The practice of love

This morning, my alarm went off at 5:10, instead of 6:10, and it was Saturday. I laughed at myself, for considering checking it last night but then deciding that was silly. I also said to myself, “If Suzuki Roshi were here, he’d say ‘Get up anyway, and go to the zendo’” and I considered getting up and writing or sitting or doing yoga, but I didn’t feel especially awake so I set my watch alarm for 6 and went back to bed.

At 6:30, I woke up (zazen starts at 6:25 on Saturdays). I smiled at myself, “That’s what happens when you don’t follow Suzuki Roshi’s advice…” So then I got up, got dressed and started to head out the door.

I was surprised at how relaxed I felt as I was riding my bike to the zendo that morning. I remembered all the other times when I was late and how frantically I had ridden, trying to make the most of the gears on my bike and racing through each intersection as quickly as possible. I remember how motivated I was by being there on time, by not being late, by not being perceived as late by the people in the zendo- my perception that late meant that I wasn’t committed to this practice, that I was just showing up.  But this morning, I just rode and got-there-when-I-got-there and sat in the gaitan until the end of the period.

I was the second to last person out of the gaitan and as I put on my boots, I began to worry that we were late, that everyone in the Buddha hall was waiting for the last of us. The guy next to me was moving quite slowly and as I noticed that his hands were at his side, not in gassho, I started making up stories about him: he’s just here on vacation, he’s just “checking out” a zen monastery, he’s just here for the experience of it. I noticed how I was trying to separate myself from him, trying to make myself different.

Once I got to the Buddha hall, I tried not to notice who was there but after about two minutes, I saw that my teacher was there. I felt like he was watching me (though he wasn’t), noticing that I was there on a Saturday, and I wanted to hide.
“That’s interesting,” I said to myself. “You’re hiding from the person who you want to see you."
"Be seen," I encouraged myself. "Be seen.”
And so I did: I straightened myself back up and did what I was doing- bowing and chanting.

When I picked up my chant book, I held it the way they had taught me at Ei Hei Ji and I imagined my teacher noticing this, noticing the technique I had picked up and the fact that I was using it. After we chanted the sutras, I chose to put my book down, even though I knew I was going to pick it back up again to chant the names of the ancestors. I looked around for verification of this form but then reflected on why I was doing it: I wanted to be present to the kokyo and her chanting, it felt right to put the book down to do that, even though it might mean making extra movement to pick it back up again- “present to the moment,” I thought to myself.
As we were chanting the names of the ancestors, I noticed that the person in front of me held the chant book immediately in front of their eyes like we had at Ei Hei Ji and so I tried to do the same thing. I noticed how much it helped me to focus on the text in front of me. Then the person next to me picked up their chant book, about halfway through the chanting. I thought, “Oh, they must be trying to memorize the names of the ancestors and this is how far they got. How nice that they feel fine picking it back up again, that this is where they’re at right now and they need the support of the text and they have it and they’re trying.” And then I thought that having the book in front of you helped you to focus on the texts and so maybe memorizing it and not looking at the text might actually be a bad idea but then I thought, “Yeah, but if you chant it, without the book, it’s like you are it, like you’re being the words in the text which are kind of words about this practice and how to sustain it.”

And I thought about the people around me, how they were trying to do their best in this practice, that they were working on their technique, that they were here to practice this, to move forward in it, to make it their life. And then I thought about the fact that I had tried to hold my chant book the way they do at Ei Hei Ji, that I had decided that I should hold the chant book right in front of my face so that it would help me to focus on the text instead of the people around me or my thoughts and I thought, “You’re doing it too. You’re doing the exact same things as the people around you. You’re trying to do this practice, you’re trying to learn this technique- you really are here doing the exact same thing that everyone else in here is doing- you are just as much a part of this group as everyone else in it. You have the same goal and you’re not sticking out like you think, you’re not separate from what everyone else here is doing- you really are doing this, the same as everyone else in this room.”

And that scared me and made me cry: the implications of it, the fear that it was the truth, the fear that I was no different.

And then it was time to leave and I was excited that I pretty much knew how to exit and I imagined a clever way to explain how to exit the Buddha hall to others. I did soji and our job ended quickly so we moved on to help move the chairs in to the Buddha hall. When that was over, no one appeared to be approaching the work leader for what to do next so I figured they were done and were going to go back up to their rooms before breakfast. I approached the work leader on my own and then continued to help setting up the Buddha hall. When that was over and the bell still hadn’t rung, I decided that it was done- the work leader hadn’t appeared to have any other pressing jobs so I decided to just go home (we weren’t having oryoki).

As I walked down the stairs, I pictured the bananas I had seen in the kitchen when I checked in with the work leader, set out on the table for breakfast because they were eating in the dining room that morning. I imagined everyone standing around them as they chanted the morning meal chant, I pictured everyone smiling and talking as they got their food.

I noticed that this was what I had been expecting when I returned to the zendo after my trip to Japan and stayed for breakfast: this social community of talking and catching up with each other, this feeling of being welcomed home by the community. I noticed that I was walking away from this, that I was walking down the stairs away from what I wanted. I noticed that I was doing this because I felt like the work leader didn’t have any more work to do, that I felt like I should only stay for breakfast when it was oryoki because oryoki is part of the practice and eating in the dining hall isn’t. I pictured myself leaving because I didn’t live in the building and I pictured the people staying in the building because they lived there. And I noticed how I was separating myself again- that I was pulling away from this community that was doing nothing to push me away, that had never suggested that I should not come to breakfast.

As I was unlocking my bike, I imagined my teacher walking by, and I noticed that I wanted to be seen- noticed that I wanted that interaction. I heard the drum roll for breakfast and again pictured everyone sitting in the dining hall, pictured them wondering where I was and someone explaining that I felt like I wasn’t supposed to stay unless it was oryoki and them rolling their eyes at my silliness in this notion.

I noticed that I was leaving this interaction, this one thing that I wanted. But then I reheard what someone had said to me once, “You’re kind of a social person, aren’t you?” and I knew it was true- that I am a social person and I worried that staying for breakfast was me focusing on the social aspect of things, as a distraction from my practice, that I was just doing it for the fun of it, the community.

But I also noticed my loneliness in leaving and my fear in staying. “You are responding to fear in this situation- you are afraid to stay for the dining room interaction, you really are afraid of being around all those people, feeling their love.”

And I thought about how this is my practice, that my practice at the zen center is learning how to feel love, and that staying in the dining hall when I think I shouldn’t, facing my fears that I don't deserve to be loved, that love isn't important or should be hidden actually is my practice- this really is what I’m working on, this is what I need to move forward.

As I put my backpack on, I felt the sadness inside of me, the disappointment my body felt at me leaving, at actually seeing what I was doing and still choosing to do it anyway. As I pedaled up the hill, I considered staying one more time- stopping myself, locking my bike, going back in and laughing as I explained to everyone my whole dilemma and debate around this and how I finally gave in and just came back. But then I kept on riding, said good morning to a practitioner standing on the sidewalk waiting for someone, and felt how nice it was just to say good morning.

This is my practice (or a big part of it at least). I am practicing how to feel love at the zen center. I don't know if it's okay, I don't know if someone is going to suggest that it's not an appropriate thing for me to be doing at a zen center, but I know that when I am there, the people there, in their actions and response to me, are surrounding me in the practice of being loved.