually a simple soup and slice of bread- or oryoki- a basic meal in which you take "just enough" of each food offering to sustain yourself (there's actually much more to oryoki than that but, for the sake of understanding, we'll just focus on that for now).
This morning, as I was riding my bike home from an oryoki breakfast at the zen center, I had that same feeling again: of wanting some "indulgence" or "treat." But this time, I remembered my association with these treats. I remembered that I often turn to these treats when I am lonely. I remembered that I associate these treats with being surrounded by my cousins and grandma or with having a cake made for me on my birthday. What I look for, in having these treats, is the feelings that I associate with them: being surrounded by doting family members and feeling loved.
"Lonely?" I thought. "But I'm not feeling lonely, I just left the zen center, where I was surrounded by friends and community."
"Oh my gosh!" I thought to myself. "I'm leaving the zen center. I've just spent all morning in community. I sat zazen with my fellow practitioners in the zendo, celebrated a ceremony in the courtyard with good friends, did soji with strangers, and ate oryoki- breakfast- in the zendo with the sangha. I'm not feeling deprived of food, I'm feeling deprived of community. In riding away from the zen center where I am surrounded by others, toward the isolation of my apartment where I am alone, I am removing myself from the feeling of belonging and connection that I love so much.
It took me forever to figure this out. My body, however, has known this all along. It felt how I felt when I had meals at the zen center, it enjoyed that community and connection, and it knew it was going home to an empty apartment. That's why it was craving the treats of my summers with grandma and childhood family gatherings- not because it wanted indulgence, but because it wanted belonging, community, love. It was asking for it in how it remembered it most: HoHos and birthday cakes...
I always assumed that I was doing this- "treating" myself to these "indulgences"- because I felt like I had "deprived" myself when I ate at the zen center. I think this perception of "deprivation" came from the fact that I often ate lunch there- which is usually a simple soup and slice of bread- or oryoki- a basic meal in which you take "just enough" of each food offering to sustain yourself (there's actually much more to oryoki than that but, for the sake of understanding, we'll just focus on that for now).
This morning, as I was riding my bike home from an oryoki breakfast at the zen center, I had that same feeling again: of wanting some "indulgence" or "treat." But this time, I remembered my association with these treats. I remembered that I often turn to these treats when I am lonely. I remembered that I associate these treats with being surrounded by my cousins and grandma or with having a cake made for me on my birthday. What I look for, in having these treats, is the feelings that I associate with them: being surrounded by doting family members and feeling loved.
"Lonely?" I thought. "But I'm not feeling lonely, I just left the zen center, where I was surrounded by friends and community."
"Oh my gosh!" I thought to myself. "I'm leaving the zen center. I've just spent all morning in community. I sat zazen with my fellow practitioners in the zendo, celebrated a ceremony in the courtyard with good friends, did soji with strangers, and ate oryoki- breakfast- in the zendo with the sangha. I'm not feeling deprived of food, I'm feeling deprived of community. In riding away from the zen center where I am surrounded by others, toward the isolation of my apartment where I am alone, I am removing myself from the feeling of belonging and connection that I love so much.
It took me forever to figure this out. My body, however, has known this all along. It felt how I felt when I had meals at the zen center, it enjoyed that community and connection, and it knew it was going home to an empty apartment. That's why it was craving the treats of my summers with grandma and childhood family gatherings- not because it wanted indulgence, but because it wanted belonging, community, love. It was asking for it in how it remembered it most: HoHos and birthday cakes...
Friday, April 12, 2013
Taking refuge in the dharma- NOT chocolate
You know when you're feeling tired, or sick, and it's your day to go to the gym and you think to yourself', "I shouldn't go to the gym. I'm not feeling well. I should take the day off, 'treat' myself, not 'make myself' go to the gym."
But then, for some reason, you go to the gym anyway, and you end up feeling better because you went to the gym than if you had stayed home and 'treated' yourself? It doesn't always happen this way, but you know those days when it does? It's like proof of what you knew already- the gym actually is good for you. But because things that are "good" for us often feel like something we are supposed to do, we feel like not doing them is a treat, a getting away with something, a lavishing on ourselves, a letting go of following all those rules. But in the end, not doing what we know is actually good for us, often ends up being kind of being "bad" for us.
I think this is what is meant by "Taking refuge in the dharma."
I think, that when we are bummed out, or sad, or lonely, what we want to do, is take refuge in chocolate (or T.V., or a beer, or escape or... greed, hate, and delusion). By 'taking refuge' I mean that we want to avoid our situation or make things better by doing that other thing. If I'm sad and want to avoid the reality of my day, I go to the store and get a HoHo. I only got HoHos when I was at my Grandma's house in the summer time, laying around in my swim suit, watching T.V., surrounded by cousins and a Grandma who doted on me. I don't think that I consciously associate a HoHo with that feeling that I had during those summers but I do know that I reach for a HoHo when I am sad and that the thoughts in my head when I eat one are 'you are loved' and 'you are special.' It's a nice place to be and I think I go there to make myself feel better. I think I actually find some comfort in it, some escape from who I was that day- it's like a little shelter, an oasis, a refuge.
But afterward , as soon as that HoHo is eaten, my day is still there. I was still who I was. And I am still who I am: someone who just ate a HoHo. And HoHos aren't all that good. They might be good on your tongue, but they're mostly oil and fat and they're kind of plasticky and I think it's kind of sad that I eat them because I know they aren't good for me. It was the doting and being surrounded by cousins and feeling loved that was good for me, not the HoHo.
And I think that the dharma is good for you. I think that what I need, when I've had a bad day, is to let go of it, to know that it's over, to maybe notice who I was in it, notice how I responded, and maybe even be kind to myself around it.
It isn't easy to do this- it's not my first inclination, it isn't what I associate with "treating" myself or being "good" to myself. Honestly, it feels like pushing myself or doing extra work. But I think, in the end, that that is what is going to actually help me. I think that in the long run, taking refgue in the dharma (and honestly, I don't really know what I mean when I use this term. I don't think it's anything specific other than doing what you know is appropriate for that situation, no matter how difficult that may be) not in avoidance or distraction or all those other things that seem pleasant but that really, you totally know aren't going to help you, is kind of what will make things better in the long run.
It's kind of like an admonition. It's kind of like: I know, I know, things are a bummer and you totally want do those things that used to make you feel good. But stop, accept that it's a bummer, and look to what you've been learning about yourself to determine what to do next- what do you know about how you feel, about what's coming up for you around this. Take your refuge there- in kindness to yourself- not in chocolate.
But then, for some reason, you go to the gym anyway, and you end up feeling better because you went to the gym than if you had stayed home and 'treated' yourself? It doesn't always happen this way, but you know those days when it does? It's like proof of what you knew already- the gym actually is good for you. But because things that are "good" for us often feel like something we are supposed to do, we feel like not doing them is a treat, a getting away with something, a lavishing on ourselves, a letting go of following all those rules. But in the end, not doing what we know is actually good for us, often ends up being kind of being "bad" for us.
I think this is what is meant by "Taking refuge in the dharma."
I think, that when we are bummed out, or sad, or lonely, what we want to do, is take refuge in chocolate (or T.V., or a beer, or escape or... greed, hate, and delusion). By 'taking refuge' I mean that we want to avoid our situation or make things better by doing that other thing. If I'm sad and want to avoid the reality of my day, I go to the store and get a HoHo. I only got HoHos when I was at my Grandma's house in the summer time, laying around in my swim suit, watching T.V., surrounded by cousins and a Grandma who doted on me. I don't think that I consciously associate a HoHo with that feeling that I had during those summers but I do know that I reach for a HoHo when I am sad and that the thoughts in my head when I eat one are 'you are loved' and 'you are special.' It's a nice place to be and I think I go there to make myself feel better. I think I actually find some comfort in it, some escape from who I was that day- it's like a little shelter, an oasis, a refuge.
But afterward , as soon as that HoHo is eaten, my day is still there. I was still who I was. And I am still who I am: someone who just ate a HoHo. And HoHos aren't all that good. They might be good on your tongue, but they're mostly oil and fat and they're kind of plasticky and I think it's kind of sad that I eat them because I know they aren't good for me. It was the doting and being surrounded by cousins and feeling loved that was good for me, not the HoHo.
And I think that the dharma is good for you. I think that what I need, when I've had a bad day, is to let go of it, to know that it's over, to maybe notice who I was in it, notice how I responded, and maybe even be kind to myself around it.
It isn't easy to do this- it's not my first inclination, it isn't what I associate with "treating" myself or being "good" to myself. Honestly, it feels like pushing myself or doing extra work. But I think, in the end, that that is what is going to actually help me. I think that in the long run, taking refgue in the dharma (and honestly, I don't really know what I mean when I use this term. I don't think it's anything specific other than doing what you know is appropriate for that situation, no matter how difficult that may be) not in avoidance or distraction or all those other things that seem pleasant but that really, you totally know aren't going to help you, is kind of what will make things better in the long run.
It's kind of like an admonition. It's kind of like: I know, I know, things are a bummer and you totally want do those things that used to make you feel good. But stop, accept that it's a bummer, and look to what you've been learning about yourself to determine what to do next- what do you know about how you feel, about what's coming up for you around this. Take your refuge there- in kindness to yourself- not in chocolate.
Wannabe...
I was in my classroom one morning, thinking to myself, "I wish I could be like my teacher. I wish that when kids did things that annoyed me or disrupted the class, I could meet them with a deep breath or inquisitiveness."
And then I thought some more about my teacher, about the fact that you just don't mess with my teacher. But it's not because you're afraid of him or that he'll yell at you, it's just that you want to do what he holds you to- it's like you want to meet his expectations, because he's meeting them.
And so then I picutred myself, being like my teacher: sitting on that square box in the middle of the Buddha Hall, giving a dharma talk, all poised and upright.
And then I laughed. Because when I pictured myself up there, sitting on that box, I pictured myself being all wiggly and taking a long time to settle in to my posture, and maybe smiling at the audience while they waited for me, maybe even making a joke about "these darn robes."
"Oh," I thought to myself. "You definitely would not be like your teacher. You can't be him, you just aren't him, it's just not you."
And then I thought about the last dokusan I had had with my teacher. In it, I had asked my teacher to tell me about his experience with giving up control.
He responded by asking, "Don't you think it would make more sense for you to tell me about your experience with it?"
"No," I thought. "Why would we talk about me? You're the one with all the experience, you're the one who's been practicing longer than I've been alive, you're the zen master; I'm just the student, sitting here waiting to be taught."
Of course I didn't say any of that. I actually don't remember what I said, but I do know that I left dokusan with a lens through which to notice myself around control.
And I did, I noticed a lot about myself as a result, and grew in some ways, loosened in others, but mostly just saw myself in relationship with control.
At the time, I thought my teacher did this (put it back on me) because he knew that I was the only one who could learn about myself and control, I was the only one who could do the learning around this, that he couldn't possibly begin to give me pointers about giving up control in my life any better than I could, because he wasn't me, he wasn't living my life.
But that morning, in my classroom, as I was picturing myself being my teacher, wanting to be just like him, and realizing that I just wasn't him, it occurred to me that this practice, isn't about being someone. It isn't about reaching some perfect behavior or poise. It isn't about achieving some moral status or place of equanimity. This practice is actually all about becoming the self- it's about self actualization, seeing the self, studying the self, being who you are.
So when I asked my teacher about his experience with control it actually didn't make sense. Why would I talk about his experience with control if the point of all this is to be who you are. Learning about him, isn't going to teach me about my self. And trying to be him, is so barking up the wrong tree. I'm walking down the totally wrong path by trying to emulate him or figure out how to be him. That does absolutely nothing for self actualization.
What I really need to do is be me in my classroom, find my own place of equanimity and poise, settle in to whoever it is that I am, and then just be it.
And then I thought some more about my teacher, about the fact that you just don't mess with my teacher. But it's not because you're afraid of him or that he'll yell at you, it's just that you want to do what he holds you to- it's like you want to meet his expectations, because he's meeting them.
And so then I picutred myself, being like my teacher: sitting on that square box in the middle of the Buddha Hall, giving a dharma talk, all poised and upright.
And then I laughed. Because when I pictured myself up there, sitting on that box, I pictured myself being all wiggly and taking a long time to settle in to my posture, and maybe smiling at the audience while they waited for me, maybe even making a joke about "these darn robes."
"Oh," I thought to myself. "You definitely would not be like your teacher. You can't be him, you just aren't him, it's just not you."
And then I thought about the last dokusan I had had with my teacher. In it, I had asked my teacher to tell me about his experience with giving up control.
He responded by asking, "Don't you think it would make more sense for you to tell me about your experience with it?"
"No," I thought. "Why would we talk about me? You're the one with all the experience, you're the one who's been practicing longer than I've been alive, you're the zen master; I'm just the student, sitting here waiting to be taught."
Of course I didn't say any of that. I actually don't remember what I said, but I do know that I left dokusan with a lens through which to notice myself around control.
And I did, I noticed a lot about myself as a result, and grew in some ways, loosened in others, but mostly just saw myself in relationship with control.
At the time, I thought my teacher did this (put it back on me) because he knew that I was the only one who could learn about myself and control, I was the only one who could do the learning around this, that he couldn't possibly begin to give me pointers about giving up control in my life any better than I could, because he wasn't me, he wasn't living my life.
But that morning, in my classroom, as I was picturing myself being my teacher, wanting to be just like him, and realizing that I just wasn't him, it occurred to me that this practice, isn't about being someone. It isn't about reaching some perfect behavior or poise. It isn't about achieving some moral status or place of equanimity. This practice is actually all about becoming the self- it's about self actualization, seeing the self, studying the self, being who you are.
So when I asked my teacher about his experience with control it actually didn't make sense. Why would I talk about his experience with control if the point of all this is to be who you are. Learning about him, isn't going to teach me about my self. And trying to be him, is so barking up the wrong tree. I'm walking down the totally wrong path by trying to emulate him or figure out how to be him. That does absolutely nothing for self actualization.
What I really need to do is be me in my classroom, find my own place of equanimity and poise, settle in to whoever it is that I am, and then just be it.
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