Coming home

I noticed a lot of things about myself during my trip to Japan. One of them, a big one, was that I am doing this practice. I may have issues with what it is called or what it means that I am doing it but clearly, I am doing this practice.
Part of this acceptance came from noticing myself around this practice. During the first week of my trip, I spent 4 days practicing at Ei Hei Ji temple in Japan. I watched myself happily holding a chant book (which was written completely in Japanese so I couldn't read it) two inches from my face, and chanting away while tourists outside the temple were snapping photographs and enjoying their afternoon. I felt the giddiness in my chest as the interpreter shared with me Dogen's main question and his teachings around the importance of our relationship to food. And I felt the awe and respect deep in my heart as I listened to a priest respond to a practitioner's doubt, inquiry, and confusion about this practice. I saw his respect for the practitioner, his offering not of resolution, comfort, or certainty but of essence of this practice, truth of this life and, somehow, a return back to the practitioner- that this was his choice, this was his practice, his life and how he chose to live it. My time at Ei Hei Ji completely removed my ability or desire to question what I was doing when I do this practice. It was obvious and undeniable: I enjoy and respect this practice.
This came up for me a few more times throughout my travels in Japan- when I would visit temples and hear a bell ring, when I would proudly tell others that I had sat at Ei Hei Ji, and when I would answer tourists' questions about zen practice or meditation. I realized that this is part of me, not even regardless of how I feel about it, but that it is, it just is.
It was easy to see this when I was in Japan and could say things like "my temple" and not worry that someone would think I was some religious convert. It was also easy to see this in Japan, where I had no job, no other life to deal with, no issues around identity or future. But part of me knew that when I came home, when I actually walked in to "my temple" and started practicing, with this newfound confidence in it, with this new awareness that the person who was doing this and the person who I am are the same, might be a little overwhelming. The reality of actually doing it, not just in my head, not just these feelings of respect, awe, and joy, but doing it as part of my life, might be a whole different story.
I got back from Japan on a Tuesday afternoon and realized that I could go to YUZ that night. I wasn't sure how jet- lagged I would be so I figured I'd leave it up to my body to decide. After dinner, a shower, and some laundry, I felt settled and awake enough to go. I have to admit that I got there late intentionally. I was afraid of the social interaction before YUZ- the welcoming home, the chance to share stories and the fear that they wouldn't be entertaining enough, but mostly my identity as part of this group, part of this community. By the time I got there, people had already started to settle into their sitting and it felt good to be able to rely on this practice to calm my fears, to see the reality of the situation- all I had to do was sit, and focus on my breath.  After our sit, we went around the room saying our names in a somewhat random order, and I laughed as I said mine, because my turn was immediately after my friend's. I saw the look of surprise and joy on her face as she realized that I was there, right behind her, and I felt loved and very much a part of the community. A couple of times during the night I started to freak out as I watched what we were doing: talking about our feelings, about finding meaning in life, about questioning "mainstream" values of success and the importance of achievement over happiness and connection to and awareness of others. But then I would take a breath, see the reality of the situation- that regardless of my fears and doubts about this practice, it was what brought me joy, brought me ease, it just is, no matter what I think of it.
The next morning, my alarm went off and I headed down to the zendo. Visiting temples in Japan, hearing bells, seeing forms, made me understand how fortunate I am to have a temple so close to where I live. I saw how much the forms of the temple and the people in it facilitate my practice- provide that extra support to allow me to deepen my practice, to make mistakes in it, to learn from the practice of others. I knew that going to the zendo, instead of practicing at home, made sense for me right now. It was there for me, an incredible resource, and I wanted to use it, to be held in this practice.
As I walked in the door, it felt good to put my boots in their regular spot on the bottom shelf. I kept my eyes averted as I walked down the gaitan, trying not to pay attention to who was in the zendo that morning. But then I saw my friend, sitting near the entrance, taking roll, and I smiled. I nodded to her in recognition, and she bowed to me, a silent interchange of "You're here, you're kokyo!" and "You're back!" I was still smiling as I approached the entrance to the zendo so I paused, to settle myself, to focus on the task in front of me: sitting in this meditation hall, trying to be still to the thoughts and ideas swirling around my head. But even as I walked in, and bowed, I felt the presence of the Ino, another warm feeling of "welcome home." I walked to a spot on the floor but felt an extra support cushion beneath the zafu, so decided it was someone else's regular spot and continued to walk further in to the zendo, to find an open seat. As I approached it, and bowed, the person sitting next me bowed in return.
I caught my breath, "Acknowledgement- awareness of others."
I sat down, settled in, and began to wonder who would be doshi that morning. I listened as the han hit away the time and focused my attention on awareness of the doshi's entrance so that I would be sure to put my hands in gassho as they passed. But then I realized that I could rely on the people sitting on either side of me, that they were in this too, and could support me if I needed it.
"Community," I thought, "shared practice."
During kinhin I watched as we walked together, in time. We weren't perfectly spaced or aligned but I was aware of the person in front of me and they were walking with their breath. At one point, their cellphone went off and they immediately stopped it, and held their body still.
"Life," I thought, "circumstances beyond our control, forgiveness."
At we sat back down I wondered if that person was beating themselves up over their cellphone going off in the zendo, if they were suffering and feeling bad. I knew that feeling, that fear of disturbing others, of your life or actions seeming to cause others discomfort. But I also knew that I wasn't upset with this person, and was pretty sure no one was.
"Compassion," I thought.
We went upstairs to the Buddha Hall and I worried about being the one who might have to pass out the chant books. I considered stalling, to avoid being in that spot, but kept walking instead.
"Acceptance," I thought. "Avoiding the chant book will inevitably lead to a different problem. Take the one that's given to you."
I walked in, followed the forms, and took my spot. The bell rang and as I stepped forward to fill in the front row, I realized I had forgotten to bow before stepping forward. I started to worry about the judgment of the person next to me but then realized that they were simply following the forms and were probably happy to model for me, not chastizing me for not following them.
We did our prostrations and I felt grateful for the support of the bell and its forms, letting me know when we were close to the end or ready for the next transition. I listened to the chants- about avowing my karma, about accepting my causes and conditions- about how much it had freed me to be myself. I listened to the purpose of taking refuge- of submersing ourselves, of giving in, of listening to the wisdom of others. I listened to the gratitude for our teachers, the movement of this practice across continents, and the pointing to the foundation of this temple, by one man.
And then we exited, something I hadn't done in a while and whose forms I was unclear of because I was in the first row. But again I knew there was someone to follow, someone to support me, that we were all in this together, that this is community.
And now I am home. I am living this life. I am trying to be aware, make choices based on the moment in front of me, and reflect on how I interact with them. I am aware of the judgments inside my head, the space between my rationalizations of what I am doing and my actual experience, and my capacity for love and compassion toward others.
This is life. This is living it. This is practice.
And I am grateful for finally seeing this.