You're not going to like this answer, but, if you want to get out of your head, you need to get in to your body. Now, there is an inherent flaw in this advice because by suggesting that to get out of your head you need to get in to your body, I am creating a separation between the two and the reality is, your head and your body are one and the same.
But for me, during meditation, they feel like two different things: a head that just keeps making thoughts and a body that, even when I pay attention to it, still feels like it's being directed by the head.
I described this to Paul in dokusan. I explained that I could breathe from my gut and up to my lungs, but that my breath seemed to get caught there. I also said that the only way I could get my thoughts to stop was if I held my breath or concentrated really hard on my breathing.
Paul suggested that I just keep coming back to my breath, instead of trying to hold it. And we talked about me trying to feel what I was feeling during zazen, to focus on what my body felt like instead of thinking about breathing a certain way.
Now, if Paul had said this to me before I took his class, I woudn't have known what to do. I would have thought, "Feel? How do I feel my body?" And I would have used my brain and my thoughts to try to figure out how to feel my body during zazen.
Luckily, though, I had been taking Paul's class and he had taught us some things that helped me to follow this advice.
On the first day of class, he had us sit zazen and asked us to breathe out. And then, he told us to keep breathing out, to breathe out until your body took its next breath. I think he used the words "let your breath breathe you" but I don't remember. So I did this. It was scary at first, I was afraid I was going to die, that I would stop breathing if I didn't breathe. But it turns out, your body will breathe itself if you let it, it's got a pretty good survival mechanism going on.
It took me a while to make this part of my regular zazen practice but it's what I do when I just can't get my thoughts to stop: I breathe out and wait. In some ways, I'm making my head give in to my body but also, I'm bringing my attention to my body, and that gets me out of my head.
But there are some other asepcts about bringing your attention to the body that, well, I don't know, help you, like, manifest the other parts of this practice: being present to the moment, experiencing reality as it is, and a sense of awareness rather than judgment.
Here are some things that people have told me about the body (as opposed to our thoughts):
Your body... can only be present, your body doesn't feel the future, your body doesn't make plans for tomorrow, it just exists, right here, right now. And it doesn't feel the past either, it can't. Unlike your head, it let's go of those things. Once it's done feeling it, it moves on to the next feeling and only experiences that one while it's feeling it, and so on.
Your body... experiences reality just as it is, it doesn't add anything to it, it doesn't bring any stories to it, it just experiences it. When you are cutting carrots and cut your finger instead, your body just bleeds: the blood inside your veins comes out through your skin, that's all. You, however, your thoughts, they're the ones who see blood coming out of your skin as: "OMG I'm bleeding!" and brings up all kinds of associations with bleeding (dependent upon your own stories about blood and your body and what it needs...)
Now, it is true that your body feels pain when you get cut: your body sends a message through your nervous system that says: Hey... over here... attention needed...
But, and here's where I think the non-judgment piece comes in, really all your body is saying when it feels pain is "Hey, over here, look at this."
But we, because of our causes and conditioning, place a value judgment on pain. We interpret pain (which is just a message of 'hey look over here') as a negative thing, as something to avoid, as something that causes us displeasure. When really, the message of pain is just a message, it's the same as tickle or itch- it's a sensation. We've just associated it with 'ow!' for so long that we don't even see that we've added on this piece, that our thoughts turned pain into something negative.
So, just FYI, I am totally with you here. I'm pretty sure that you're thinking: "Seriously? You want me to say that pain isn't bad? That I'm supposed to just accept pain as the same as pleasure? Heh- you're funny."
Yeah, I said the exact same thing when I was taking Paul's class. When Paul suggested that drowning was a mental construct, I laughed out loud. "Tell that to the drowning man," I wanted to say, but I didn't, because it was Paul. Paul just took a deep breath, and went back to his teaching.
But it stuck with me, this idea that we value things as better or worse, as good or bad. It coincided with another practice Paul had asked us to try: getting things done. I had started to look at my work in terms of getting things done: not getting them done efficiently, not getting them done better or worse, just getting them done in the way they needed to be done in that moment. And it worked, I got things done. Actually, I felt like I got way more done than when I made a to-do list or started to worry about how much work I needed to get done. Honestly, the amount of work I did was probably the same but because the judgment aspect of it was gone, it felt like my work was done.
And this has started to carry over in to my zazen. I have started to get in to my body during zazen and that has helped me get out of my head.
I feel for my breath: I feel my shoulders relax, I feel my stomach muscles release, and I wait. When my body inhales, I feel that too.
I don't analyze my breathing: I try not to think about where my breath is, I try not to think about how much I have breathed before another thought comes in to my head, I try to just feel my breath move through my body.
I don't judge my zazen (well, okay, I try not to judge my zazen). Instead of asking myself "Where is my breath?" or "Am I breathing right?" I feel my shoulders, I feel my stomach, I feel my breath. I wait for all of them to exist on their own, to not be controlled by my head, and when I feel that feeling, I try to come back to it. That's all- to come back to it, not to get it right, not to make it be a certain way, just to feel for that feeling.
And so I think that's why there's all this focus on your breath- it gets you to get in to your body. And from everything I'm learning about the body, it's kind of the zen master. It can only be present to the moment, it doesn't come with any stories, and it accepts everything just as it is. Man, how I wish I could do that.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
Friday morning at the zen center
The first time I came to a Friday morning at the zen center, it was because my friend said there would be pancakes. "Plus," she said," you'll experience the Diamond Sutra."
I was intrigued, especially by the pancakes. But it turns out there were no pancakes. There was a Diamond Sutra, though, and it was definitely an experience.
I had thought about writing a post about it afterward, likening the Diamond Sutra to the Mad Hatter's tea party in Alice in Wonderland. But I didn't, because it felt disrespectful. I knew that the service only looked crazy to me because I was looking at it from the outside, trying to compare it to something I knew. Plus, to liken it to something crazy would have been insulting to the people who were participating in it, suggesting that they would do something foolish and without meaning. I knew it was me who was being foolish, not them. There was something to the Diamond Sutra, I just wasn't seeing it.
This Friday, I spent the morning at the zen center again. Still no pancakes but definitely a Diamond Sutra. And I think, that the Diamond Sutra, is actually, like, perfect practice for dealing with the craziness of our lives.
Here's how the Diamond Sutra works (or, at least, this is what I did this morning):
Everyone is given a copy of the Diamond Sutra and you open it to any random page and start reading it aloud. You keep doing this until it's time to stop.
So that means that there is a room full of people, each reading totally different words, all at the same time (but not in chorus at all, it's pretty much the opposite of chanting, total cacophany).
And the words that you read? Well, I've only read it twice but from what I read, it seems to be an endless series of questions between a student and a teacher. And they all seem to be koan questions, juxtapositions, answers that leave you even more confused than when you started or answers that seem wrong but turn out right. (This is why it felt like the Mad Hatter's tea party to me).
But here's what happened this morning.
I did what I was supposed to do: I opened the book and started reading. At first, I paid attention the the text- sort of trying to listen to the conversations between these guys, trying to learn something from the teacher's teachings to the student. But then I started listening to the person who was reading next to me. I wondered if we were on the same page.
"Focus!" I thought, and tried to put my attention back to the sutra. I did for a while and then my attention started to drift to the person across from me on the tatami, to the sound of his voice, and I started to wonder about his son, how tall he was, whether or not they were German...
"Dude!" I shouted at myself. "Get back to your reading!" And I did, but it was hard. The reading was so random and seemingly confusing, and the cacophany in the room was distracting but also totally inviting. There were so many voices, and so many people, so much that I could pay attention to. And the thing in front of me, this task that I was supposed to be paying attention to, was really confusing and super hard to follow. It was almost impossible to pay attention with all the distractions in the room.
And then it occurred to me: "Ohhhhh, this is like life! This is like every day. This is like trying to be present, with all those distractions around you. This is like trying to focus on some one or some thing that is really hard to focus on because it keeps on changing or it doesn't make sense. This is totally life!"
And then, it was really funny, a car alarm started going off. And it kept going off. And it just added to the cacophany and distraction and I thought, "Yep. This, pretty much, is life. There are a million things going on at once and we can't control any of them. We try to focus on one thing but we get distracted by all those other things that seem to need our attention. And we bounce from one to the other and feel pulled in a million different directions and we can't get to any of them because we're trying to get to all of them.
And this Diamond Sutra thing? This trying to maintain focus in the midst of absolute chaos? I think that's why we're doing it. I think we're practicing focusing on something while a million things are going on around us because that's how life is, there are a million things going on around us. And the words in the Diamond Sutra? The way that one question leads to another and that as soon as you think you've got it, you don't? That's like life too. You can never really grasp at it, you just have to keep focusing on it, coming back to it, being present to it even when it doesn't make sense.
And then it was time to stop, so I stopped. We put the chant books away and I lined up for soji.
It was interesting to watch myself this morning at the zen center. I was late for service because I had practice discussion with Vicki and started to worry about how to enter the Buddha hall. But then I thought, "Just do what needs to be done," and I walked in to the Buddha hall and stood along with everyone else. Then I didn't have a chant book when we started chanting and I started to try to find one and then I thought, "Just participate," and I did, and it turns out I that have unintentionally memorized that darn chant! During soji, I tried to figure out what job we were doing but then I said, "Just line up, do whatever that guy tells you to do," and together the bunch of us got the job done.
It's weird, all of these mornings I have been spending at the zen center (I've been coming for the full morning every Saturday as part of the practice period) have started to seep in to me. It's like I know what to do at the zen center. But actually, it's not like I know what to do at the zen center. There isn't a "what to do" at the zen center. It's just... do what needs to be done, participate as best you can, and help wherever you're needed.
Which is what everyone told me from the beginning but... well, I guess I had to find out for myself.
I was intrigued, especially by the pancakes. But it turns out there were no pancakes. There was a Diamond Sutra, though, and it was definitely an experience.
I had thought about writing a post about it afterward, likening the Diamond Sutra to the Mad Hatter's tea party in Alice in Wonderland. But I didn't, because it felt disrespectful. I knew that the service only looked crazy to me because I was looking at it from the outside, trying to compare it to something I knew. Plus, to liken it to something crazy would have been insulting to the people who were participating in it, suggesting that they would do something foolish and without meaning. I knew it was me who was being foolish, not them. There was something to the Diamond Sutra, I just wasn't seeing it.
This Friday, I spent the morning at the zen center again. Still no pancakes but definitely a Diamond Sutra. And I think, that the Diamond Sutra, is actually, like, perfect practice for dealing with the craziness of our lives.
Here's how the Diamond Sutra works (or, at least, this is what I did this morning):
Everyone is given a copy of the Diamond Sutra and you open it to any random page and start reading it aloud. You keep doing this until it's time to stop.
So that means that there is a room full of people, each reading totally different words, all at the same time (but not in chorus at all, it's pretty much the opposite of chanting, total cacophany).
And the words that you read? Well, I've only read it twice but from what I read, it seems to be an endless series of questions between a student and a teacher. And they all seem to be koan questions, juxtapositions, answers that leave you even more confused than when you started or answers that seem wrong but turn out right. (This is why it felt like the Mad Hatter's tea party to me).
But here's what happened this morning.
I did what I was supposed to do: I opened the book and started reading. At first, I paid attention the the text- sort of trying to listen to the conversations between these guys, trying to learn something from the teacher's teachings to the student. But then I started listening to the person who was reading next to me. I wondered if we were on the same page.
"Focus!" I thought, and tried to put my attention back to the sutra. I did for a while and then my attention started to drift to the person across from me on the tatami, to the sound of his voice, and I started to wonder about his son, how tall he was, whether or not they were German...
"Dude!" I shouted at myself. "Get back to your reading!" And I did, but it was hard. The reading was so random and seemingly confusing, and the cacophany in the room was distracting but also totally inviting. There were so many voices, and so many people, so much that I could pay attention to. And the thing in front of me, this task that I was supposed to be paying attention to, was really confusing and super hard to follow. It was almost impossible to pay attention with all the distractions in the room.
And then it occurred to me: "Ohhhhh, this is like life! This is like every day. This is like trying to be present, with all those distractions around you. This is like trying to focus on some one or some thing that is really hard to focus on because it keeps on changing or it doesn't make sense. This is totally life!"
And then, it was really funny, a car alarm started going off. And it kept going off. And it just added to the cacophany and distraction and I thought, "Yep. This, pretty much, is life. There are a million things going on at once and we can't control any of them. We try to focus on one thing but we get distracted by all those other things that seem to need our attention. And we bounce from one to the other and feel pulled in a million different directions and we can't get to any of them because we're trying to get to all of them.
And this Diamond Sutra thing? This trying to maintain focus in the midst of absolute chaos? I think that's why we're doing it. I think we're practicing focusing on something while a million things are going on around us because that's how life is, there are a million things going on around us. And the words in the Diamond Sutra? The way that one question leads to another and that as soon as you think you've got it, you don't? That's like life too. You can never really grasp at it, you just have to keep focusing on it, coming back to it, being present to it even when it doesn't make sense.
And then it was time to stop, so I stopped. We put the chant books away and I lined up for soji.
It was interesting to watch myself this morning at the zen center. I was late for service because I had practice discussion with Vicki and started to worry about how to enter the Buddha hall. But then I thought, "Just do what needs to be done," and I walked in to the Buddha hall and stood along with everyone else. Then I didn't have a chant book when we started chanting and I started to try to find one and then I thought, "Just participate," and I did, and it turns out I that have unintentionally memorized that darn chant! During soji, I tried to figure out what job we were doing but then I said, "Just line up, do whatever that guy tells you to do," and together the bunch of us got the job done.
It's weird, all of these mornings I have been spending at the zen center (I've been coming for the full morning every Saturday as part of the practice period) have started to seep in to me. It's like I know what to do at the zen center. But actually, it's not like I know what to do at the zen center. There isn't a "what to do" at the zen center. It's just... do what needs to be done, participate as best you can, and help wherever you're needed.
Which is what everyone told me from the beginning but... well, I guess I had to find out for myself.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Regret
I was in a pickle. My dad sent me an email inviting me to the symphony. I was all excited until I realized that the date of the symphony was the second day of sesshin. I didn't know what to do.
Part of me felt like, "C'mon, it's seven days, you can miss one night to go the symphony with your dad."
But part of me felt like, "No, the whole point of this sesshin is that you really can slow down, be present to each moment, each activity that you do all day long. Going to the symphony with your dad will bring things in to your sesshin. Let it go about your dad and actually experience this sesshin fully."
It felt weird to be "choosing" sesshin over my dad. But then I thought, "No, you go to the symphony with him once a month. You're not choosing sesshin over your dad. He asked you, out of the blue, on a day when you normally don't go to the symphony. You're busy, it's okay to say no."
And then I pictured telling my dad this:
"Sorry Daddy, I can't go to the symphony. It's on the second day of sesshin at the zen center."
"Sesshin?"
"Uh, yeah. It's this thing where we meditate for seven days straight."
"Meditate?"
"Um, yeah...we, uh, sit... and we, uh, face the wall, and we... breathe... and we uh..."
Maybe I'll just tell him that I'm taking a class at the zen center.
But then I would be lieing to my dad, and I didn't want to do that.
"Oooh," I thought. "I have therapy this week. I can talk to my therapist about this and then get back to my dad."
So, I didn't respond to his email.
The next day, I got another email from him but this time, it was a confirmation of his purchase of the tickets for the show.
"Oh my gosh!" I thought. "He hadn't bought the tickets yet! And now he has bought them. I can't go, and I knew that, and I didn't tell him because I didn't want to deal with whatever I was dealing with. I wanted to wait, to make things smooth, to try to change the situation. I didn't want to accept whatever I was dealing with, I wanted to have it both ways. And because of that, he bought the tickets."
I sent him an email immediately, telling him I couldn't go and apologizing for not telling him sooner. That felt better, but what I had done felt horrible.
And I thought about this: why the email telling him that I couldn't go felt okay, but the waiting to tell him felt so bad. I thought about how it felt sending that email, being honest with him, treating him with respect instead of trying to create some fantasy relationship with him. And I thought, "You know what? I think if you had responded to his email right away, if you had just been honest with him, just been present to what you were experiencing at the time, I don't think you would have regretted your decision. I think that what feels so bad is the deception, the manipulation, the attempt to change the way things were. Even though you would have felt bad saying you couldn't go with him, I don't think you would have regretted it or wished you had done it another way because you would have been yourself and you would have been honest."
It's funny, my big thing about all of this was this whole idea that there was some kind of choosing between the zen center and my dad, that I would have to explain the importance of sesshin to him, that I would have to talk with him about what's going on with me and the zen center. But in that email that I sent, as soon as I saw that he had bought the tickets, I said nothing about the zen center- just that I couldn't go. Because that was all he needed to know- that I couldn't go and that hopefully he could return the tickets. In the email that I sent, I was present to him, not to my fears and anxieties, and that felt good.
I got three more emails from him:
The first one told me how great the show was going to be, how much the tickets were selling for on- line, and how much of a deal he was able to get on the seats because he was a season ticket holder.
The second one suggested that we try to find someone to buy them (or give them to).
The third one said "Oooops, I forgot. I'm having a medical procedure a few days prior to the concert. I probably couldn't have made it to the performance anyway but would have felt like I should keep my commitment to you and so would have gone. It probably is for the best that you can't make it. I can't make it either."
I laughed when I read the third one, because this is how life is. You really never know how things are going to turn out. But I still think that accepting the situation, instead of trying to change it, just makes it easier to let it go, to not get caught up in it, to make peace with this life and to not regret what you do in it.
Part of me felt like, "C'mon, it's seven days, you can miss one night to go the symphony with your dad."
But part of me felt like, "No, the whole point of this sesshin is that you really can slow down, be present to each moment, each activity that you do all day long. Going to the symphony with your dad will bring things in to your sesshin. Let it go about your dad and actually experience this sesshin fully."
It felt weird to be "choosing" sesshin over my dad. But then I thought, "No, you go to the symphony with him once a month. You're not choosing sesshin over your dad. He asked you, out of the blue, on a day when you normally don't go to the symphony. You're busy, it's okay to say no."
And then I pictured telling my dad this:
"Sorry Daddy, I can't go to the symphony. It's on the second day of sesshin at the zen center."
"Sesshin?"
"Uh, yeah. It's this thing where we meditate for seven days straight."
"Meditate?"
"Um, yeah...we, uh, sit... and we, uh, face the wall, and we... breathe... and we uh..."
Maybe I'll just tell him that I'm taking a class at the zen center.
But then I would be lieing to my dad, and I didn't want to do that.
"Oooh," I thought. "I have therapy this week. I can talk to my therapist about this and then get back to my dad."
So, I didn't respond to his email.
The next day, I got another email from him but this time, it was a confirmation of his purchase of the tickets for the show.
"Oh my gosh!" I thought. "He hadn't bought the tickets yet! And now he has bought them. I can't go, and I knew that, and I didn't tell him because I didn't want to deal with whatever I was dealing with. I wanted to wait, to make things smooth, to try to change the situation. I didn't want to accept whatever I was dealing with, I wanted to have it both ways. And because of that, he bought the tickets."
I sent him an email immediately, telling him I couldn't go and apologizing for not telling him sooner. That felt better, but what I had done felt horrible.
And I thought about this: why the email telling him that I couldn't go felt okay, but the waiting to tell him felt so bad. I thought about how it felt sending that email, being honest with him, treating him with respect instead of trying to create some fantasy relationship with him. And I thought, "You know what? I think if you had responded to his email right away, if you had just been honest with him, just been present to what you were experiencing at the time, I don't think you would have regretted your decision. I think that what feels so bad is the deception, the manipulation, the attempt to change the way things were. Even though you would have felt bad saying you couldn't go with him, I don't think you would have regretted it or wished you had done it another way because you would have been yourself and you would have been honest."
It's funny, my big thing about all of this was this whole idea that there was some kind of choosing between the zen center and my dad, that I would have to explain the importance of sesshin to him, that I would have to talk with him about what's going on with me and the zen center. But in that email that I sent, as soon as I saw that he had bought the tickets, I said nothing about the zen center- just that I couldn't go. Because that was all he needed to know- that I couldn't go and that hopefully he could return the tickets. In the email that I sent, I was present to him, not to my fears and anxieties, and that felt good.
I got three more emails from him:
The first one told me how great the show was going to be, how much the tickets were selling for on- line, and how much of a deal he was able to get on the seats because he was a season ticket holder.
The second one suggested that we try to find someone to buy them (or give them to).
The third one said "Oooops, I forgot. I'm having a medical procedure a few days prior to the concert. I probably couldn't have made it to the performance anyway but would have felt like I should keep my commitment to you and so would have gone. It probably is for the best that you can't make it. I can't make it either."
I laughed when I read the third one, because this is how life is. You really never know how things are going to turn out. But I still think that accepting the situation, instead of trying to change it, just makes it easier to let it go, to not get caught up in it, to make peace with this life and to not regret what you do in it.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
The therapy of sweeping...
Last Saturday I got the soji job of sweeping the front of the zen center. I've had this job before and last time while I swept, I had a big ol' realization about judgment. This time I had a big ol' realization about being my self.
I was at the end of the line for temple jobs and the two people in front of me seemed new to the zen center. The work leader pointed to the three of us, asked us to sweep, and kind of motioned to me to show the other two what to do. I walked us to the broom closet, moved the dust pans out of the way, and handed each of them an 'outside' broom. One of them asked, "Don't we need a dustpan?" I explained that since we were outside, we usually just swept everything to the curb.
Then we went outside and they asked whether or not we should sweep the mats.
"Oh yeah," I said. "That'd be a good idea."
Then I went to the sidewalk and started sweeping. As I swept, I reflected on my interaction with these two women. I replayed what I had said to them, how far in front of them I had walked after handing them the brooms, whether or not I had held the door open long enough for them to get outside. Then I thought about how they felt about me being "in charge" and I thought about how well I had balanced that notion, that I had given them the support that they needed (gotten them brooms) but then left them to do their own thing, and that by acknowledging their idea of sweeping the mats I had made up for any criticism they might have felt when I told them we didn't need dustpans.
And then I thought, "Ummmm, do you see this? Do you see what you are doing? You're judging... your interaction... with these two people. You're looking for some right or wrong way to be with these people. There's no right or wrong way to be with these people. You keep trying to be one person or another. You keep trying to be some right or wrong person, as if there's some right or wrong you. Are you kidding? Like there's a right way to be you- ha! You can't even figure out who you are, how are you going to figure out some right version of you. Just be you. Seriously, no one else can do it, and you're never gonna get it right 'cause there is no right you. You're just you dude, get used to it and start doing it instead of wasting your time thinking about it."
I was at the end of the line for temple jobs and the two people in front of me seemed new to the zen center. The work leader pointed to the three of us, asked us to sweep, and kind of motioned to me to show the other two what to do. I walked us to the broom closet, moved the dust pans out of the way, and handed each of them an 'outside' broom. One of them asked, "Don't we need a dustpan?" I explained that since we were outside, we usually just swept everything to the curb.
Then we went outside and they asked whether or not we should sweep the mats.
"Oh yeah," I said. "That'd be a good idea."
Then I went to the sidewalk and started sweeping. As I swept, I reflected on my interaction with these two women. I replayed what I had said to them, how far in front of them I had walked after handing them the brooms, whether or not I had held the door open long enough for them to get outside. Then I thought about how they felt about me being "in charge" and I thought about how well I had balanced that notion, that I had given them the support that they needed (gotten them brooms) but then left them to do their own thing, and that by acknowledging their idea of sweeping the mats I had made up for any criticism they might have felt when I told them we didn't need dustpans.
And then I thought, "Ummmm, do you see this? Do you see what you are doing? You're judging... your interaction... with these two people. You're looking for some right or wrong way to be with these people. There's no right or wrong way to be with these people. You keep trying to be one person or another. You keep trying to be some right or wrong person, as if there's some right or wrong you. Are you kidding? Like there's a right way to be you- ha! You can't even figure out who you are, how are you going to figure out some right version of you. Just be you. Seriously, no one else can do it, and you're never gonna get it right 'cause there is no right you. You're just you dude, get used to it and start doing it instead of wasting your time thinking about it."
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Turning 41
This post has nothing to do with zen practice. This post has nothing to do with teaching. I suppose in some ways it's what a blogpost is supposed to be: a web-based log of someone's thoughts or feelings.
I'm writing this post because when I opened my sister's email tonight, it ended with my mom's name. Seeing my mom's name made me cry, just a little.
My mom died when I was little- 6, to be exact. My mom died when she was 41, which, it turns out, is also little. I'm finding this out because I'm turning 41 myself this week, and seeing that 41 is really young.
I've been thinking about this a lot this week, and in these months leading up to my birthday. I've been seeing my mom as a person, a woman who was 41, who had three little kids (my brother was 9, my sister 12) and who liked to make chocolate mousse.
I had asked my sister to email me my mom's recipe for chocolate mousse. It was one of her specialties. She also liked Grasshopper Pie (apparently she would go to Chiacgo for the weekend, shop, and then have Grasshopper Pie made with Frango mints as a treat).
When I read the recipe, I thought it was kind of weird. It wasn't anywhere near as complicated as I had expected chocolate mousse to be and I acually wondered if it would work. But that wasn't what hit me, that wasn't what made me cry. What hit me was her name. What hit me was this person, this person who had written down her recipe for chocolate mousse, and had signed her name to it. I just pictured her, writing down the recipe and signing it. I can't really explain why this is important or why this makes me cry, just that she was a person, making chocolate mousse, and signing her name.
I pictured her, in our kitchen, making the mousse and writing it out on a recipe card, saving it for future use. And I guess in some ways, I'm picturing myself. I write recipes. I save them for future use. I know that feeling of wanting to keep a good recipe. And maybe that is what is hitting me: her earnestness, her signing her name, her making the recipe her own, her attempt to hold on to something, to keep it for future use, the image of her, being young, living in the present but planning for the future.
I just... it turns out that she was little too, that she was a person too, that she had hopes and fears and desires and friends and that she lived.
And it's really sad that she died, that she didn't get to keep on living, that her life stopped. And it's weird that my life is still going on, that I am going to be older than her, that I am going to experience things that she never got to experience. I will be 42 next year. She will never be 42.
I don't know what else to say about this except that it makes me sad and confused to surpass my mother. It's nice to know that she was young. It's nice to imagine her in our house, all healthy and busily making chocolate mousse for her friends but it's a really weird feeling to begin to see myself as older than that, to think that I will get older than her, that I will age in a way that she never did and that she is becoming younger than me.
I'm writing this post because when I opened my sister's email tonight, it ended with my mom's name. Seeing my mom's name made me cry, just a little.
My mom died when I was little- 6, to be exact. My mom died when she was 41, which, it turns out, is also little. I'm finding this out because I'm turning 41 myself this week, and seeing that 41 is really young.
I've been thinking about this a lot this week, and in these months leading up to my birthday. I've been seeing my mom as a person, a woman who was 41, who had three little kids (my brother was 9, my sister 12) and who liked to make chocolate mousse.
I had asked my sister to email me my mom's recipe for chocolate mousse. It was one of her specialties. She also liked Grasshopper Pie (apparently she would go to Chiacgo for the weekend, shop, and then have Grasshopper Pie made with Frango mints as a treat).
When I read the recipe, I thought it was kind of weird. It wasn't anywhere near as complicated as I had expected chocolate mousse to be and I acually wondered if it would work. But that wasn't what hit me, that wasn't what made me cry. What hit me was her name. What hit me was this person, this person who had written down her recipe for chocolate mousse, and had signed her name to it. I just pictured her, writing down the recipe and signing it. I can't really explain why this is important or why this makes me cry, just that she was a person, making chocolate mousse, and signing her name.
I pictured her, in our kitchen, making the mousse and writing it out on a recipe card, saving it for future use. And I guess in some ways, I'm picturing myself. I write recipes. I save them for future use. I know that feeling of wanting to keep a good recipe. And maybe that is what is hitting me: her earnestness, her signing her name, her making the recipe her own, her attempt to hold on to something, to keep it for future use, the image of her, being young, living in the present but planning for the future.
I just... it turns out that she was little too, that she was a person too, that she had hopes and fears and desires and friends and that she lived.
And it's really sad that she died, that she didn't get to keep on living, that her life stopped. And it's weird that my life is still going on, that I am going to be older than her, that I am going to experience things that she never got to experience. I will be 42 next year. She will never be 42.
I don't know what else to say about this except that it makes me sad and confused to surpass my mother. It's nice to know that she was young. It's nice to imagine her in our house, all healthy and busily making chocolate mousse for her friends but it's a really weird feeling to begin to see myself as older than that, to think that I will get older than her, that I will age in a way that she never did and that she is becoming younger than me.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Still in the gaitan
The title of this post is referring to the fact that when I first started meditating at city center, I meditated in the gaitan (the hallway outside the zendo) instead of the zendo. I did this for three months before finally entering the zendo, and only then went into the zendo to prove someone wrong. Once I did go in to the zendo, however, things were fine and all the stuff that I had made up about the zendo basically just dropped away.
Lately I have been noticing that in some ways, I am still in the gaitan, although it feels more like I'm sitting on the brick steps that lead up to the door of the zen center. I know that I'm the one sitting out there- that no one has sent me out there and that all I need to do is open the door and walk in.
But I just can't seem to do it.
A couple of weeks ago, I actually did step inside. Well, it wasn't so much a step as it was a desperate pulling open of the door, a rush inside, and an immediate sitting down, just inside the door. It was kind of like when it suddenly starts pouring rain and, caught without an umbrella, you step inside the nearest building for shelter: it's not so much that you chose that building, it's more that you needed refuge from the storm.
I had been struggling with some stuff, feeling confused about how to deal with people, how to change the habits that felt so ingrained in me. I went to Young Urban Zen, not with the intention of dealing with this stuff, but just because it was Monday night and that's when we meet. That evening, we studied a reading that talked about emotions: being present to them, noticing them as they are, feeling them without all of the baggage that our thoughts can add to them. I felt genuinely confused about the teaching- wondering how to understand the difference between those emotions that were kind of natural, that were actual responses to the moment and those other emotions that felt like real emotions but were just habits that I fall into. So, I asked the group, "How do you know when it's one or the other?"
And it was amazing: no one taught me about the difference, no one said "you should do this" or "this is how we deal with that," they just shared their experience and their wisdom. They just said "I have found that..." or "Yeah, that happens to me too and when it does I..." And being in this room with all these people who are living this life, who deal with emotions and with people, I felt so incredibly grateful that I have this resource, that I have this place. But I also realized that I need this; that for reasons that I don't really need to get in to, I don't have a whole lot of experience with emotions and I need some help around this. If the zen center is what helps me with it, then I just need to walk in and let it help me.
Lately I have been noticing that in some ways, I am still in the gaitan, although it feels more like I'm sitting on the brick steps that lead up to the door of the zen center. I know that I'm the one sitting out there- that no one has sent me out there and that all I need to do is open the door and walk in.
But I just can't seem to do it.
A couple of weeks ago, I actually did step inside. Well, it wasn't so much a step as it was a desperate pulling open of the door, a rush inside, and an immediate sitting down, just inside the door. It was kind of like when it suddenly starts pouring rain and, caught without an umbrella, you step inside the nearest building for shelter: it's not so much that you chose that building, it's more that you needed refuge from the storm.
I had been struggling with some stuff, feeling confused about how to deal with people, how to change the habits that felt so ingrained in me. I went to Young Urban Zen, not with the intention of dealing with this stuff, but just because it was Monday night and that's when we meet. That evening, we studied a reading that talked about emotions: being present to them, noticing them as they are, feeling them without all of the baggage that our thoughts can add to them. I felt genuinely confused about the teaching- wondering how to understand the difference between those emotions that were kind of natural, that were actual responses to the moment and those other emotions that felt like real emotions but were just habits that I fall into. So, I asked the group, "How do you know when it's one or the other?"
And it was amazing: no one taught me about the difference, no one said "you should do this" or "this is how we deal with that," they just shared their experience and their wisdom. They just said "I have found that..." or "Yeah, that happens to me too and when it does I..." And being in this room with all these people who are living this life, who deal with emotions and with people, I felt so incredibly grateful that I have this resource, that I have this place. But I also realized that I need this; that for reasons that I don't really need to get in to, I don't have a whole lot of experience with emotions and I need some help around this. If the zen center is what helps me with it, then I just need to walk in and let it help me.
Am I a Buddhist? Everyone else thinks I am
My therapist says I'm a Buddhist.
My room mate says I'm a Buddhist.
The Ino says "What is a Buddhist?"
I say, "I don't know."
And I don't know. Is it someone who meditates? Is it someone who bows to Buddha? Is it someone who seeks to benefit all beings?
What would it mean to call myself a Buddhist? Would I wear robes? Would I shave my head? Would I have dinner with everyone at the zen center? Would I line up on the other side of the counter to get my meals? Would I go to Tassajara? Would I become part of a community of really lovely people? Would I feel like I belonged?
Can I be a Buddhist who rides her bike to the zendo in the morning? Can I be a Buddhist who sleeps in her own bed? Can I practice outside the zen center and still be a Buddhist? Isn't that what the people at the zen center do? Aren't they practicing all the time, it's just that they live there? Am I really so different from the "people in robes?"
What would it mean to "wear the robes?" Who would it benefit? Who would it alienate? What would it mean and why would I do it?
Can I be a Buddhist teacher? Do I need to wear robes or practice intensely to manifest this practice throughout my life? Can I just take the parts of it that I need and leave the parts that don't fit in with my life outside the zen center? Is it all or nothing? It sure does feel like that, like the more immersed I get the more it becomes a part of me, the less it's a practice, the less it's trying and more just doing.
What do I have to give up to become a part of the zen center? Aren't I already a part of the zen center? Is this enough?
It's all me. I can come or go as I choose. There isn't a threshold over which I will someday cross and become a Buddhist. I don't even need to become a Buddhist. I just am. And I don't mean that I am a Buddhist, I mean that I just am. This is who I am. I can call it what I want to make myself feel better or worse. I can label it, judge it, hold it up as profound or spiritual, fear it for all that I associate with it. Or I can accept it, which is hard because it scares me because it feels so final, so constricting, so much an identity. But it isn't. It's just what the Ino says: a bunch of cool people who care about others. And still, I still don't know if I'm a Buddhist...
My room mate says I'm a Buddhist.
The Ino says "What is a Buddhist?"
I say, "I don't know."
And I don't know. Is it someone who meditates? Is it someone who bows to Buddha? Is it someone who seeks to benefit all beings?
What would it mean to call myself a Buddhist? Would I wear robes? Would I shave my head? Would I have dinner with everyone at the zen center? Would I line up on the other side of the counter to get my meals? Would I go to Tassajara? Would I become part of a community of really lovely people? Would I feel like I belonged?
Can I be a Buddhist who rides her bike to the zendo in the morning? Can I be a Buddhist who sleeps in her own bed? Can I practice outside the zen center and still be a Buddhist? Isn't that what the people at the zen center do? Aren't they practicing all the time, it's just that they live there? Am I really so different from the "people in robes?"
What would it mean to "wear the robes?" Who would it benefit? Who would it alienate? What would it mean and why would I do it?
Can I be a Buddhist teacher? Do I need to wear robes or practice intensely to manifest this practice throughout my life? Can I just take the parts of it that I need and leave the parts that don't fit in with my life outside the zen center? Is it all or nothing? It sure does feel like that, like the more immersed I get the more it becomes a part of me, the less it's a practice, the less it's trying and more just doing.
What do I have to give up to become a part of the zen center? Aren't I already a part of the zen center? Is this enough?
It's all me. I can come or go as I choose. There isn't a threshold over which I will someday cross and become a Buddhist. I don't even need to become a Buddhist. I just am. And I don't mean that I am a Buddhist, I mean that I just am. This is who I am. I can call it what I want to make myself feel better or worse. I can label it, judge it, hold it up as profound or spiritual, fear it for all that I associate with it. Or I can accept it, which is hard because it scares me because it feels so final, so constricting, so much an identity. But it isn't. It's just what the Ino says: a bunch of cool people who care about others. And still, I still don't know if I'm a Buddhist...
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