I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date...

So, today was the first day of school. This morning I went to the zendo and all was well, until all was not. Zazen didn't end at its regular time. By the time I checked my watch, it was 6AM, around the time that I'm usually riding my bike up the hill, so I was about 5 minutes late. Knowing this did nothing for me because it was still absolutely silent in the zendo: no movement, no bell saying it's over, nothing... meaning: no way could I get up and leave. Finally someone moved, but they were moving toward the altar, not out the door. I looked over my shoulder and the curtain was closed. And then, then some gong started. I thought, "Okay, this is the end of zazen, just sit through it and you can leave." Nope, after that gong, people started putting their rakasus on their head. This meant that we were going to chant. "Oh no!" I thought. "I'm not just late anymore, I'm screwed!" I was sure that they were doing the robe chant which would lead to another chant which would lead to three full prostations and then a bow to the altar and then another bow and then a final bow and.... well, another 10 minutes at least! But what could I do? No way was I going to interrupt the robe chant. So, I put my hands in gassho for the part in Japanese and then chanted along for the part in English. And then, it ended and that was it! Everyone around me bowed to their cushion so I got up and left as fast as I could.
I am an on time person. If you invite me to your house at 6:30 and I get there at 6:25, I sit outside and wait until it's actually 6:30. I really really really don't like being late. It's a thing for me and I'm working on it but just so you know, being late on the first day of school is a really hard thing for me.
I started running up the hill to make up for lost time, and then I started laughing at myself. I couldn't make up for lost time, it was lost. And then I thought about the chant and the extra time I had spent in the zendo. I decided that maybe that extra time in there, my little struggle with wanting to be on time and just having to accept that sometimes you aren't on time, was a pretty good lesson for me to learn on the first day of school. And then I went a little further in my delusions and decided that really, that chant was for me. It was the zendo's way of saying "We know it's your first day. We thought you might like a little something to carry you through the day today. Here it is: saving... all... beings."
But then I rode my bike home faster than I've ever ridden. I went through my regular routine as fast as I could and then I tried that zen trick about asking "How are you now?" and my answer was "Still late, and pissed off about it!" and then I asked myself, "Do you want to be pissed off about it?" I laughed and said no and took a deep breath and calmed down. I called my friend who I call every morning and said, "Sorry, I'm late." "You're fine," she said, and when I thought about it, I was.
I got to school about 5 minutes late which really wasn't that bad. And, surprisingly, I was very mellow about it. I had a lot to do but I focused on what would make the kids most happy. I did freak out when I thought that I would run out of things to do before recess but then I remembered that that was one of my fears: the kids taking over if there was nothing to do. So I let it go and focused on the three things I wanted for the kids today: they'd be happy, they'd feel good about school, they'd find a friend.
And it happened. Between recess and lunch a kid came up to me and said, "Third grade isn't as scary as I thought. I think I'm going to like it." Another student said, "I think I'm going to really like having you as my teacher."
We did not get to our spelling test. We did not learn how to "listen to learn." We didn't even have a chance to share what we did this summer with our partners and I didn't go over the procedures for sharpening your pencil. But they were happy, and so was I. When certain someones weren't paying attention, I just noticed that about them, I didn't call out their names or make them look at me. When someone didn't want to read, I said, "Well, we're reading right now, so you have to." But then I also invited him to pick a book from my "secret library." And when another someone wanted snack right before lunch, I let him go in the hallway and eat it, understanding that his clock didn't match ours today, and that was fine.
Now, all you teachers out there know that today was our honeymoon and tomorrow is when the real work begins. I also know that today, I have no problems with the fact that we got little done but that by Friday, I may totally regret the loss of time.
But the two kids who came up to me who genuinely liked third grade, the number of times that I smiled at the kids, genuinely listened to them and started to get to know them, that was right, I know it was.

z: No more Christmas Eve?

At the end of the school year last year, I had a bit of a sad realization. I had been practicing living in the moment and not worrying so much about the future. It was the last day of school, I was about to leave on a trip to Portland and after that I was going to start 10 glorious weeks of summer vacation.
I felt nothing. It felt like a Friday, any other Friday, not the end of a school year and the beginning of summer. I thought to myself, "Is this it? Do I not get to anticipate things anymore?" The only thing I could liken it to was Christmas Eve. If you're living in the moment, Christmas Eve isn't so exciting because you're not thinking about Christmas Day and all those presents. I guess it's better 'cause you can actually sleep but it also seemed kind of sad. I was okay with that anxiety of Christmas Eve, I kind of like anticipation when it involves presents or chocolate cake. I wondered if this was part of what it would mean to be a Buddhist (is that what I am? I'm still confused about what to call all this.).
And now I'm experiencing it again, but in a bit of a different way. School starts on Monday. Last year at this time I was in my classroom all weekend, setting everything up for the kids, rehearsing every minute of the first day, placing materials where I could easily reach them all in an attempt to control the first day of school. This year I'm at home making risotto and listening to Adele radio on Pandora. Tomorrow I'm going on a hike with a friend and I actually think I'll do some planning but mostly because I'm interested in what the kids need to learn about the sun, not because I think that by planning I can make things happen. I do have to be honest about this- I have been looking over my plans from last year so I have a general idea of what I'm doing all week. But for those of you who know me, this is not normal.
The thing is, I don't even HAVE feelings of wanting to control the situation. It's not like I start to plan the week and then say "Oh, those are thoughts." And it's not like I'm in denial or not interested in going back. I'm super excited. I can't wait to meet the kids on Monday and when I think about Monday I think about them, about how scared they might be, about how they want their friends to be in their class, and about how I can support them to have a happy first day. There is a little voice in the back of my head that's saying "Remember last year, when you tried to BALANCE life and work and you weren't prepared and the lesson went horribly?" But it doesn't seem so important anymore. That scares me a little bit but it also feels like it's all going to be okay.
Talk to me on Tuesday....

Third grade anarchy....

I mentioned in an earlier post that if I was going to ask the kids to share their fears with me, I would have to share my fears with them. So I made a list of my fears as a teacher. The list was long but there were definitely some trends. 

Anarchy: in one form or another, I am afraid of the kids having control. This manifests itself as: the lesson ends early and they start talking, they talk to each other instead of listening to me, one kid starts talking and everyone listens to him/ her. It's interesting that I perceive them talking to each other as losing control of the classroom. I know that kids talking to each other is a good thing. I suspect that this fear stems from some difficult years when I lost control of the classroom, in an unhealthy way. The kids weren't just ignoring me, they were hurting each other, disrespecting each other, and no one was learning. I'm afraid of that happening again and I perceive “talking to each other” as a disregard for my authority and the beginning of my loss of control of the situation.

When I step back and look at the situation I realize a couple of things. First, I need to redefine my perception of “kids talking to each other.” I see talking as a threat to my authority or a sign that the lesson is uninteresting and I think that once they start talking, I can't stop them. That's just not true. Kids talking is kids talking. If I'm willing to listen to their talking rather than see it as a threat, I can determine whether they're bored, challenged, or just have something on their minds and can then respond accordingly.

Second: third graders aren't really anarchistic. When I reviewed my list of my fears and saw this one -kids take over the classroom- I thought, “What does that even look like? Would they throw spitballs, talk about Justin Bieber, would one of them get up and start teaching?!” It's a pretty unrealistic fear for me at this point in my teaching career. I have had classrooms where the kids were in charge, in a bad way, but I have enough presence now, enough feel for the room to change up what I'm doing so that the class remains a safe place for learning. I need to let go of this perception that silence or order is evidence of my ability as a teacher. Kids enjoying school, learning the curriculum, and learning about themselves and each other is a sign of good teaching. I need to remember that and what it looks like.

Wasted time and/ or lack of progress

Another fear was that they wouldn't learn enough in the time given. This manifested itself as: decline in test scores, not being prepared for fourth grade, not learning their times tables, and/ or lessons where the kids just don't get it. This is a little more difficult to write off. I do need to make sure that they learn everything they need to know in third grade. But I also think that I need to remember that these are children. There are going to be lessons that they don't get, there are going to be kids who aren't ready to receive the instruction that I'm giving. It doesn't mean that I leave it at that: oh, sorry, you guys didn't get division, oh well. But it does mean that when that happens I see it for what it is: the lesson didn't reach them so try another way, or this kid didn't get it, what can I do to bridge where they're at to where they need to be? I'm not saying that it's okay for them not to learn, I'm saying that I need to remember that these are kids and I can't FORCE their learning. I can be creative and try alternate routes but there will be times when it just 'aint gonna happen and forcing it is the real waste of time.

Parents' disapproval

I've been muddling this one over for a while. On the one hand, it makes perfect sense for me to want approval from parents. It's their children whom I'm entrusted with; if I'm doing things right, they should be happy. However, I also know that having the approval of a parent does not mean that a kid is learning or that I'm a good teacher. I think this fear has more to do with ego and power. First off, we get little to no feedback on our teaching. Other than the required observation by the principal, we teach without hearing a peep about how we're doing. Parents talk. They talk to the principal, they talk to each other, they might even talk to you. They're very invested in your ability as a teacher and they seem to have no qualms sharing their opinion of you. We all want to be good teachers' and parents seem to be the only ones talking about us. So in that sense, getting approval/ disapproval from parents is the only place where I can feel good/ bad about myself as a teacher. Parents also have a lot of power with all their talking. They can go to the principal and complain about you, they can make/ break your reputation at the school, they're also the person you have to interact with in helping the kids to learn. Your relationship with them can make things really great or really awful.

For me, I think the best way to deal with this fear is to meet it, head on. I've been absolutely sure that a parent was unhappy with me only to later find out how grateful they were for the work I was doing to help their child learn. Also, parents' concerns often come from their own fears: that their kid will fail, won't learn enough, or that they didn't prepare their child enough. I think that by reaching out to the parents early on, by developing a relationship with them around supporting their child's learning I'll reduce my own misperceptions around their opinion of me and hopefully relieve their fears around their child's success.

There were lots more fears on the list which I won't get in to. Making the list was really helpful for me but it also compelled me to make a list of what I want for the kids. Hardly anything that I wanted for the kids showed up on my fears of what I don't do for the kids. I hope that by the end of this year I'll be able to keep in mind what I know is important for them and see my success in that light instead of in the context of my fears. I'm also going to try to keep these fears kind of up front in my mind. I want to be able to check in with them when I see myself getting upset. If my emotions are coming from them I'll be able to step back and say “Oh, those are just your fears coming up. Take a deep breath and look at the situation just as it is, with a mind clear of your fears.” Then hopefully I can respond instead of react. Wish me luck (again!)...

z: Suffering...it's GOOD for you!

  Hmmm, I guess if that argument didn’t work for the broccoli on your plate when you were a kid, it’s probably not going to work with the suffering in your life right now. But, believe it or not, I’m going to suggest that there actually is a place for suffering in your life.  

Here’s my theory:

You know how I said that the crazy, chaotic, seemingly futile activity that you experienced when you first started meditating was actually part of the process of developing a practice of meditation?

And then I said that the shaky, awkward, stiffness that you felt in your body when you first started ‘sitting upright’ was part of developing the posture that allowed you to breathe so fully and naturally that you could begin to relax into your meditation?

I think that the sadness, frustration, loneliness, anger, hurt, desperation, (insert your least pleasant emotion here) that you feel, the suffering that you experience, is actually part of the process of developing the emotional persistence or tolerance that supports you to experience life as it is.

Here’s my analogy:

When a two year old is learning to walk, he falls, a lot. Sometimes he cries, but mostly, he just gets up and tries again. When he falls, we don’t say “Oh no you fell! You better stop walking because with all this falling you’re going to hurt yourself!” We see him fall and we know that falling is part of learning to walk. We might give him a table to lean on or offer him our hand. But we would never see the falling as a failure and we’d know that if we prevented him from falling or came up with some way for him to not fall, we’d be depriving him of the opportunity to learn to walk.

Falling is to learning to walk as suffering is to learning to actually live this life, as it is, all of it.

And here’s my personal experience:

I was sad. Impermanence sucked. So did the fact that just when I thought I had the whole intimacy thing figured out, this other thing came along and blew it out of the water! It didn’t matter how present I was, it didn’t matter how much I shared with others, it didn’t matter how many connections I made, people could leave, at any time, and me and all my intimacy expertise (ha!) couldn’t do a thing to change that. I was still alone.

I was ready to throw in the towel, give up on being present, run back into my room and hang out where it was safe, where no one could leave me. I was hurt, angry, and sad. I tried to find fault with who left me so it wouldn’t hurt so much when they left, and I wanted to withdraw so that I could leave them instead of them leaving me. And then I felt like a failure for feeling all of that! It was like I had just fallen off the road to happiness by experiencing all of this suffering.

But then I talked to a “good friend.” (I highly recommend talking to a good friend- check with your insurance provider to see if good friends are covered in your plan, they’re worth every penny of your deductible.) My good friend pointed out that I was feeling. I wasn’t running back into my room, I wasn’t denying my hurt or anger, I was actually feeling it. The hurt, sadness, anger was the same as the joy, elation, and dancing around in my kitchen I had done when I was feeling all “master-of-intimacy” earlier this summer. They’re all feelings and they’re what we humans do when we live. Suffering is just as much a part of the road to happiness as being happy is.

So I think that the sadness, the crying, the anger, the ugliness, it’s like the first few months of meditation. It can feel totally miserable and useless and frustrating but I think (though I can’t say because I’m just beginning it) that it’s part of the process of being alive. And by experiencing it, instead of judging or avoiding it, you start to live, and in the end, that can bring you happiness.

And the good news is, if suffering is good for you, then all of us who are experiencing sadness are totally buffed up and ready for the event while all you happy people are just skinny malinks who drop out as soon as it gets tough (okay, not really, but it's nice to think that experiencing suffering is a way to get in shape).

Mini sangha

‘Sangha’ refers to the overall community at the zen center. It consists of residents and practitioners; even those who, though they may not live there, attend lectures, zazen, etc. Basically, the sangha is everyone who supports everyone at the zen center. It’s actually quite valued and crucial to one’s practice. I think it says in one of the sutras that you can’t practice without the sangha.

It turns out there’s a mini sangha at my school! I’ve been mentioning my blog to people in passing and guess what? There’s a bunch of people who want to treat others with compassion too. Many of us feel like we want to try to understand our students better, treat them with kindness, and meet them where they’re at so that we can help them to grow into happy individuals. A lot of us feel like we want to try this with the grownups too, and we know this will be hard. But, we’re going to support each other in it. We’re going to try to understand what the grownups are going through and, instead of fighting them, try to see them and what they’re feeling. A couple of us even meditate and we came up with a rap to help us remember to respond to situations instead of react to them. Sometimes we even dance to our rap, when necessary, to keep from clobbering grownups who seem to have forgotten that this is about the kids, not the grownups!

Anyway, I’m grateful for my sangha. I already got advice from another teacher about a couple of things I’m going to do this year. She said that asking the third graders to ‘share their fears’ might be a little much. Third graders might be too afraid to tell anyone their fears. So I came up with a little “fill in the blank” sheet instead and I’ll let them know that it’s ‘just between us.’ We also talked about me having ‘dokusan’ (a private lunch) with each kid. She suggested that I have lunch with them in groups of two or three instead of one-on-one. She reminded me that, just like the people in robes can be intimidating, THE TEACHER can be intimidating too. Having a conversation over lunch might be overwhelming for them. So, we’ll probably play games or have some free time together. That way they can see that I’m human too.   

I also figured out today that the sangha is everyone. I need to get to know all the grownups at my school. We really do work together to support the kids so we need to know each other. I’m going to have an “I don’t know” mind as I reacquaint myself with the staff. (And then I’m going to run back to my Buddha buddy and have a rap session!)

Seeing Strangers

  An interesting thing happened to me after I had been going to the zen center for a few months. I live in the Haight Ashbury district of San Francisco. On any given day there are a variety of people living on the sidewalk. They range from homeless selling “Street Sheet” newspapers, to teenagers requesting spare change, to “crafty” individuals requesting money for their services (poetry, incense, humor), and, sadly, many people who are so strung out on drugs that they scream at themselves or barely make eye contact as they stumble down the street. Over time I’ve learned to acknowledge but not engage with the-people-on-the-sidewalk. That’s really how I saw them, different from each other but the same to me: “street people.”

Often at the dharma talks, when the abbot is talking about treating others with compassion, the question comes up, “What do you do about someone who’s being really mean?” or “How can you be compassionate to someone who is hurting others?” In the talks that I attended, Blanche or Tova would often respond by saying that the people who are hurting others are the ones who are experiencing the most suffering. Those are the people whom we should treat with the utmost compassion, to whom we should extend our greatest effort.

I understood this, it reminded me a bit of ‘turning the other cheek’ and I knew that I should try to practice it when I was struggling with others at work. But over time, it kind of seeped into my interactions with people I didn’t even know. The first time I noticed it was after a Saturday dharma talk. I saw a man walking up Haight Street. His clothes were tattered and he seemed, at the very least, intoxicated. Normally, I would have averted my eyes and crossed the street, annoyed by his presence (sorry, not nice but true…).  But this time, when I saw him I thought “Wow, what happened to you? You had such a beautiful presence once and something happened to keep you from realizing it. I wish I could figure out what it was and remove it so you could grow into your human potential.” I did feel a little Missionary in thinking this, like I was trying to save this guy. But at the same time, I didn’t want to change him, I just felt like he had been hurt and maybe he could be healed back to his regular self.

After a few more months, I had a different interaction with a person-on-the-street (actually, it was on the bus). This person also seemed slightly strung out, but less so. He was talkative, but not delusional. But that’s not how I saw him at all, I just saw him as a person.  When he talked to me, I talked to him the same way I talk to anyone. I was aware that he was strung out but it had no affect on my perception of him as a fellow human being. That’s what he was, he is, a fellow human being. And that’s what everyone is, and, as such, deserves our respect and attention.

This notion, of shared humanity, genuinely equal respect, and resulting compassion and understanding is what I want for my students. I’ve been interested in discovering the roots of racism and how to dismantle the structures that pervade our culture and sustain its system. This genuine view that we are all the same, this truth that so easily gets questioned by labels, exclusion, and identity, might actually be fosterable (I know, that’s not a word) in my classroom. In modeling removing our stories and history from the equation, in being present for each other just as we are, and in knowing ourselves well enough to see our labeling or judgment, maybe I can keep them from accepting the stories we make to separate ourselves from each other.  

z: The robes

When you come to the zen center you inevitably see people in robes. Most of the people wearing those robes look very serious, don’t really speak, and rarely make eye contact. They can seem really intimidating. But then you see those same people at lunch or having tea and cookies and they’re smiling and laughing and making jokes. I used to see this as a Jekyl and Hyde situation: like they were one person when they were in robes and another when they were out. But I know that people don’t become another person by just putting on robes so I’ve been trying to figure out why they seem so different. What I think I’ve figured out is that I have my own stories around robes and seriousness.

I’ve mentioned before that I was raised Catholic and so my exposure to robes has been with priests. In my church and in my experience at that church, the priests were revered as the gatekeepers to knowledge and to acceptance into God’s favor. They were who we “confessed” our sins to and who gave us “punishment” or “atonement” for our sins. We were afraid of them and, like Santa Claus, they seemed to be watching us to determine who had been good and who had been bad. In a nutshell, they were the guys who were constantly judging us and the best way to win their favor was to follow the rules and be good.

Looking over my blogposts I realize that my interactions with the practitioners at the zen center totally mimic my interactions with the priests of my childhood: I am constantly looking for their approval, totally afraid that they’re judging me, and desperately learning their rules so that I can follow them and be good.  But here’s the thing, all of that comes from my own history with robes, not with my actual experience with robes at the zen center. The abbot has never told me I was good or bad, the practitioners haven’t sent me off to chant some sutra five times to atone for breaking a commandment, and no one, absolutely no one, is watching my form in the zendo to see if it’s good or bad (or if they are then they’re just as bad ‘cause clearly, they aren’t meditating if they’re watching me!).

And then there’s the seriousness factor. It’s true, the people in robes often do have a serious look on their face, rarely talk, and often either avert their eyes or focus somewhere off in to the distance. I have two things to say about this.

You know how the people in the pictures that were taken when cameras first came out all look super serious, how no one is smiling? And then there’s a point in history where people actually are smiling in pictures? It turns out that it’s not that we got to a happy place in history, it’s that the technology of cameras improved. It’s my understanding that when cameras first came out, everyone had to be perfectly still because if you moved, the picture would come out blurry. Eventually, as cameras improved, people didn’t have to be as still so people were able to smile. But we equate that frozen pose, that stillness, with seriousness and, in some ways, sadness.

Now think about when you meditate. You are focusing on your breath, you are quieting your thoughts, you are being still- kinda like the guy in the photograph! That whole seriousness on the part of the people in robes is actually, I think at least, what we look like when we meditate. The serious look, lack of eye contact, and silence is just people in robes, meditating. It’s just that, unlike us who set up a time to meditate each day, they’ve vowed to meditate, to be present, throughout their day.  

So, I’m starting to get that the robes aren’t judging me and the faces are just still, not somber or sad. But I’m also finding how strong this history is. I haven’t been to church on a regular basis in 22 years and here it is, following me for an entire year before I saw it. I think it’s going to take me a while to create a new story around robes at the zen center- one that more accurately represents the people wearing those robes: compassionate individuals who have chosen to devote their lives to being present, to experiencing the world as it is, and to helping others to wake up and see the world too.