Love
is quiet
it enters from around a corner
where you least expected it to be.
Waits
stands
steadfast in its truth,
surprises you
with its beauty.
Love
for all its fanfare
of enduring affection
guaranteed companionship
never alone again
takes many forms more than that.
It is ferocious
and tender
mistaken
and confused
misguided
well intended
and often
lost
in translation.
So you must be quiet
you must be open
you must be willing
to see
it is there
it is always
there
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Seeing yourself
This post is old. I wrote it in the fall, shortly before school started up again.
I wanted to be tanto.
(Tanto is head of practice, head of students, available to all the students whenever they need it and for whatever they need).
It was true, it was what I felt, and it was what I had said to myself when I first came to a dharma talk given by Blanche: "I could be her someday." Not so much because I was like Blanche or because she was tanto, (she wasn't at the time), but that I could see myself, sitting there, on that box, talking.
But I was uncomfortable with the idea of myself being tanto.
For me, being tanto meant that I would live at the zen center. It meant that I would be a zen priest. It meant that I would be a monk. It meant that I would no longer be an elementary school teacher. It meant that I would no longer have my monthly income. It meant that I would no longer have my lovely apartment where I could cook whatever I wanted. It meant giving up all the normalcy I had in my life and becoming something that I had all kinds of stories about- unpleasant stories, fearful stories, stories in which I did not want to be the main character.
But still, I knew that I actually wanted to be tanto, so I was kind of stuck. I couldn't deny what I wanted, but it wasn't what I actually wanted.
At first, I was kind of okay with it because when I saw myself as tanto, I pictured myself being it when I was much older. I saw myself as a 60 year old woman being tanto, and that felt okay. I felt like I could retire into being tanto- that being a zen priest would be a second career for me, that I would do it after I retired and so moving in there wouldn't be giving up my life or income or anything- it would just be like volunteering or having a second career. I could do it as long as I was financially stable and had finished my career as a teacher. It would be cool and acceptable to retire into a zen monastery- I might even be respected and revered for it. So I was okay with my feelings about it because I thought they were feelings that I could act on later, when it was convenient for me and when I didn't have to choose between them and my current self.
But then, those feelings of wanting to be tanto kept coming up for me: in zazen, in my fantasies, in my imaginary conversations. Usually, when things come up for me, it's because I'm not seeing them. So I knew that if I wanted them to go away, I had to see, and accept, that I wanted to be tanto at the zen center.
Meanwhile, I was also noticing how happy I was when I was doing things at the zen center. I noticed how much I liked helping new people when I was doorwatch. I noticed how often I would learn things in class and immediately want to write about them on the blog so that others could understand them too. I also noticed that when I was in the "audience" at events and people would ask questions, I would want to answer them. I found that what I really wanted was to be the person on stage, not the person in the audience.
"Darnit!" I thought. "This is who I am. This is who I want to be. I can't really wait until I'm 60. This is who I am now."
And that freaked me out. How could who I want, not be who I want? How could who I am not be under my control? How could this persistent assertion of myself be something I hadn't chosen? It didn't make sense and the power of it frightened me.
In the past, I had chosen my career path based on what made me happy: kids. I had made choices about where I taught, what kind of schools I would teach in, what my role would be, all based on what I thought was best for me. It had all been under my command but this, this had nothing to do with me. It had nothing to do with my interests or my career choices or what was best for me. I didn't understand how my self could be at odds with my self. And yet, it had this volition, this power, this thing I had to listen to. I knew I had no choice but to listen to it but I was terrified of how it sounded. I was also terrified that if I did listen to it, I would have no choice in the matter, I actually would have to be tanto: give up teaching, move into the zen center, leave behind my income and retirement....
First, I went to my teacher. I told him how uncomfortable I was about all this. I told him about how happy it made me to be of service at the zen center but I also explained to him that the more natural it felt to do this, the more it felt like it was really me, the more uncomfortable it made me.
He said he totally understood and talked with me about different aspects of practice and about our concepts of normalcy. He also told me to trust my own process.
Part of me wanted to say, "Easy for you to say! You trusted your own process and it got you here. If I follow your advice, I'm going to end up here too- and that's not what I want!"
But of course, I didn't say that. Instead, I listened to his advice and saw that this really was my own process, it wasn't anyone else's. I also saw that on the one hand, I needed to listen to what was coming up for me but on the other hand, it didn't have to be this huge decision. It could come as it came, I could let it unfold and maybe have some say in the matter.
Next, I talked to my therapist. She pointed out a bunch of things to me. Teaching in the classroom and teaching at the zen center were both aspects of teaching. It made sense that I would be drawn to the teaching aspect of this practice; me being tanto was me wanting to be a teacher, not necessarily me wanting to be a monk or a priest or all the stories I had tied up into being tanto at the zen center. It actually wasn't all that different from who I already am. This wanting to be tanto wasn't all that at odds with myself at all. I didn't have to choose between the two of them, they were different manifestations of the same desire: to teach.
She also pointed out that in both positions, I am doing a service and getting paid for it. When I teach in the elementary school, I get a paycheck. If I moved in to the zen center, I would be paid in room and board. They are both services, they are both compensated- they are just different ways of teaching and different ways of getting paid.
This made me feel better and worse at the same time. The way she was putting it, becoming tanto was just shifting from teaching third graders to teaching adults. It seemed so easy, so normal, so natural- why wouldn't I want to do that? But then that meant that I should be tanto- that I really should listen to the things that kept coming up for me, that I really should follow this path, and I really didn't want to follow this path.
So then we talked some more and realized that a big part of it was giving up my income and retirement, that that was a big fear for me. And so we considered me not being tanto at the zen center, me just staying teaching third graders. And, surprisingly, it turned out that I actually didn't want that. I didn't want to "only" teach third graders. Something in me actually wanted to teach this, to teach zen practice, to others.
And I think that's when I finally settled- when I finally saw that this is something that I want to do. It's not that I want to move in to the zen center. It's not that I want to be tanto. It's that I want to teach this to others- that's all. I want to teach this to others. How I do that.. is inconsequential. The point is that I want this, that I am happy when I do this, that it brings me ease. The point isn't to come up with ways for me to manifest this self, ways to allow it to be, the point is that I see it, accept it, realize that this is me too.
I wanted to be tanto.
(Tanto is head of practice, head of students, available to all the students whenever they need it and for whatever they need).
It was true, it was what I felt, and it was what I had said to myself when I first came to a dharma talk given by Blanche: "I could be her someday." Not so much because I was like Blanche or because she was tanto, (she wasn't at the time), but that I could see myself, sitting there, on that box, talking.
But I was uncomfortable with the idea of myself being tanto.
For me, being tanto meant that I would live at the zen center. It meant that I would be a zen priest. It meant that I would be a monk. It meant that I would no longer be an elementary school teacher. It meant that I would no longer have my monthly income. It meant that I would no longer have my lovely apartment where I could cook whatever I wanted. It meant giving up all the normalcy I had in my life and becoming something that I had all kinds of stories about- unpleasant stories, fearful stories, stories in which I did not want to be the main character.
But still, I knew that I actually wanted to be tanto, so I was kind of stuck. I couldn't deny what I wanted, but it wasn't what I actually wanted.
At first, I was kind of okay with it because when I saw myself as tanto, I pictured myself being it when I was much older. I saw myself as a 60 year old woman being tanto, and that felt okay. I felt like I could retire into being tanto- that being a zen priest would be a second career for me, that I would do it after I retired and so moving in there wouldn't be giving up my life or income or anything- it would just be like volunteering or having a second career. I could do it as long as I was financially stable and had finished my career as a teacher. It would be cool and acceptable to retire into a zen monastery- I might even be respected and revered for it. So I was okay with my feelings about it because I thought they were feelings that I could act on later, when it was convenient for me and when I didn't have to choose between them and my current self.
But then, those feelings of wanting to be tanto kept coming up for me: in zazen, in my fantasies, in my imaginary conversations. Usually, when things come up for me, it's because I'm not seeing them. So I knew that if I wanted them to go away, I had to see, and accept, that I wanted to be tanto at the zen center.
Meanwhile, I was also noticing how happy I was when I was doing things at the zen center. I noticed how much I liked helping new people when I was doorwatch. I noticed how often I would learn things in class and immediately want to write about them on the blog so that others could understand them too. I also noticed that when I was in the "audience" at events and people would ask questions, I would want to answer them. I found that what I really wanted was to be the person on stage, not the person in the audience.
"Darnit!" I thought. "This is who I am. This is who I want to be. I can't really wait until I'm 60. This is who I am now."
And that freaked me out. How could who I want, not be who I want? How could who I am not be under my control? How could this persistent assertion of myself be something I hadn't chosen? It didn't make sense and the power of it frightened me.
In the past, I had chosen my career path based on what made me happy: kids. I had made choices about where I taught, what kind of schools I would teach in, what my role would be, all based on what I thought was best for me. It had all been under my command but this, this had nothing to do with me. It had nothing to do with my interests or my career choices or what was best for me. I didn't understand how my self could be at odds with my self. And yet, it had this volition, this power, this thing I had to listen to. I knew I had no choice but to listen to it but I was terrified of how it sounded. I was also terrified that if I did listen to it, I would have no choice in the matter, I actually would have to be tanto: give up teaching, move into the zen center, leave behind my income and retirement....
First, I went to my teacher. I told him how uncomfortable I was about all this. I told him about how happy it made me to be of service at the zen center but I also explained to him that the more natural it felt to do this, the more it felt like it was really me, the more uncomfortable it made me.
He said he totally understood and talked with me about different aspects of practice and about our concepts of normalcy. He also told me to trust my own process.
Part of me wanted to say, "Easy for you to say! You trusted your own process and it got you here. If I follow your advice, I'm going to end up here too- and that's not what I want!"
But of course, I didn't say that. Instead, I listened to his advice and saw that this really was my own process, it wasn't anyone else's. I also saw that on the one hand, I needed to listen to what was coming up for me but on the other hand, it didn't have to be this huge decision. It could come as it came, I could let it unfold and maybe have some say in the matter.
Next, I talked to my therapist. She pointed out a bunch of things to me. Teaching in the classroom and teaching at the zen center were both aspects of teaching. It made sense that I would be drawn to the teaching aspect of this practice; me being tanto was me wanting to be a teacher, not necessarily me wanting to be a monk or a priest or all the stories I had tied up into being tanto at the zen center. It actually wasn't all that different from who I already am. This wanting to be tanto wasn't all that at odds with myself at all. I didn't have to choose between the two of them, they were different manifestations of the same desire: to teach.
She also pointed out that in both positions, I am doing a service and getting paid for it. When I teach in the elementary school, I get a paycheck. If I moved in to the zen center, I would be paid in room and board. They are both services, they are both compensated- they are just different ways of teaching and different ways of getting paid.
This made me feel better and worse at the same time. The way she was putting it, becoming tanto was just shifting from teaching third graders to teaching adults. It seemed so easy, so normal, so natural- why wouldn't I want to do that? But then that meant that I should be tanto- that I really should listen to the things that kept coming up for me, that I really should follow this path, and I really didn't want to follow this path.
So then we talked some more and realized that a big part of it was giving up my income and retirement, that that was a big fear for me. And so we considered me not being tanto at the zen center, me just staying teaching third graders. And, surprisingly, it turned out that I actually didn't want that. I didn't want to "only" teach third graders. Something in me actually wanted to teach this, to teach zen practice, to others.
And I think that's when I finally settled- when I finally saw that this is something that I want to do. It's not that I want to move in to the zen center. It's not that I want to be tanto. It's that I want to teach this to others- that's all. I want to teach this to others. How I do that.. is inconsequential. The point is that I want this, that I am happy when I do this, that it brings me ease. The point isn't to come up with ways for me to manifest this self, ways to allow it to be, the point is that I see it, accept it, realize that this is me too.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Sitting outside your home
This post is old- it was written last summer, shortly after I returned from spending a week at a monastery in Japan.
"Why would you turn away from something, that felt like home?"
This is one of the questions my teacher asked me when I shared with him my experience in Japan and how it had really settled me in my practice. I think the reason he asked this question was because after I had shared how settled in my practice I was, he had responded to my assertion of settlement in practice by asking: "Now what?"
The "Now what" question had completely unsettled me and freaked me out and made me share all my fears about what it would be to actually settle into this practice, all my misgivings, all my perceptions, and all my reasons for not actually settling into this practice. And so that's when he asked me, "Why would you turn away from something that feels like home?
And I guess I have been turning away.
I guess I have been denying something, refusing to accept something that brings me happiness.
At one point, when this phrase kept announcing itself inside my head, I answered, "Because I don't deserve it."
That surprised me. It wasn't what I thought my answer was but I think it's telling.
And later that night, when I saw a picture of my mom, it felt like she was saying: "This brings you love. This is what I wanted for you, this is what I wish I could have given you. It's okay to have it, It's okay."
It felt like she wanted me to have whatever brought me joy and love and ease.
That afternoon, immediately after dokusan, I had tea with a friend and it helped because I got some space from the intensity of what felt ominous and true. But after tea, I had to walk by the zen center on my way home. As I approached the building from Page St, I saw the sign on the corner of the building: Zen Center.
I imagined myself living there, having it be my home, having it be something that people came to, having it actually be something, an institution, a place, an actual entity. I had to stop, and pause, at the thought of it, of me being inside of it, of me being a part of it and it being a place that people come to.
After staring at that corner of the building for a while, I finally kept walking and got to my bike.
But then I had to turn around, and see the building again, see that it was right there, see that it could easily be my home, that it was almost opening its doors to me- except it wasn't, I was the only one who could walk in, it wasn't going to invite me.
So I turned around, and sat down on the sidewalk.
I didn't really know what to do. I wasn't ready to leave, I just wasn't. Leaving felt like I was turning my back on something that was engaging me, that was asking me to look at myself and what I was doing. So I just sat there, cross legged, on the sidewalk next to my bike. A couple of people walked by and I thought they were probably wondering what I was doing, just sitting there on the sidewalk, for no apparent reason.
I pictured my teacher walking by and asking me what I was doing and me saying,"I'm sitting, with this!" and gesturing toward the building, its offer, its representation of home to me.
I also thought that he thought "Oh, she's doing it. She's practicing this practice- literally sitting with what comes up for her." ('cause I was actually sitting on the sidewalk at that point)
And I was. And part of me saw myself too-saw the poignancy of my literal and somewhat vulnerable/ trusting act of just sitting there when faced with something that felt compelling and important.
But then I also noticed that I wanted to be noticed in this, that I wanted to be praised for sitting with this instead of turning away and I thought it was probably time to move on.
And so I started to unlock my bike to ride away but something made me turn around and sit down again. I just still wasn't settled in this, was still feeling this corridor between me and the entrance to the building; a corridor that I was in, could walk toward, was sitting at the entrance of.
At one point, a teacher from the zen center, who had been involved in my practice early on, walked by, entering the corridor from the side, and smiled at me.
I jumped up at the sight of her, jumped up and down a couple of times in excitement: that at this very moment she had appeared, almost as a ferry, walking easily through the corridor toward the building, making me feel like it was okay to keep walking toward it, that she was doing it and it was totally fine.
I hugged her and wanted to tell her the whole story and share with her how often she shows up, right at times of indecision for me, how her presence unintentionally demonstrates the essence of what is happening: a person, walking in to a building; a person, just being.
But I just hugged her instead and we shared how often our paths cross and she said how nice it was to see me there, laughing.
For some reason, that made things okay, removed the ominous feeling I had been having, this physical decision to get up from sitting on the sidewalk and riding home was not as big as I had thought. There were still things to do: my room mate had texted me because our shower is leaking... I needed to get home to plan my day tomorrow...
I said goodbye to my friend, put on my backpack, and rode to my real home.
I'm still moving slowly. I think it's because I am feeling like something big is going on, but it's all inside me, like it's contained in there and filling me and I need to walk gingerly or slow enough to let it do what it's doing.
why would you turn away from something that feels like home?
I think this is about not turning away. I think this is about being willing to feel what's coming up for me instead of denying it or pointing out why it won't work for me or what will happen if.
I think the question to ask is why, but I think the action is to watch myself to notice my response to this-to notice if I am turning away from something that my life is showing me.
"Why would you turn away from something, that felt like home?"
This is one of the questions my teacher asked me when I shared with him my experience in Japan and how it had really settled me in my practice. I think the reason he asked this question was because after I had shared how settled in my practice I was, he had responded to my assertion of settlement in practice by asking: "Now what?"
The "Now what" question had completely unsettled me and freaked me out and made me share all my fears about what it would be to actually settle into this practice, all my misgivings, all my perceptions, and all my reasons for not actually settling into this practice. And so that's when he asked me, "Why would you turn away from something that feels like home?
And I guess I have been turning away.
I guess I have been denying something, refusing to accept something that brings me happiness.
At one point, when this phrase kept announcing itself inside my head, I answered, "Because I don't deserve it."
That surprised me. It wasn't what I thought my answer was but I think it's telling.
And later that night, when I saw a picture of my mom, it felt like she was saying: "This brings you love. This is what I wanted for you, this is what I wish I could have given you. It's okay to have it, It's okay."
It felt like she wanted me to have whatever brought me joy and love and ease.
That afternoon, immediately after dokusan, I had tea with a friend and it helped because I got some space from the intensity of what felt ominous and true. But after tea, I had to walk by the zen center on my way home. As I approached the building from Page St, I saw the sign on the corner of the building: Zen Center.
I imagined myself living there, having it be my home, having it be something that people came to, having it actually be something, an institution, a place, an actual entity. I had to stop, and pause, at the thought of it, of me being inside of it, of me being a part of it and it being a place that people come to.
After staring at that corner of the building for a while, I finally kept walking and got to my bike.
But then I had to turn around, and see the building again, see that it was right there, see that it could easily be my home, that it was almost opening its doors to me- except it wasn't, I was the only one who could walk in, it wasn't going to invite me.
So I turned around, and sat down on the sidewalk.
I didn't really know what to do. I wasn't ready to leave, I just wasn't. Leaving felt like I was turning my back on something that was engaging me, that was asking me to look at myself and what I was doing. So I just sat there, cross legged, on the sidewalk next to my bike. A couple of people walked by and I thought they were probably wondering what I was doing, just sitting there on the sidewalk, for no apparent reason.
I pictured my teacher walking by and asking me what I was doing and me saying,"I'm sitting, with this!" and gesturing toward the building, its offer, its representation of home to me.
I also thought that he thought "Oh, she's doing it. She's practicing this practice- literally sitting with what comes up for her." ('cause I was actually sitting on the sidewalk at that point)
And I was. And part of me saw myself too-saw the poignancy of my literal and somewhat vulnerable/ trusting act of just sitting there when faced with something that felt compelling and important.
But then I also noticed that I wanted to be noticed in this, that I wanted to be praised for sitting with this instead of turning away and I thought it was probably time to move on.
And so I started to unlock my bike to ride away but something made me turn around and sit down again. I just still wasn't settled in this, was still feeling this corridor between me and the entrance to the building; a corridor that I was in, could walk toward, was sitting at the entrance of.
At one point, a teacher from the zen center, who had been involved in my practice early on, walked by, entering the corridor from the side, and smiled at me.
I jumped up at the sight of her, jumped up and down a couple of times in excitement: that at this very moment she had appeared, almost as a ferry, walking easily through the corridor toward the building, making me feel like it was okay to keep walking toward it, that she was doing it and it was totally fine.
I hugged her and wanted to tell her the whole story and share with her how often she shows up, right at times of indecision for me, how her presence unintentionally demonstrates the essence of what is happening: a person, walking in to a building; a person, just being.
But I just hugged her instead and we shared how often our paths cross and she said how nice it was to see me there, laughing.
For some reason, that made things okay, removed the ominous feeling I had been having, this physical decision to get up from sitting on the sidewalk and riding home was not as big as I had thought. There were still things to do: my room mate had texted me because our shower is leaking... I needed to get home to plan my day tomorrow...
I said goodbye to my friend, put on my backpack, and rode to my real home.
I'm still moving slowly. I think it's because I am feeling like something big is going on, but it's all inside me, like it's contained in there and filling me and I need to walk gingerly or slow enough to let it do what it's doing.
why would you turn away from something that feels like home?
I think this is about not turning away. I think this is about being willing to feel what's coming up for me instead of denying it or pointing out why it won't work for me or what will happen if.
I think the question to ask is why, but I think the action is to watch myself to notice my response to this-to notice if I am turning away from something that my life is showing me.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Getting to know your feelings
So, one of the things that has come up a lot for me in my practice is, I guess, grief. My mom died when I was young (6) and I didn't really have the facility to experience the loss and sadness (or at least I don't remember experiencing it) that goes with losing your mom. So often, when I sit zazen or am being present, these feelings, which I think I never really felt, come up.
They don't come up nicely or subtly or under my command or control. They tend to hit me, literally hit me, like a person running straight at me full force. It often takes my breath away and, unless I'm sitting down, kind of doubles me over so that I have to sit down.
This happened to me, this past week, as I was sitting at my kitchen table, eating dinner. A thought/ realization came up, took my breath away, made me incredibly sad, and, I think, made me cry.
When this happened, I did what I normally do when this feeling comes up: I let my body feel it. I take a breath, I keep letting my body feel it, sometimes take another breath, and then just kind of sit there, still, kind of in-waiting for my body to do what ever it's going to do with this feeling. Then, depending on how much it hit me, I either go back to what I was doing or give myself some space and time to kind of recover from what I just experienced- to kind of adjust to this shift or awakening. Sometimes I kind of nurture myself, give myself some quiet time- not so much to debrief what happened, more to kind of settle, rebalance, like something that teeters back and forth being given space and time to find the place where it's grounded.
When it happened this week, I noticed something about it. I noticed how I responded to this feeling.I noticed that, when this feeling of absolute loss/ grief comes up for me, I just feel it. Or, more accurately, I kind of let it feel. I tolerate it. I give it the space and time it needs. I actually experience it.
And I thought about that. I thought about why I do this with this feeling. I think that the reason that I do this with this feeling is that I know this feeling. I'm familiar with it. It has hit me a ton of times. It's like, my thing, at this point. And because of that. I'm fine with it. It's not so much that I'm fine with this feeling, I certainly don't enjoy the feeling of complete and sudden absence of a significant person in my life. However, I know this feeling. I've sat with it a ton of times and so when it comes up, I just let it.
And then I thought about other feelings in my life. In particular, I thought about anger. I thought about anger because that very same day, I had yelled, at third graders. I had been angry and frustrated and I had yelled at them, in anger. It was not nice, it was not pretty, it was sad and I wished that I hadn't done it. They were sad, I'm sure they were hurt, all around it was not such a good thing.
But I noticed that when I got angry in my classroom, I didn't actually feel my anger, I just acted it out. I didn't take a breath like I do when I experience grief. I didn't step back and feel it in my body. I just reacted to my anger, just spurted it out onto a class of third graders. There wasn't any space for my anger- it just went from a feeling to a yelling immediately.
And then I thought about my experience with anger in general. I realize that I don't feel anger very often. Honestly, I don't know if anger doesn't come up for me very often or if it does come up and I don't notice it or what. I just know that I am not so familiar with anger. It doesn't come up for me in zazen, it's not something that I experience on a regular basis. And I think it's ineresting that when it does come up for me, I don't actually feel it. It just goes off and takes over and I let it go crazy. And I wonder if anger does that because I don't know anger so well. I haven't let myself experience my anger. I don't actually know anger the way I know grief.
And I know it sounds funny but I kind of decided that I needed to get to know anger. I decided that when anger does come up for me (in my classroom or in my relationships), I needed to actually feel it, notice it, experience it- give it the same time and space that I do grief and loss.
And so the next day, when I started to get mad at the kids, I let myself get mad. I didn't yell, I didn't act it out, I just actually felt anger in my body- let it run its course. It turns out, that it didn't last all that long. It also turns out, that I can be mad and not yell. I was surprised by this. My normal response to anger is to yell and make whatever is hurting me stop hurting me. But this time, when I just felt it, it just felt. It didn't have to actually go anywhere. What I thought I had to express could actually dissipate instead, seemingly by letting it exist in me.
But really, for me, this isn't so much about the specifics of anger, I think it's more about actually getting to know your feelings. It seems like, the more you know yourself and your relationship with these feelings, the less likely they are to control you- the more likely you are to tolerate them, the more likely you are to experience just them, not your attempt to control them or act them out.
I don't know- that's probably not true, I'm sure there are emotions that will take me over no matter what I do. But still, it seems like a good practice, to kind of study myself around these emotions, see who I am with them and to do this by actually experiencing the feelings when they come.
They don't come up nicely or subtly or under my command or control. They tend to hit me, literally hit me, like a person running straight at me full force. It often takes my breath away and, unless I'm sitting down, kind of doubles me over so that I have to sit down.
This happened to me, this past week, as I was sitting at my kitchen table, eating dinner. A thought/ realization came up, took my breath away, made me incredibly sad, and, I think, made me cry.
When this happened, I did what I normally do when this feeling comes up: I let my body feel it. I take a breath, I keep letting my body feel it, sometimes take another breath, and then just kind of sit there, still, kind of in-waiting for my body to do what ever it's going to do with this feeling. Then, depending on how much it hit me, I either go back to what I was doing or give myself some space and time to kind of recover from what I just experienced- to kind of adjust to this shift or awakening. Sometimes I kind of nurture myself, give myself some quiet time- not so much to debrief what happened, more to kind of settle, rebalance, like something that teeters back and forth being given space and time to find the place where it's grounded.
When it happened this week, I noticed something about it. I noticed how I responded to this feeling.I noticed that, when this feeling of absolute loss/ grief comes up for me, I just feel it. Or, more accurately, I kind of let it feel. I tolerate it. I give it the space and time it needs. I actually experience it.
And I thought about that. I thought about why I do this with this feeling. I think that the reason that I do this with this feeling is that I know this feeling. I'm familiar with it. It has hit me a ton of times. It's like, my thing, at this point. And because of that. I'm fine with it. It's not so much that I'm fine with this feeling, I certainly don't enjoy the feeling of complete and sudden absence of a significant person in my life. However, I know this feeling. I've sat with it a ton of times and so when it comes up, I just let it.
And then I thought about other feelings in my life. In particular, I thought about anger. I thought about anger because that very same day, I had yelled, at third graders. I had been angry and frustrated and I had yelled at them, in anger. It was not nice, it was not pretty, it was sad and I wished that I hadn't done it. They were sad, I'm sure they were hurt, all around it was not such a good thing.
But I noticed that when I got angry in my classroom, I didn't actually feel my anger, I just acted it out. I didn't take a breath like I do when I experience grief. I didn't step back and feel it in my body. I just reacted to my anger, just spurted it out onto a class of third graders. There wasn't any space for my anger- it just went from a feeling to a yelling immediately.
And then I thought about my experience with anger in general. I realize that I don't feel anger very often. Honestly, I don't know if anger doesn't come up for me very often or if it does come up and I don't notice it or what. I just know that I am not so familiar with anger. It doesn't come up for me in zazen, it's not something that I experience on a regular basis. And I think it's ineresting that when it does come up for me, I don't actually feel it. It just goes off and takes over and I let it go crazy. And I wonder if anger does that because I don't know anger so well. I haven't let myself experience my anger. I don't actually know anger the way I know grief.
And I know it sounds funny but I kind of decided that I needed to get to know anger. I decided that when anger does come up for me (in my classroom or in my relationships), I needed to actually feel it, notice it, experience it- give it the same time and space that I do grief and loss.
And so the next day, when I started to get mad at the kids, I let myself get mad. I didn't yell, I didn't act it out, I just actually felt anger in my body- let it run its course. It turns out, that it didn't last all that long. It also turns out, that I can be mad and not yell. I was surprised by this. My normal response to anger is to yell and make whatever is hurting me stop hurting me. But this time, when I just felt it, it just felt. It didn't have to actually go anywhere. What I thought I had to express could actually dissipate instead, seemingly by letting it exist in me.
But really, for me, this isn't so much about the specifics of anger, I think it's more about actually getting to know your feelings. It seems like, the more you know yourself and your relationship with these feelings, the less likely they are to control you- the more likely you are to tolerate them, the more likely you are to experience just them, not your attempt to control them or act them out.
I don't know- that's probably not true, I'm sure there are emotions that will take me over no matter what I do. But still, it seems like a good practice, to kind of study myself around these emotions, see who I am with them and to do this by actually experiencing the feelings when they come.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Your father knows
I came home tonight to find a package in front of my door marked "Media Mail." I immediately recognized the white envelope as a package from my dad. He occasionally sends me books or articles wrapped simply in a manila (though his are white) envelope, folded over, taped, and addressed using bold printer ink (he has apparently figured out how to print my address on his computer).
I turned the package over, and slid my finger beneath the seal of the envelope. The paper ripped to reveal the corner of a paper-towel wrapped rectangle.
"Huh," I thought. "This must be a special book- he actually wrapped it first."
I pulled the book out of the envelope, ripped the paper towel off of it, and was met with an image of a drawn shadow next to a quote: "Foreshadowing: the use of an event, a character's thoughts, or a particular atmosphere to hint at what will happen."
"This is weird," I thought. "Is this some comic book we talked about? Is this the latest fad for third graders? Why is he sending me this book?"
And then I turned the book over.
I immediately spied three comic- book drawn mice at the base of the cover. My eyes then scanned the book for its title and found: "Once, Twice, Thrice Told Tales: Three mice full of writing advice."
"What?" I thought. "Is this some book written for third graders to help them with their writing? Is this some fun way to teach writing through comics?"
And then I looked down at those three mice again. They were wearing sunglasses. They were apparently The Three Blind Mice.
They were talking to each other.
And this is what they said:
"I want to be a writer..."
"You can't be a writer... you are a mouse!"
"I can too be a writer, I just read this book."
When I saw that one mouse saying "I want to be a writer," I kind of freaked out.
"Wait," I said. "We didn't talk about this. He doesn't know that I'm writing a book. He doesn't know that I write a blog. He doesn't know that I'm feeling like I'm becoming my mom by being a writer. He doesn't know that I'm discovering this about myself, that maybe I am a writer, that I am a writer."
I thought back to the conversation we had at intermission at the symphony two weeks ago. I replayed everything we had said in my mind. The only writing thing we talked about was the fact that my mom had written for the National Meat Board, the she had written for our elementary school's newsletter, and that she very much considered herself a writer. All I did was express surprise at this: "Mommy wanted to be a writer?"
I never said anything about me wanting to be a writer- nothing! At no point in that conversation did I say anything... about me!
But here it was, a book about writing, sent to me, by my dad.
And then I freaked out some more.
Did he find my blog a long time ago? Has he been reading it this whole time? Has he been following this entire saga of my life?
Did I read the blog on his computer when I was home for Christmas and not close it and he found it?
Or was he struck by our conversation at the Symphony? Did he realize that I didn't know this about my mom, intuit by my response that I wanted to be a writer too, and sent me this book to encourage me?
Or does he remember from when I was younger and actually wanted to be a writer? Does he remember telling me that I could write in the summers, that that was a perk of being a teacher? Is he doing for me now what he didn't do back then: tell me that I am a good enough writer to do this, to pursue it?
I flipped through the pages of the book, trying to figure out what it was about this book that made him send it to me.
And then I realized I could just call him, and ask him, "Thank you for the book- what was it about it that made you send it to me?"
But then I remembered that it was Thursday, which meant he was at Rotary, and wouldn't be home until late.
So then I sat down, and wrote this.
Part of me pictured him reading it- finally seeing that I knew that he had been reading my blog this whole time, and smiling at the clever way in which he had revealed it to me.
But part of me knew that wasn't likely- it was possible, but unlikely still.
So finally I looked in the book for the publication date. If it were a recent publication, it would mean it was a fluke- he just sent me something new and cool that he had read about in the New York Times Book Review. But if it were older (and the book appeared to be older- though it was hardback, it was a bit tattered), it meant that it was intentional- that he specifically looked for it, for me.
I searched the front few pages but couldn't find it. So then I flipped to the back jacket only to find my answer in not one but two places; the publication date: 2013 and the publisher's name: Antheum Books for Young Readers.
Young Readers, I saw.
"So this is a book for my third graders," I realized. "He sent it for them, not me."
I shook my head in amusement at this- at the story I had created.
But I also noticed myself in the story. I noticed how beneath this terror and confusion about my dad reading my blog, about knowing that I wanted to be a writer; there had also been a feeling of great comfort, of great care.
And that made me wonder, made me rethink, made me consider that perhaps I should tell him- that I should begin to share this part of me, with him.
I turned the package over, and slid my finger beneath the seal of the envelope. The paper ripped to reveal the corner of a paper-towel wrapped rectangle.
"Huh," I thought. "This must be a special book- he actually wrapped it first."
I pulled the book out of the envelope, ripped the paper towel off of it, and was met with an image of a drawn shadow next to a quote: "Foreshadowing: the use of an event, a character's thoughts, or a particular atmosphere to hint at what will happen."
"This is weird," I thought. "Is this some comic book we talked about? Is this the latest fad for third graders? Why is he sending me this book?"
And then I turned the book over.
I immediately spied three comic- book drawn mice at the base of the cover. My eyes then scanned the book for its title and found: "Once, Twice, Thrice Told Tales: Three mice full of writing advice."
"What?" I thought. "Is this some book written for third graders to help them with their writing? Is this some fun way to teach writing through comics?"
And then I looked down at those three mice again. They were wearing sunglasses. They were apparently The Three Blind Mice.
They were talking to each other.
And this is what they said:
"I want to be a writer..."
"You can't be a writer... you are a mouse!"
"I can too be a writer, I just read this book."
When I saw that one mouse saying "I want to be a writer," I kind of freaked out.
"Wait," I said. "We didn't talk about this. He doesn't know that I'm writing a book. He doesn't know that I write a blog. He doesn't know that I'm feeling like I'm becoming my mom by being a writer. He doesn't know that I'm discovering this about myself, that maybe I am a writer, that I am a writer."
I thought back to the conversation we had at intermission at the symphony two weeks ago. I replayed everything we had said in my mind. The only writing thing we talked about was the fact that my mom had written for the National Meat Board, the she had written for our elementary school's newsletter, and that she very much considered herself a writer. All I did was express surprise at this: "Mommy wanted to be a writer?"
I never said anything about me wanting to be a writer- nothing! At no point in that conversation did I say anything... about me!
But here it was, a book about writing, sent to me, by my dad.
And then I freaked out some more.
Did he find my blog a long time ago? Has he been reading it this whole time? Has he been following this entire saga of my life?
Did I read the blog on his computer when I was home for Christmas and not close it and he found it?
Or was he struck by our conversation at the Symphony? Did he realize that I didn't know this about my mom, intuit by my response that I wanted to be a writer too, and sent me this book to encourage me?
Or does he remember from when I was younger and actually wanted to be a writer? Does he remember telling me that I could write in the summers, that that was a perk of being a teacher? Is he doing for me now what he didn't do back then: tell me that I am a good enough writer to do this, to pursue it?
I flipped through the pages of the book, trying to figure out what it was about this book that made him send it to me.
And then I realized I could just call him, and ask him, "Thank you for the book- what was it about it that made you send it to me?"
But then I remembered that it was Thursday, which meant he was at Rotary, and wouldn't be home until late.
So then I sat down, and wrote this.
Part of me pictured him reading it- finally seeing that I knew that he had been reading my blog this whole time, and smiling at the clever way in which he had revealed it to me.
But part of me knew that wasn't likely- it was possible, but unlikely still.
So finally I looked in the book for the publication date. If it were a recent publication, it would mean it was a fluke- he just sent me something new and cool that he had read about in the New York Times Book Review. But if it were older (and the book appeared to be older- though it was hardback, it was a bit tattered), it meant that it was intentional- that he specifically looked for it, for me.
I searched the front few pages but couldn't find it. So then I flipped to the back jacket only to find my answer in not one but two places; the publication date: 2013 and the publisher's name: Antheum Books for Young Readers.
Young Readers, I saw.
"So this is a book for my third graders," I realized. "He sent it for them, not me."
I shook my head in amusement at this- at the story I had created.
But I also noticed myself in the story. I noticed how beneath this terror and confusion about my dad reading my blog, about knowing that I wanted to be a writer; there had also been a feeling of great comfort, of great care.
And that made me wonder, made me rethink, made me consider that perhaps I should tell him- that I should begin to share this part of me, with him.
Why this is so hard
I was thinking today about the fact that, for the most part, when we want to understand something, we think about it. We use our brains and logic to figure it out, to make some order of it, to conceptualize it, to make it graspable or to make it make sense.
And then I thought about Buddhist practice and it seems that, the first thing to know, is that thoughts, are what cause us additional suffering. It's not that thoughts cause us suffering, it's that the farther away we get from reality, from our actual physical experience, the more discordant or unharmonious we are with our actual existence- and that can bring us suffering. It's the concepts, the labels, the perceptions, the stories... all those things that our mind makes up that creates a separation between ourselves and our reality and that's where we can get bummed out.
So, in theory, what we're supposed to do, is give up on all that thinking and just feel, just be, just exist in this physical realm.
Ha!
Who has experience doing that?
When was the last time you learned to ride a bike by...
oh shoot, that is how you learn to ride a bike. You have to just get on it and ride.
oh shoot, it's the same with swimming, but still....
When was the last time you learned to do something by physically doing it?
I didn't learn to bake by...
Oh shoot, that actually is how I learned to bake. I started out not knowing much and just trying it and then, by doing it, over and over again, in a bunch of different situations, I actually learned about it and kind of made it my own.
Darnit, this isn't working- my theory is not being proven.
What I was trying to suggest is that, in general, we try to learn things by understanding them and that we tend to do this by thinking about them. But in this practice, we're robbed of that one tool- the brain- that we've used all along to understand things. It's like the one thing we have always used to help us learn things is thrown out the window in this practice and we're left, without it, and don't know what to do with ourselves.
And then I was thinking about zazen, and how zazen is just that: it's this place where we practice having no thoughts. Well, not really, zazen has never been about not having thoughts, it's been about noticing thoughts and also about feeling your body. But that's kind of what zazen seems to be: practicing being without using your brain.
And a lot of the practices at the zen center are practice in learning without your brain. Everytime I do something "new" at the zen center, I'm encouraged to just do it, not think about it so much, and just be aware of myself in doing it. They're asking me to practice learning through my body, through awareness, through immersion, through experiencing reality, just as it is, in that very moment, right then- they're inviting me to actually experience reality without concepts, stories, theories, ideas- just experience it, right then, right here.
And that's actually where I realize that what we've been taught to do, is really quite silly. I was going to give all these examples of how we learn things by thinking about them, but it's not true. I've never learned a life skill by sitting in my room and thinking about it. I may read things and connect things and wonder about things but none of that does anything until I'm actually doing what I was thinking about/ trying to figure it out. We definitely like to believe that the thinking and figuring out is what will help us but it just isn't true. We really can only learn about something by doing it- because it's only in doing it that we experience the thing that we're doing. We definitely don't learn it by sitting around and thinking about it. At least, I don't.
Anyway, I still think I get why this can be so hard for us: we're used to using our brain to understand things and when we're told that the thoughts are what are causing us the suffering, we're stuck without that one tool and don't really know what to do instead.
But I think that by removing this tool, Buddhist practice points us toward a more realistic and useful way of learning- that in asking us to experience things, to learn by doing them, it's bringing us to do what we've done all along: learning by doing, experiencing our lives by living them, instead of sitting in a room and thinking about them or believing we can change them by practicing them inside our heads.
And then I thought about Buddhist practice and it seems that, the first thing to know, is that thoughts, are what cause us additional suffering. It's not that thoughts cause us suffering, it's that the farther away we get from reality, from our actual physical experience, the more discordant or unharmonious we are with our actual existence- and that can bring us suffering. It's the concepts, the labels, the perceptions, the stories... all those things that our mind makes up that creates a separation between ourselves and our reality and that's where we can get bummed out.
So, in theory, what we're supposed to do, is give up on all that thinking and just feel, just be, just exist in this physical realm.
Ha!
Who has experience doing that?
When was the last time you learned to ride a bike by...
oh shoot, that is how you learn to ride a bike. You have to just get on it and ride.
oh shoot, it's the same with swimming, but still....
When was the last time you learned to do something by physically doing it?
I didn't learn to bake by...
Oh shoot, that actually is how I learned to bake. I started out not knowing much and just trying it and then, by doing it, over and over again, in a bunch of different situations, I actually learned about it and kind of made it my own.
Darnit, this isn't working- my theory is not being proven.
What I was trying to suggest is that, in general, we try to learn things by understanding them and that we tend to do this by thinking about them. But in this practice, we're robbed of that one tool- the brain- that we've used all along to understand things. It's like the one thing we have always used to help us learn things is thrown out the window in this practice and we're left, without it, and don't know what to do with ourselves.
And then I was thinking about zazen, and how zazen is just that: it's this place where we practice having no thoughts. Well, not really, zazen has never been about not having thoughts, it's been about noticing thoughts and also about feeling your body. But that's kind of what zazen seems to be: practicing being without using your brain.
And a lot of the practices at the zen center are practice in learning without your brain. Everytime I do something "new" at the zen center, I'm encouraged to just do it, not think about it so much, and just be aware of myself in doing it. They're asking me to practice learning through my body, through awareness, through immersion, through experiencing reality, just as it is, in that very moment, right then- they're inviting me to actually experience reality without concepts, stories, theories, ideas- just experience it, right then, right here.
And that's actually where I realize that what we've been taught to do, is really quite silly. I was going to give all these examples of how we learn things by thinking about them, but it's not true. I've never learned a life skill by sitting in my room and thinking about it. I may read things and connect things and wonder about things but none of that does anything until I'm actually doing what I was thinking about/ trying to figure it out. We definitely like to believe that the thinking and figuring out is what will help us but it just isn't true. We really can only learn about something by doing it- because it's only in doing it that we experience the thing that we're doing. We definitely don't learn it by sitting around and thinking about it. At least, I don't.
Anyway, I still think I get why this can be so hard for us: we're used to using our brain to understand things and when we're told that the thoughts are what are causing us the suffering, we're stuck without that one tool and don't really know what to do instead.
But I think that by removing this tool, Buddhist practice points us toward a more realistic and useful way of learning- that in asking us to experience things, to learn by doing them, it's bringing us to do what we've done all along: learning by doing, experiencing our lives by living them, instead of sitting in a room and thinking about them or believing we can change them by practicing them inside our heads.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Careful errors
I'm taking a class at the zen center. We met for the first time last Saturday and one of the things that came up in our discussion was how we can hurt others without meaning to. A bunch of us were talking about work, about livelihood, about career choices, about the effects of our actions on others- both through direct interactions with other people and through the greater impact of our work as it spills out into society and the world. We were struggling with this desire to be conscious in our career choices and daily work and our awareness that even work that appears completely harmless can end up causing great devastation to others. We talked about how something as seemingly innocuous as design or engineering can actually end up killing others.
One of the things that came to mind for me was that bridge- that swoopy doopy bridge in that black and white movie from ages ago. I'm not sure if you've seen it but apparently, some engineer designed some amazing bridge that had this incredibly alternative design style and was pushing the envelope in architecture at the time. The fact that it was built was an amazing feat but then, the way I remember it, as soon as people got on it (can't remember if they were driving or walking) it got all bendy and twisty and ended up, I believe, collapsing and maybe even killing all the people who were on it.
And I pictured the designer and how he probably could never live with himself after that moment- knowing that his great design was responsible for taking the lives of others.
This is what I would like to call a careful error.
Because when I picture this guy, I picture him shaking his head, I picture him kicking himself, I picture him asking himself "Why didn't I think of that?" "How could I not see that coming?" "How could I have overlooked this one thing that was so important and that lead to their death?"
But the thing is, I also picture the guy before the bridge was made. I picture him making calculation after calculation. I picture him measuring wind speed, angle of mountains, weight of materials, validity of screws, distance from water, girth of supports, chemical makeup of concrete.... I picture him thinking of everything- everything. I know he didn't allow those designs to be released until he was completely sure that this bridge was safe. I know that because who actually wants to kill people with their design?
So he was careful. He thought of everything. There was nothing careless about his actions.
But still, he killed those people on the bridge. Not only did he kill those people on the bridge, he actually designed the very thing that killed them.
So what do we make of this- he wasn't careless, he was careful.
He was very careful. He thought of everything he could. AND, his design killed people.
Did he make an error? I don't know. It's not like he saw something wrong and did it anyway. It's not that at all. It's that he actually didn't see it. But his lack of seeing it didn't come from not looking- he was looking. He took great care to ensure that nothing like this would happen. And still, it happened.
There are things beyond us that we can't possibly imagine. We just can't. And so I think we all will make careful errors. We will try our best..and I don't mean "good for you for showing up" try our best. I mean we will put our heart and soul into making sure that we don't harm others and then, something will happen, of which we were unaware and it will cause suffering- to them, and to us.
So this is a careful error. It's one we make when trying our best. And we make it with the same love, care, and attention we put into not making it in the first place. It's not made because we tried our best, it's not made because of anything- it's an error, made with great care.
One of the things that came to mind for me was that bridge- that swoopy doopy bridge in that black and white movie from ages ago. I'm not sure if you've seen it but apparently, some engineer designed some amazing bridge that had this incredibly alternative design style and was pushing the envelope in architecture at the time. The fact that it was built was an amazing feat but then, the way I remember it, as soon as people got on it (can't remember if they were driving or walking) it got all bendy and twisty and ended up, I believe, collapsing and maybe even killing all the people who were on it.
And I pictured the designer and how he probably could never live with himself after that moment- knowing that his great design was responsible for taking the lives of others.
This is what I would like to call a careful error.
Because when I picture this guy, I picture him shaking his head, I picture him kicking himself, I picture him asking himself "Why didn't I think of that?" "How could I not see that coming?" "How could I have overlooked this one thing that was so important and that lead to their death?"
But the thing is, I also picture the guy before the bridge was made. I picture him making calculation after calculation. I picture him measuring wind speed, angle of mountains, weight of materials, validity of screws, distance from water, girth of supports, chemical makeup of concrete.... I picture him thinking of everything- everything. I know he didn't allow those designs to be released until he was completely sure that this bridge was safe. I know that because who actually wants to kill people with their design?
So he was careful. He thought of everything. There was nothing careless about his actions.
But still, he killed those people on the bridge. Not only did he kill those people on the bridge, he actually designed the very thing that killed them.
So what do we make of this- he wasn't careless, he was careful.
He was very careful. He thought of everything he could. AND, his design killed people.
Did he make an error? I don't know. It's not like he saw something wrong and did it anyway. It's not that at all. It's that he actually didn't see it. But his lack of seeing it didn't come from not looking- he was looking. He took great care to ensure that nothing like this would happen. And still, it happened.
There are things beyond us that we can't possibly imagine. We just can't. And so I think we all will make careful errors. We will try our best..and I don't mean "good for you for showing up" try our best. I mean we will put our heart and soul into making sure that we don't harm others and then, something will happen, of which we were unaware and it will cause suffering- to them, and to us.
So this is a careful error. It's one we make when trying our best. And we make it with the same love, care, and attention we put into not making it in the first place. It's not made because we tried our best, it's not made because of anything- it's an error, made with great care.
the difference between imaginary and real
Recently I explained to my teacher that I have imaginary
doksuan with him, frequently.
He seemed surprised by this, but responded, “Well, I hope
it’s helpful.”
At which point I explained that it was, most of the time,
especially when he asked me questions, and I answered them. And then I
wondered, out loud, how close my imaginary
dokusan matched my actual dokusan
with him.
Then we also talked about some other things that I was noticing
about myself, but then I had to explain that those hadn’t happened either, that those were things that I wanted to do, but hadn’t actually done.
But I had noticed that I wanted to do them, so I thought that was noticing things about
myself- seeing myself.
“The thing about imagining
things,” he said, “is that anything
can happen… and sometimes we need a reality check.”
And he left it at that.
But I didn’t.
I’m kind of confused about the difference between reality
and imaginary. I mean, I’m not totally
confused, I know when I make things
up but what I don’t know is when I make things up and when things come up. Because things come up for me
all the time- thoughts and feelings that I wasn’t expecting, intuitions, just feeling like something isn’t right or
that something is going to happen. And I have to admit that this practice has
actually brought me more in touch
with these feelings, more willing to
listen to them than to dismiss them as silly feelings or illegitimate because
there’s no proof or logical reasoning for them.
So then what do I do with this? If I’m supposed to trust
these feelings, if I’m supposed to be more in my body and less in my head, how
do I know which ones are made up and which ones are real? I mean, it’s all
inside of me- it’s not like the imaginary ones are in my head and I just sit
down and make them up. I mean, I do that on occasion if I’m bored or I want
something that I can’t have, but that’s obvious, that’s intentional fantasy as
a diversion, and I know all about that. But then there are these other things
that come up, from out of nowhere, and they feel really real. And sometimes, I
think I want them to be real, so I
keep them around, and pretend that they are premonitions or feelings when
really, they are probably just a glimmer of something but because it’s
something I want, I foster it and nurture it, and keep it around. Maybe it
keeps coming up just because I want it to and what I really need to do is just
let go of it. Not worry so much about whether or not it’s real- just let it be
whatever it was and deal with it as the moment calls for it, then let it go
again.Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Stop trying to make sense of yourself!
I was getting annoyed with myself. I would do one thing in one situation, and something completely different in another. Other times, I would totally desire something but then, for some reason, run away from it any time it presented itself. I was totally fine and confident in one place and then, in what seemed to be a totally similar place, would be all insecure and unsure of who I was. I finally got frustrated with myself, "You're so confusing, you don't make sense at all!"
And that sounded kind of familiar. It reminded me of what I had often heard in dharma talks: the universe is all too expansive and chaotic and random to try to make sense of it. It just is and this practice is about seeing it just-as-it-is, not as it fits into our attempt to understand it.
And I thought, "Oh, maybe I'm like the universe. Maybe I'm not supposed to make sense either."
All this inconsistency and confusion, maybe that's normal; well, not exactly normal but just kind of true. Maybe, just like the natural world, I'm kind of random too. I don't necessarily follow any particular order, I'm not so linear and logical as I want myself to be. But it's not because I'm bad or because I can't seem to get my sh@# together, it's just because I'm human, and humans are kinda like that.
Who knows? Maybe I really am all messed up and this is just a nice way to make it seem like this randomness is a normal way to be. But, I guess, I guess I'm just kind of getting closer to seeing that this is me, that I am inconsistent, that I'm not one way all the time, that what feels like I'm kind of maturing in one place does not necessarily mean that I'm going to keep being that way or that I won't revert right back to what I was before.
And, in some ways, even bigger than that: that this "maturity" or "progress" is just as created by me as all of the thoughts that run through my head. All of it is just me, being me, it's just how I seem to flow out of this thing that I am... all of it.
And that sounded kind of familiar. It reminded me of what I had often heard in dharma talks: the universe is all too expansive and chaotic and random to try to make sense of it. It just is and this practice is about seeing it just-as-it-is, not as it fits into our attempt to understand it.
And I thought, "Oh, maybe I'm like the universe. Maybe I'm not supposed to make sense either."
All this inconsistency and confusion, maybe that's normal; well, not exactly normal but just kind of true. Maybe, just like the natural world, I'm kind of random too. I don't necessarily follow any particular order, I'm not so linear and logical as I want myself to be. But it's not because I'm bad or because I can't seem to get my sh@# together, it's just because I'm human, and humans are kinda like that.
Who knows? Maybe I really am all messed up and this is just a nice way to make it seem like this randomness is a normal way to be. But, I guess, I guess I'm just kind of getting closer to seeing that this is me, that I am inconsistent, that I'm not one way all the time, that what feels like I'm kind of maturing in one place does not necessarily mean that I'm going to keep being that way or that I won't revert right back to what I was before.
And, in some ways, even bigger than that: that this "maturity" or "progress" is just as created by me as all of the thoughts that run through my head. All of it is just me, being me, it's just how I seem to flow out of this thing that I am... all of it.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Living in community- it's like a little zendo for living in the world
I was thinking about how much I had learned about myself during the week that I had decided to semi live in community at the zen center (I decided to eat my meals at the zen center for a week). I was thinking how important it was to my practice: to learn about who I am when I am with others.
I also thought about a comment I often hear from people in practice: it's easy to do this here, around like minded individuals who are intending to do this practice- who are attempting to listen to you, who are trying to learn about themselves, who are trying to be patient and kind. But when you get out into that big world, people often aren't like that, and it's really hard to put this into practice when people don't respond to you with kindness, patience, attention.
And I thought about how that's true- that it really is easier to practice this at the zen center. I thought about how fortunate it is that I can practice doing this at the zen center where people are patient with me, where they accept me, and through these things, allow me to see myself just as I am, without judgment, blame, anger.
But I also think that having this place to try these things out, this somewhat controlled environment (though believe me, any community has its share of difficulties regardless of how well- intentioned its members may be), allows me to deepen my practice to a place where it makes it a little bit easier to do this in the outside world.
I think that having this place where I can learn about myself supports me to be less focused or insecure about myself when I am out in the world. I think that having success with patience or communication inside the zen center supports me to be patient and try to communicate with others outside the zen center.
So for me, it's like a zendo. The zendo is this somewhat contrived environment of silence and minimal distractions where you are supported by the people around you to do all kinds of meditation practice: arriving late, sneezing, crying, bowing when you're not supposed to, sitting still, etc. And you need this environment to practice this practice, it supports you to grow and reflect upon your meditation practice and it removes some of the obstacles to meditation: noise, distraction, knowing when to start/ stop, and you are surrounded by other meditators who have gone through what you're going through so they're there as models for you and to provide you with support. And for me, I think living in community is like that too. You're there, living with others, trying things out in a place where you feel safe to make mistakes in being yourself and the people there are just there, to let you be, to learn for yourself, about this life.
I also thought about a comment I often hear from people in practice: it's easy to do this here, around like minded individuals who are intending to do this practice- who are attempting to listen to you, who are trying to learn about themselves, who are trying to be patient and kind. But when you get out into that big world, people often aren't like that, and it's really hard to put this into practice when people don't respond to you with kindness, patience, attention.
And I thought about how that's true- that it really is easier to practice this at the zen center. I thought about how fortunate it is that I can practice doing this at the zen center where people are patient with me, where they accept me, and through these things, allow me to see myself just as I am, without judgment, blame, anger.
But I also think that having this place to try these things out, this somewhat controlled environment (though believe me, any community has its share of difficulties regardless of how well- intentioned its members may be), allows me to deepen my practice to a place where it makes it a little bit easier to do this in the outside world.
I think that having this place where I can learn about myself supports me to be less focused or insecure about myself when I am out in the world. I think that having success with patience or communication inside the zen center supports me to be patient and try to communicate with others outside the zen center.
So for me, it's like a zendo. The zendo is this somewhat contrived environment of silence and minimal distractions where you are supported by the people around you to do all kinds of meditation practice: arriving late, sneezing, crying, bowing when you're not supposed to, sitting still, etc. And you need this environment to practice this practice, it supports you to grow and reflect upon your meditation practice and it removes some of the obstacles to meditation: noise, distraction, knowing when to start/ stop, and you are surrounded by other meditators who have gone through what you're going through so they're there as models for you and to provide you with support. And for me, I think living in community is like that too. You're there, living with others, trying things out in a place where you feel safe to make mistakes in being yourself and the people there are just there, to let you be, to learn for yourself, about this life.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Your father was patient and knew you could do it
I was working with a little one during Math time. She was upset. She felt like I was being unfair. Her two friends were working together on their math sheet and she had to sit at the back with me. I had explained to her that the only reason she was at the back with me was that when I was teaching the lesson, she was drawing and talking and so I honestly didn't know if she understood how to do the problems on the math sheet. She boo hooed, she kicked her feet, she put her head down, but eventually she put her head back up. I pointed to the clock on her sheet and asked her what time it read. She looked at it and wrote it correctly.
"Awesome job!" I said encouragingly. "Now," I pointed to the next one. "What time is it thirty minutes later?"
She wiggled, looked over her shoulders at her friends, picked at her pencil, put her head down again, then turned her head to face the sheet. She started at the twelve, counted by fives, and inaccurately told them time.
"You've got the right idea," I said. "I think you just started in the wrong spot, you have to start at the one."
"No I didn't!" she protested. "I started right here!" she said, as she jabbed her finger somewhere between the twelve and the one, counted by fives, and got the wrong answer, again.
"You're doing it totally right, you know your fives, you just need to start at the one, not at the twelve," I encouraged her again.
And then she gave up, complained about how her friends got to work together and she didn't, how unfair it all was.
I explained to her again that all I needed to know was that she knew how to do it- that once I could see her do it on her own, I would let her go work with her friends.
She huffily turned around, stuck her finger on the one, started counting, and got the right answer.
"Great!" I said. "Let's do the next one," and I pointed to the next clock.
We continued in this fashion, as the problems got increasingly more difficult and she got more anxious, but she eventually got there- showed her independent understanding of the concept, and so I let her work with her friends.
As I watched her walk away, I noticed how comfortable I was with this situation. I noticed how I had stayed with her through all of her hemming and hawing and that I had done this because I knew she was capable of it. I hadn't actually helped her or done it for her, I had stayed by her, while she struggled with it herself. I had been there to help her if she needed it but in staying with her, letting her struggle in her place of almost mastery, she had learned to do it herself. I felt like I had conveyed this message of confidence in her by doing this- whether she felt it or not.
My father is godfather to my mother's youngest brother's oldest child. He didn't actually meet her until she was in high school, when he was in town on a business trip. I talked to my aunt shortly after his visit- to see how their time was together.
"Well," she said. "I'm not sure how she felt about it, but he did try to help her with her homework."
"Uh oh," I said. "How did that go?" I asked.
"She didn't like it so much," my aunt explained. "All she wanted was the answer, but he wouldn't give it to her. He wanted her to figure it out herself- to show her how to do it without actually doing it for her. She wasn't all that pleased with that method."
"Tell her I totally sympathize," I said.
I had the exact same experience when I was growing up. When I would get to a part that I didn't understand on my homework, I would come down to the kitchen, show him the one I was working on, and ask him for help. All I really wanted was to get over that one problem- to get the answer and move on. But he would never give me the answer. Instead, he would sit me down and teach me the concept.
I hated him for this. He knew the answer, I knew that, but he wouldn't give it to me. I would play along at first, try to follow what he was teaching, but often, it didn't match my method (because mine was incorrect) and so I would get frustrated. I would show him my method again, try to make it right, feebly assert its accuracy. He would simply repeat his method, explain where my method was falling apart, and continue with his explanation. Depending on the night and the level of homework, I would either put my head down or storm out of the kitchen back up to my room. This never upset him and he never gave in- he never gave me the answer.
I hated it then, but as a teacher, I see it now.
He never let me fail. He didn't give up on me and give me the answer, that would have been belittling to me (and I wouldn't have learned the concept). He just kept with me, staying with me until I understood it. Now, this "staying with me" instead of giving me the answer, often meant me, storming back up to my room, and doing it incorrectly on my own. But as a teacher, as I sit patiently with my kids, allow them to do all their hemming and hawing without getting upset, patiently just sticking with them, until they get it, is what he was doing back then. He knew I could do it, was willing to sit there with me until I did, and, if I had the patience back then to stick with it, would have helped me to get it on my own.
I am grateful for this part of me that I got from him. This model of just sitting with you, not giving up while you hem and haw, being unaffected by all your hysterics, confidently staying there, actually gets you there, and hopefully gets you to see that you're the one who can do it.
"Awesome job!" I said encouragingly. "Now," I pointed to the next one. "What time is it thirty minutes later?"
She wiggled, looked over her shoulders at her friends, picked at her pencil, put her head down again, then turned her head to face the sheet. She started at the twelve, counted by fives, and inaccurately told them time.
"You've got the right idea," I said. "I think you just started in the wrong spot, you have to start at the one."
"No I didn't!" she protested. "I started right here!" she said, as she jabbed her finger somewhere between the twelve and the one, counted by fives, and got the wrong answer, again.
"You're doing it totally right, you know your fives, you just need to start at the one, not at the twelve," I encouraged her again.
And then she gave up, complained about how her friends got to work together and she didn't, how unfair it all was.
I explained to her again that all I needed to know was that she knew how to do it- that once I could see her do it on her own, I would let her go work with her friends.
She huffily turned around, stuck her finger on the one, started counting, and got the right answer.
"Great!" I said. "Let's do the next one," and I pointed to the next clock.
We continued in this fashion, as the problems got increasingly more difficult and she got more anxious, but she eventually got there- showed her independent understanding of the concept, and so I let her work with her friends.
As I watched her walk away, I noticed how comfortable I was with this situation. I noticed how I had stayed with her through all of her hemming and hawing and that I had done this because I knew she was capable of it. I hadn't actually helped her or done it for her, I had stayed by her, while she struggled with it herself. I had been there to help her if she needed it but in staying with her, letting her struggle in her place of almost mastery, she had learned to do it herself. I felt like I had conveyed this message of confidence in her by doing this- whether she felt it or not.
My father is godfather to my mother's youngest brother's oldest child. He didn't actually meet her until she was in high school, when he was in town on a business trip. I talked to my aunt shortly after his visit- to see how their time was together.
"Well," she said. "I'm not sure how she felt about it, but he did try to help her with her homework."
"Uh oh," I said. "How did that go?" I asked.
"She didn't like it so much," my aunt explained. "All she wanted was the answer, but he wouldn't give it to her. He wanted her to figure it out herself- to show her how to do it without actually doing it for her. She wasn't all that pleased with that method."
"Tell her I totally sympathize," I said.
I had the exact same experience when I was growing up. When I would get to a part that I didn't understand on my homework, I would come down to the kitchen, show him the one I was working on, and ask him for help. All I really wanted was to get over that one problem- to get the answer and move on. But he would never give me the answer. Instead, he would sit me down and teach me the concept.
I hated him for this. He knew the answer, I knew that, but he wouldn't give it to me. I would play along at first, try to follow what he was teaching, but often, it didn't match my method (because mine was incorrect) and so I would get frustrated. I would show him my method again, try to make it right, feebly assert its accuracy. He would simply repeat his method, explain where my method was falling apart, and continue with his explanation. Depending on the night and the level of homework, I would either put my head down or storm out of the kitchen back up to my room. This never upset him and he never gave in- he never gave me the answer.
I hated it then, but as a teacher, I see it now.
He never let me fail. He didn't give up on me and give me the answer, that would have been belittling to me (and I wouldn't have learned the concept). He just kept with me, staying with me until I understood it. Now, this "staying with me" instead of giving me the answer, often meant me, storming back up to my room, and doing it incorrectly on my own. But as a teacher, as I sit patiently with my kids, allow them to do all their hemming and hawing without getting upset, patiently just sticking with them, until they get it, is what he was doing back then. He knew I could do it, was willing to sit there with me until I did, and, if I had the patience back then to stick with it, would have helped me to get it on my own.
I am grateful for this part of me that I got from him. This model of just sitting with you, not giving up while you hem and haw, being unaffected by all your hysterics, confidently staying there, actually gets you there, and hopefully gets you to see that you're the one who can do it.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Your mother was a nice person
After my mom died, at the funeral and for several weeks after, all anyone talked about was how nice she was:
"Your mother was the nicest person in the world."
"Your mother would never hurt a fly."
"Your mother was the kindest person I knew."
As a six year old, I never knew how to respond to this. It wasn't me they were complimenting so I couldn't really say thank you. But at the same time, it felt kind of rude to not say anything, as if in doing so I were disagreeing with them. I knew they were being nice, trying to say something kind, but it also felt like they wanted a response from me and I didn't know the appropriate one.
As I got older, and attended other people's funerals, I started to see that people always said nice things about people at funerals. It felt like that was just what people did. I had also heard someone remark that when you die young, you die perfect. You are frozen in time in that perfect place and no one can ever find fault with you.
So the idea that my mom was an especially nice or kind or caring person never really sunk into my concept of her. It wasn't that I thought she was mean, I never thought that. It was more that I thought that the niceness that everyone talked about was more just what people said because she had died young, not as a description unique to her.
Last weekend, as I was delivering frozen scones to a friend, it occurred to me that maybe I was a nice person too. See, prior to that weekend, I had made a batch of chocolate chip scones and frozen them. I had done this on purpose. This friend of mine lives in a house with a brand new baby. I remember when my sister had a brand new baby. I remember how exhausted we were, how we could barely feed ourselves, and how grateful I was when someone showed up once, with premade sandwiches, that we could just eat and not have to assemble or anything- just eat and not be hungry anymore.
And I pictured my friend, in her house, with the new baby and the mom and how they might be feeling overwhelmed and hungry too. But then I pictured them, sitting in their kitchen, early in the morning, eating fresh baked chocolate chip scones, and I thought that would be a really nice thing for them. So I had made the dough, and frozen it, with the intent of giving it to them so that they could thaw it overnight, turn on the oven some morning, and actually have that experience of fresh baked warm chocolate chip scones. It seemed like a really nice thing to be able to give them- warm, melty, someone-baked-for-me-and-I-can-just-enjoy-it goodness. So that's what I did, I baked for them.
Earlier that same day, I had delivered some leftover treats to two other friends. They were home made peanut butter cups. I brought them to them because one of them absolutely loved peanut butter chocolate and the other was grateful for whatever I brought her. But I had originally made the peanut butter cups for another friend who, when I asked what they wanted for their birthday, had said that they really like home made peanut butter cups.
Now, I've always wondered a bit about my relationship between baking and delivering- what's my intent in giving all these things to people? But on this weekend, as I noticed my deliveries, I started to notice that what I was doing was thinking, about my friends, and doing things, that I thought would make them happy.
And I wondered if my mom did this too. I wondered if my mom thought about her friends, if she did nice things for them, if she paid attention to what her friends liked, and then did things, kind of without them knowing, and then delivered them, because that's just who she was. Maybe those things they said at the funeral-your mother was the most thoughtful person I knew, your mother was so kind, your mother was the nicest person ever- maybe that's who she really was. Maybe they weren't just saying that because it was her funeral. Maybe she didn't die young and perfect. Maybe this is who she was and maybe, maybe I'm like her in this way too.
"Your mother was the nicest person in the world."
"Your mother would never hurt a fly."
"Your mother was the kindest person I knew."
As a six year old, I never knew how to respond to this. It wasn't me they were complimenting so I couldn't really say thank you. But at the same time, it felt kind of rude to not say anything, as if in doing so I were disagreeing with them. I knew they were being nice, trying to say something kind, but it also felt like they wanted a response from me and I didn't know the appropriate one.
As I got older, and attended other people's funerals, I started to see that people always said nice things about people at funerals. It felt like that was just what people did. I had also heard someone remark that when you die young, you die perfect. You are frozen in time in that perfect place and no one can ever find fault with you.
So the idea that my mom was an especially nice or kind or caring person never really sunk into my concept of her. It wasn't that I thought she was mean, I never thought that. It was more that I thought that the niceness that everyone talked about was more just what people said because she had died young, not as a description unique to her.
Last weekend, as I was delivering frozen scones to a friend, it occurred to me that maybe I was a nice person too. See, prior to that weekend, I had made a batch of chocolate chip scones and frozen them. I had done this on purpose. This friend of mine lives in a house with a brand new baby. I remember when my sister had a brand new baby. I remember how exhausted we were, how we could barely feed ourselves, and how grateful I was when someone showed up once, with premade sandwiches, that we could just eat and not have to assemble or anything- just eat and not be hungry anymore.
And I pictured my friend, in her house, with the new baby and the mom and how they might be feeling overwhelmed and hungry too. But then I pictured them, sitting in their kitchen, early in the morning, eating fresh baked chocolate chip scones, and I thought that would be a really nice thing for them. So I had made the dough, and frozen it, with the intent of giving it to them so that they could thaw it overnight, turn on the oven some morning, and actually have that experience of fresh baked warm chocolate chip scones. It seemed like a really nice thing to be able to give them- warm, melty, someone-baked-for-me-and-I-can-just-enjoy-it goodness. So that's what I did, I baked for them.
Earlier that same day, I had delivered some leftover treats to two other friends. They were home made peanut butter cups. I brought them to them because one of them absolutely loved peanut butter chocolate and the other was grateful for whatever I brought her. But I had originally made the peanut butter cups for another friend who, when I asked what they wanted for their birthday, had said that they really like home made peanut butter cups.
Now, I've always wondered a bit about my relationship between baking and delivering- what's my intent in giving all these things to people? But on this weekend, as I noticed my deliveries, I started to notice that what I was doing was thinking, about my friends, and doing things, that I thought would make them happy.
And I wondered if my mom did this too. I wondered if my mom thought about her friends, if she did nice things for them, if she paid attention to what her friends liked, and then did things, kind of without them knowing, and then delivered them, because that's just who she was. Maybe those things they said at the funeral-your mother was the most thoughtful person I knew, your mother was so kind, your mother was the nicest person ever- maybe that's who she really was. Maybe they weren't just saying that because it was her funeral. Maybe she didn't die young and perfect. Maybe this is who she was and maybe, maybe I'm like her in this way too.
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