I have to admit that even though I really didn't want to have a memorial for my mom in the zendo, it was really easy to write the email requesting that I have a memorial for my mom in the zendo. I knew the date fell during interim, I knew they couldn't have a service for her on that day, so there was no problem asking for it, I knew they'd say no.
But here's the funny thing. As soon as I wrote the email, requesting this thing that I honestly didn't want and was only doing because I knew I was supposed to, I found myself checking my email a bunch of times each day. It was like I wanted this interaction to happen, I actually wanted someone to know that I was requesting a memorial for my mom. I don't think I wanted the memorial per se, but I watched myself eagerly awaiting the response of someone acknowledging that I was going through this- even if it was just to say that it couldn't happen.
But that wasn't the email that I got. Instead, I got an email saying they could do a service for my mom on Friday and asking if that would work for me. I was pretty surprised by this: they were going to have a special service during interim just for my mom? But then I got a second email, clarifying that the memorial would be this Friday.
I responded as quickly as I could, because it was so nice of them to do it on the day that wasn't actually the anniversary of my mom's death. But then, all of a sudden, I was having a memorial service for my mom, in the zendo.
And I am. I'm having a memorial service for my mom, in the zendo. In the email I asked them to let me know if I needed to do anything for the service or if I should just 'show up.' Part of me knows the answer to this question already: all I need to do is just show up.
But then I pictured myself, just showing up. I pictured myself, standing in front of Blanche's zafu, while someone chanted something. I knew that I was going to have to walk up to the altar and I knew I was going to have to do that all by myself. I knew that it was just going to be me in the zendo, that my mom wouldn't be there, and that maybe I would have to say something, maybe I wouldn't, but still, it was just me. This memorial service is actually for me.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Memorial (part 3)
As I was sitting zazen (a couple of days after I had talked with my therapist about the fact that my mom was actually dead) I kind of came to the reality that I really was going to have to ask to have a memorial service for my mom. August 31st was coming, whether I liked it or not and I was going to have to deal with that day in one way or another. I knew that I could have ignored it, pretended like it didn't happen, and no one would know, no one really knows that August 31st is the anniversary of her death. But I also knew that I was still going to have to live through that day and I decided that I didn't want to be the one who chose to be alone on that day, who knew that she should have asked for help, and didn't.
So I knew that I needed to contact someone about doing the memorial. I knew that what I really needed to do was to talk to the person who's in charge of it and tell them the situation: my mom died on this Friday and I want to have a memorial for her, but it's interim, what do I do?
I pictured the person saying to me that we couldn't have a memorial for her on that day. I pictured there being no service that evening, and I pictured a bunch of us, leaving the zendo on that Friday, together.
"Maybe we could go to the beach, and scatter some pretend ashes or something," I thought. But then I thought, "I don't even know if my mom liked the beach and, that would be really weird to scatter pretend ashes."
So then I thought about doing some celebration of her life, about sharing her, with my friends. But that felt weird too. How could I share my mom with them when I didn't even know her myself? How could I share her life when I never even knew it?
And then I thought, "This isn't about her life. August 31st isn't the day she was born, it was the day she died. She actually died."
And then I started crying because I realized that, in fact, a memorial service was exactly what I should be doing on August 31st. I was memorializing my mom. She was dead and I was acknowledging her passing. I wasn't celebrating her life or bringing her in to the zendo, I was remembering her, acknowledging that she had died on this very day.
I cried some more and then I stopped. I started to think about writing this blogpost and then in the same way that I normally say "Oh, that's a thought" I said, "Oh, that's a blogpost," and that made me laugh. Then I went back to sitting zazen and the bell rang.
Because it was Friday, we chanted the Dai Hi Shin Darani: the chant they do during memorial ceremonies. I realized that this was the chant they would do if I ever had a memorial ceremony for my mom. I listened as the kokyo chanted: "We dedicate this merit to..." As he started to list the people who the chant was benefitting, I tried to figure out where my mom would fit. "The deceased practitioners..." Nope, she wasn't a pracitioner. "The deceased members of the sangha..." Ummm, I don't think she would be considered part of the sangha, she died in 1977. And then I think he said something about the beings in all six realms and I couldn't figure out which realm she would be in. Then I think he ended with "All sentient beings." I figured that was where she belonged, and that's when I cried some more. She's some sentient being. I don't really know what that is. I'm still figuring this out- her existence, her non- existence; her memory; the her that still floats around in my head; the one in the photograph on my mantel who goes back and forth between being alive and being a photo.
I left zazen that night feeling strangely light. I went to dinner with a friend and was surprised by the fluidity of my body, like I didn't have any corners, just rounded and pliable. I guess I felt like you do after a really good cry.
So I knew that I needed to contact someone about doing the memorial. I knew that what I really needed to do was to talk to the person who's in charge of it and tell them the situation: my mom died on this Friday and I want to have a memorial for her, but it's interim, what do I do?
I pictured the person saying to me that we couldn't have a memorial for her on that day. I pictured there being no service that evening, and I pictured a bunch of us, leaving the zendo on that Friday, together.
"Maybe we could go to the beach, and scatter some pretend ashes or something," I thought. But then I thought, "I don't even know if my mom liked the beach and, that would be really weird to scatter pretend ashes."
So then I thought about doing some celebration of her life, about sharing her, with my friends. But that felt weird too. How could I share my mom with them when I didn't even know her myself? How could I share her life when I never even knew it?
And then I thought, "This isn't about her life. August 31st isn't the day she was born, it was the day she died. She actually died."
And then I started crying because I realized that, in fact, a memorial service was exactly what I should be doing on August 31st. I was memorializing my mom. She was dead and I was acknowledging her passing. I wasn't celebrating her life or bringing her in to the zendo, I was remembering her, acknowledging that she had died on this very day.
I cried some more and then I stopped. I started to think about writing this blogpost and then in the same way that I normally say "Oh, that's a thought" I said, "Oh, that's a blogpost," and that made me laugh. Then I went back to sitting zazen and the bell rang.
Because it was Friday, we chanted the Dai Hi Shin Darani: the chant they do during memorial ceremonies. I realized that this was the chant they would do if I ever had a memorial ceremony for my mom. I listened as the kokyo chanted: "We dedicate this merit to..." As he started to list the people who the chant was benefitting, I tried to figure out where my mom would fit. "The deceased practitioners..." Nope, she wasn't a pracitioner. "The deceased members of the sangha..." Ummm, I don't think she would be considered part of the sangha, she died in 1977. And then I think he said something about the beings in all six realms and I couldn't figure out which realm she would be in. Then I think he ended with "All sentient beings." I figured that was where she belonged, and that's when I cried some more. She's some sentient being. I don't really know what that is. I'm still figuring this out- her existence, her non- existence; her memory; the her that still floats around in my head; the one in the photograph on my mantel who goes back and forth between being alive and being a photo.
I left zazen that night feeling strangely light. I went to dinner with a friend and was surprised by the fluidity of my body, like I didn't have any corners, just rounded and pliable. I guess I felt like you do after a really good cry.
She's gone (part 2)
So, as soon I wrote the words 'she's gone' in my last post, it hit me that my mom was dead. Looking back on the post, I see that I didn't even put a period after it- that's how much it hit me. As soon as I wrote it, I doubled over in my bed with my computer still on my lap, and just cried. After a while, I got back up, just to shut down my computer. Then I went back to crying, until I fell asleep.
Fortunately, I had therapy the next day. Within the first few sentences that I shared with my therapist about what had happened, I said the words: "My mom is dead." When I got to the word 'dead,' I choked up and stopped. My therapist pointed out that it was hard for me to say those words, and it was. It is.
This is confusing for me. I have known for my entire conscious life that my mother died when I was little. It has been a big part of my identity- I've always been the one without a mother. I know that my mom is dead. But, here I am, struggling to actually say that she is dead.
My therapist and I talked some more about what was going on, about how I don't want to let go, about how I feel like I just met my mom. But then she pointed out to me that I didn't really just meet my mom, my mom has been dead for 35 years.
This was confusing for me too, because I don't feel like she's been dead for 35 years. I feel like she's been floating around for 35 years, like a Jiminy Cricket or something, on my shoulder, looking out for me. But then my therapist reminded me again that she died, 35 years ago.
So then I thought about this mom, that's been hanging around all this time, and I thought about the fact that my mom actually did die, way back when. And that's when I got really bummed out in therapy. Because what I realized was that this mom, this person who has been in my life all this time, was made up. I made up my mom as a six-year-old, and just kept her, all this time. She's made up. She was made up by a six-year-old to make things okay, to cope with something that she couldn't.
So then my therapist pointed out to me that it didn't just stop there. She explained that I had actually started to move beyond the fantasy mom that I had created as a little girl- that over the past year I had finally begun to see my mom as a real person. We talked about the fact that in doing this, I had begun to see that she and I had co existed, that she wasn't just a dead mom, that she had given birth to me and cared for me and loved me for six years. It was this acknowledgement that she had lived and died that lead me to the feeling I had been having of finally getting to know my mom. By seeing the reality of her life and death, I was able to feel connected to her.
And that's when I was sad again. I told my therapist how much I really didn't want to let go of that mom, how nice it had been to get to know her, to see her, to feel like she was real.
But my therapist pushed me some more. She pointed out that in seeing the reality of my mother's life and death, she became more real. When I heard this, I understood that she wanted me to let go of this mom too, that she was suggesting that in letting go of this mom, my mom would become even more real. I told her I didn't want to do this, because if I let go of this mom, I'd have nothing. She explained that that wasn't true, that I would still have the memory of my mom.
I struggled with this, to understand the difference between the mom who had been in my head all these years and the memories of my mom. I realized that the mom in my head was frozen, she was like a photograph- she never moved or responded or anything, she was just an icon. Then I thought about the mom I had been connecting with over the past year- about how I had seen my mom in lots of different ways, how I had seen her as a whole person, as a woman who was the same age as me. I said to my therapist: "It's like sesshin- once I accepted the reality of my experience with my mom, she changed from just a photograph to a real person."
So then I thought about the memories I have of my mom, and I don't really have any. I was really little so they're just snapshots: the car breaking down, serving the chocolate mousse at her book club, singing Somewhere Over The Rainbow with her as we listened to it on my little record player in my bedroom. It's hard for me to accept that this is all I will ever have of my mom, that this is all I am left with, still images of brief moments in time.
But it's the truth. I was six when my mom died. We didn't have any grown up conversations, I didn't really know her as a person, she was just my mom and I was just a kid and she died and I kept on living.
Fortunately, I had therapy the next day. Within the first few sentences that I shared with my therapist about what had happened, I said the words: "My mom is dead." When I got to the word 'dead,' I choked up and stopped. My therapist pointed out that it was hard for me to say those words, and it was. It is.
This is confusing for me. I have known for my entire conscious life that my mother died when I was little. It has been a big part of my identity- I've always been the one without a mother. I know that my mom is dead. But, here I am, struggling to actually say that she is dead.
My therapist and I talked some more about what was going on, about how I don't want to let go, about how I feel like I just met my mom. But then she pointed out to me that I didn't really just meet my mom, my mom has been dead for 35 years.
This was confusing for me too, because I don't feel like she's been dead for 35 years. I feel like she's been floating around for 35 years, like a Jiminy Cricket or something, on my shoulder, looking out for me. But then my therapist reminded me again that she died, 35 years ago.
So then I thought about this mom, that's been hanging around all this time, and I thought about the fact that my mom actually did die, way back when. And that's when I got really bummed out in therapy. Because what I realized was that this mom, this person who has been in my life all this time, was made up. I made up my mom as a six-year-old, and just kept her, all this time. She's made up. She was made up by a six-year-old to make things okay, to cope with something that she couldn't.
So then my therapist pointed out to me that it didn't just stop there. She explained that I had actually started to move beyond the fantasy mom that I had created as a little girl- that over the past year I had finally begun to see my mom as a real person. We talked about the fact that in doing this, I had begun to see that she and I had co existed, that she wasn't just a dead mom, that she had given birth to me and cared for me and loved me for six years. It was this acknowledgement that she had lived and died that lead me to the feeling I had been having of finally getting to know my mom. By seeing the reality of her life and death, I was able to feel connected to her.
And that's when I was sad again. I told my therapist how much I really didn't want to let go of that mom, how nice it had been to get to know her, to see her, to feel like she was real.
But my therapist pushed me some more. She pointed out that in seeing the reality of my mother's life and death, she became more real. When I heard this, I understood that she wanted me to let go of this mom too, that she was suggesting that in letting go of this mom, my mom would become even more real. I told her I didn't want to do this, because if I let go of this mom, I'd have nothing. She explained that that wasn't true, that I would still have the memory of my mom.
I struggled with this, to understand the difference between the mom who had been in my head all these years and the memories of my mom. I realized that the mom in my head was frozen, she was like a photograph- she never moved or responded or anything, she was just an icon. Then I thought about the mom I had been connecting with over the past year- about how I had seen my mom in lots of different ways, how I had seen her as a whole person, as a woman who was the same age as me. I said to my therapist: "It's like sesshin- once I accepted the reality of my experience with my mom, she changed from just a photograph to a real person."
So then I thought about the memories I have of my mom, and I don't really have any. I was really little so they're just snapshots: the car breaking down, serving the chocolate mousse at her book club, singing Somewhere Over The Rainbow with her as we listened to it on my little record player in my bedroom. It's hard for me to accept that this is all I will ever have of my mom, that this is all I am left with, still images of brief moments in time.
But it's the truth. I was six when my mom died. We didn't have any grown up conversations, I didn't really know her as a person, she was just my mom and I was just a kid and she died and I kept on living.
Saying goodbye (part 1)
A couple of weeks ago, due to circumstances beyond my control, stuff came up for me about people leaving. This stuff, brought up old stuff; stuff that I didn't know was there, about my mom. What it brought up is that I have an expectation that people will leave, without warning, and for no reason. It's not true, it's not what actually happened, but as a six year old, it was what happened. One day my mom was there, the next she was not.
The second thing these 'circumstances beyond my control' brought up was that my mom left without saying goodbye. I'm pretty sure this is true. I don't think she ever really knew or accepted that she was leaving (dying of breast cancer) and I definitely don't remember her saying goodbye. How could you possibly say goodbye to your six year old daughter?
I talked with my therapist about this- she's the one who pointed out that it was true, she did leave without saying goodbye.
I also talked with my good friend about this and he recommended, as many people recommended on my blogpost about Mother's Day, that I have a ceremony or some sort of something, to commemorate her, to say goodbye to her.
I've never wanted to do this. I don't want to say goodbye to my mom- I've only just met her. Before therapy and the zen center, she was just an imaginative figure- identical in reality to the tooth fairy or a guardian angel. But over the past two years, she's become a real person, I've seen my connection to her, felt our co existence when I was little, and started to understand the reality of her life and mine. The last thing I want to do now is "let her go."
So I just kind of ignored everyone's suggestions to do a ceremony or something special on Mother's Day. I rationalized this avoidance by telling myself that my circumstances were different: I never knew my mom so I couldn't memorialize her in the zendo, and I woudn't have anything to say to her in the ceremony because I was so little when she died, etc. Though I did want to bring my mom in to the zendo, I wanted to bring her as someone who was alive. I wanted her to see what had brought me such happiness, I kind of wanted her to know that I was okay, that I was taken care of. I didn't want to acknowledge her death, so I just didn't do anything for Mother's Day.
But when it came up this time, when I told my friend about her leaving without saying goodbye, I realized that even though I didn't want to say goodbye, I needed to listen to the advice of others and maybe give in.
We talked about doing a memorial ceremony for her in the zendo and the numbers worked out perfectly. She died on August 31st, which falls on a Friday this year- the day that they normally do memorials in the zendo. We realized that my friend would likely be the doshi for the ceremony since he normally does that on Fridays. He told me who to contact and I was actually going to do it.
I came home and looked at the calendar. What I saw was that the anniversary of her death fell during interim. There wouldn't be a memorial ceremony that Friday- they don't do service during interim. At first, I was relieved. It was nice that I wasn't going to have to deal with this, with saying goodbye. I even tried to make myself look all good about this, by saying that I was just "accepting" that the timing didn't work out. But the thing is, instead of telling my friend that her anniversary fell during interim, I kept it a secret. I didn't want him to know because I thought that if he did, he'd find a way for us to have a ceremony anyway, and I didn't want that. So I just "let it go," but really, I just pushed it aside, I just reframed it as not wanting to bother my friend with creating a ceremony for my mom. I knew I was doing this when I was doing this, and I actually thought it was fine. I thought I was honoring where I was in this process- respecting the fact that I wasn't ready to let go of her, allowing myself to spend the time that I needed with her, believing that I would eventually be ready to let her go.
But the thing is, August 31st is an actual day. It is the actual day that my mom died. She died, whether I want to accept that or not. In some ways, August 31st is her day, not mine. She's the one who had to go through it, not me. I don't really know what I'm going to do on that day. I had thought that it was up to me, that I would say goodbye to her when I was ready but it isn't. She's already gone
The second thing these 'circumstances beyond my control' brought up was that my mom left without saying goodbye. I'm pretty sure this is true. I don't think she ever really knew or accepted that she was leaving (dying of breast cancer) and I definitely don't remember her saying goodbye. How could you possibly say goodbye to your six year old daughter?
I talked with my therapist about this- she's the one who pointed out that it was true, she did leave without saying goodbye.
I also talked with my good friend about this and he recommended, as many people recommended on my blogpost about Mother's Day, that I have a ceremony or some sort of something, to commemorate her, to say goodbye to her.
I've never wanted to do this. I don't want to say goodbye to my mom- I've only just met her. Before therapy and the zen center, she was just an imaginative figure- identical in reality to the tooth fairy or a guardian angel. But over the past two years, she's become a real person, I've seen my connection to her, felt our co existence when I was little, and started to understand the reality of her life and mine. The last thing I want to do now is "let her go."
So I just kind of ignored everyone's suggestions to do a ceremony or something special on Mother's Day. I rationalized this avoidance by telling myself that my circumstances were different: I never knew my mom so I couldn't memorialize her in the zendo, and I woudn't have anything to say to her in the ceremony because I was so little when she died, etc. Though I did want to bring my mom in to the zendo, I wanted to bring her as someone who was alive. I wanted her to see what had brought me such happiness, I kind of wanted her to know that I was okay, that I was taken care of. I didn't want to acknowledge her death, so I just didn't do anything for Mother's Day.
But when it came up this time, when I told my friend about her leaving without saying goodbye, I realized that even though I didn't want to say goodbye, I needed to listen to the advice of others and maybe give in.
We talked about doing a memorial ceremony for her in the zendo and the numbers worked out perfectly. She died on August 31st, which falls on a Friday this year- the day that they normally do memorials in the zendo. We realized that my friend would likely be the doshi for the ceremony since he normally does that on Fridays. He told me who to contact and I was actually going to do it.
I came home and looked at the calendar. What I saw was that the anniversary of her death fell during interim. There wouldn't be a memorial ceremony that Friday- they don't do service during interim. At first, I was relieved. It was nice that I wasn't going to have to deal with this, with saying goodbye. I even tried to make myself look all good about this, by saying that I was just "accepting" that the timing didn't work out. But the thing is, instead of telling my friend that her anniversary fell during interim, I kept it a secret. I didn't want him to know because I thought that if he did, he'd find a way for us to have a ceremony anyway, and I didn't want that. So I just "let it go," but really, I just pushed it aside, I just reframed it as not wanting to bother my friend with creating a ceremony for my mom. I knew I was doing this when I was doing this, and I actually thought it was fine. I thought I was honoring where I was in this process- respecting the fact that I wasn't ready to let go of her, allowing myself to spend the time that I needed with her, believing that I would eventually be ready to let her go.
But the thing is, August 31st is an actual day. It is the actual day that my mom died. She died, whether I want to accept that or not. In some ways, August 31st is her day, not mine. She's the one who had to go through it, not me. I don't really know what I'm going to do on that day. I had thought that it was up to me, that I would say goodbye to her when I was ready but it isn't. She's already gone
Friday, August 10, 2012
Telling someone off part 2 (the morning after)
Here's what happened the morning after I told someone off:
The next morning, Bob approached me in the kitchen.
“I didn’t get a chance to talk to you last night but I wanted to apologize for ‘barking’ at you yesterday,” he said to me privately as I washed the breakfast dishes.
I laughed at his joke with affection for the cleverness and sweetness of him, but I also started to freak out. I worried about what I should be saying, how I could avoid this unexpected interaction, how I could appease this conflict between us that I had unintentionally started.
“I didn’t mean to…” he started.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I know you didn’t mean to… It was just how I was feeling at the time so I said it…”
“There are a lot of ways to communicate things and I could have communicated that differently. I just wanted to slice the bread,” he explained.
“And that was what was great,” I said. “You just took the bread and sliced it,” I said.
But honestly,I had no idea what I was saying. I was scared. We were discussing the fact that I had told him that he made me feel like a dog. I didn’t mean to say that he made me feel like a dog, it was just how I had felt. And now, here we were, him apologizing to me and I was confused about what to do with this. Yesterday had been so clean, I had just been present in the moment, but now I had to be present to him, and I didn’t know how.
Because what I really wanted to do was appease the situation, make it go away, just stop this genuine interaction between us. It was unfamiliar territory for me and I wanted to go back to the easier stuff between us, where there was no room for conflict, where there were clear boundaries of power and roles. I desperately wanted to fall right back into my role: apologize for bringing it up, assure him that he hadn’t hurt me, defer my needs to his in an attempt to make myself easy and pleasant so that he would stay around.
But I didn’t do this. I knew that what had “worked” yesterday was being present to the moment. I knew that this bizarre interaction between us in which I had genuinely shared my feelings with him had come from me being present, not from trying to manipulate the situation.
So I didn’t manipulate. I just stood there, in silence, because I didn’t have anything else to say. He went back to making his coffee and I almost lingered, almost stayed in that part of the kitchen so that I could apologize or thank him or do something to make him not feel apologetic, not feel bad for having said what he said.
But instead, I tried to be present to myself. I tried to feel what I was feeling, instead of what I was thinking. When I felt what I was feeling, I realized that I wasn’t actually feeling sorry for what I had said. And though I felt bad that he was feeling bad, I knew that that was coming from a place of wanting to change the situation instead of accepting it. It was motivated more by my feelings of feeling bad for making him feel bad, than from a genuine place of compassion.
But instead, I tried to be present to myself. I tried to feel what I was feeling, instead of what I was thinking. When I felt what I was feeling, I realized that I wasn’t actually feeling sorry for what I had said. And though I felt bad that he was feeling bad, I knew that that was coming from a place of wanting to change the situation instead of accepting it. It was motivated more by my feelings of feeling bad for making him feel bad, than from a genuine place of compassion.
So I stayed present to the moment. At that moment, being present meant getting the other dishes and bringing them to the sink, so I did.
It was awkward for the rest of the morning. I read into everything and worried that he would be reading me too. I frequently tried to spend more or less time with him to let him know that I wasn’t upset with him or that I forgave him or whatever but then I kept telling myself to just be present. At that point, being present meant letting go of what had happened between us that morning as easily as I had let go of what had happened between us the night before. It wasn’t easy, it still isn’t, but I’m sticking with being present and letting us be. It’s what worked yesterday. I can’t say if it’s going to “work” in the future, but I’m sticking with it for now.
Telling someone off
Today, I told someone off. I didn’t mean to tell someone off, but I did. And it was weird because even
though I told them off- expressed to them my displeasure and refused to
continue in our interaction until they stopped what they were doing- I felt no
anger, no animosity toward them, and immediately moved on to the next thing we
were doing.
Here’s what happened. I was cutting bread and asking “Bob”
for advice about how to slice it (the knife wasn’t all that great). Bob
initially responded to my request for advice with instruction, which I took.
But then, when I attempted to follow the advice, and the knife wouldn’t
cooperate, Bob got frustrated by my hesitance to do what he suggested. He
stepped in to help but then directed me, as if I were a child- repeating the
same instruction over and over, like a command. This made me feel like an
idiot- like he was suggesting that I
was the problem, it had nothing to do with
the knife, that my hesitance came from something wrong with me, not a
legitimate reason to not be able to do what he was asking.
That was when I stopped. I held the knife in place halfway
down the loaf while he held the loaf on either ends. He continued to direct me
to slice through it but I refused.
“I’m just not going to…” and I didn’t know how to finish my
sentence. I just knew that I wasn’t going to be treated that way, I just
wasn’t. “I’m not going to…” I said as he repeated the command.
“Please don’t talk to me that way,” I finally said. “It makes me feel like… a dog.”
“Please don’t talk to me that way,” I finally said. “It makes me feel like… a dog.”
That’s when he stopped repeating the command. “It makes you
feel like a dog?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Oh,” he said. “I’m just trying to get the bread sliced,” he
explained.
“Okay,” I said. And he took the knife and sliced the rest of
the loaf.
And then it was done.
Neither of us apologized or said anything else but I had expressed
to him how I felt. And honestly, I don’t think he’s going to do it again. Maybe
he will, I have no idea, but for me, that’s not the point. I didn’t think about what I was doing, I didn’t plan to tell him off. I wasn’t caught up in the interaction at all. And
afterward, I wasn’t upset or hurt or expecting anything from it. I just felt bad
in the moment, stopped in response, communicated my feelings, and moved on.
I couldn’t possibly have planned this interaction. Bob and I have a long standing
relationship. There is no one in this world to whom I am more connected, no
one with whom I have more patterns, history, or baggage. Honestly, our
interaction today would normally be something I would dream about having, to finally break old habits of interaction that
bring me displeasure. But that wasn’t how it worked at all- it just happened.
And it’s done. And I
don’t even want to bother to try to replicate or understand how it happened because it
just happened, without me at all.
The fact that this happened without me thinking about it, honestly, makes me feel like I need
to just keep doing what I’m doing: being present, sitting zazen so I
know myself and can feel my feelings
(instead of thinking about them), not getting caught up in things when they
happen, and not valuing one emotion over another- making peace with my feelings
and my right to express them without fear of upsetting others.
I wish I
could point to what created this interaction but I can’t. I guess I’m sharing
it because it actually happened. Like, it’s proof that sitting facing a wall
every morning, walking/working/chanting… co-existing with a ton of other people
in absolute silence, this stuff seems to do something that magically allows me to communicate my
feelings to someone without fear, anger, or even thought.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
What's the point?
While I was traveling, surrounded by Buddhist temples and the Muslim call to prayer, I saw something. What I saw was the reality of my past two years' experience at the zen center. The reality, at least the way I saw it, was that this is just a religious (or spiritual) experience. Lots of people have it, lots of people find great joy in it, lots of people need it. What I had thought was this profound, unique, life changing experience was actually quite common, everyone seemed to be doing it, in their own way.
That got me thinking about the zen center, and the fact that all it is, is a building. And the zendo? It's just a basement. The whole place used to be a boarding house for Jewish women. I pictured all the people who have lived in the building all these years, all those women, all the abbots/ abbesses, all the students, and it felt like this open building with all these people flowing in and out of it.
Then I thought about Paul. I realized that he's just a person. He's an amazing teacher and has such wisdom to offer but it's still just coming from a person. He's just a person, like everyone else.
Then I thought about me. I'm just a person too, like everyone else.
And then I got confused.
Because if I'm a person, like everyone else, and I'm the same as everyone else, if there really is no self, then what's the point? If all I am is just a person, then what I am doing? I don't have anything to offer. I'm no different from anyone else. What's the point of talking? What's the point of offering my opinion or suggesting things? What's the point of expressing myself, if my 'self' doesn't exist?
This wasn't a feeling of woe is me- like I have nothing to offer or I suck- it was just the reality of it. I really am just a person, that's all.
So then, every time I thought about writing on the blog I thought, "What?! Who are you to offer advice? Who are you to think you've got this figured out? You're not special, you don't know anymore than anyone else."
So I stopped writing on the blog; because really, I had nothing to offer, I was no different from anyone else.
I kept going to zazen, and service, and soji every morning. None of this made me question my practice, I knew I was going to keep doing that no matter what. But I was still confused about the point of all this. I just kept coming back to this question of "If I have nothing to offer, because there is no self, then what am I doing?" I mean, I know I'm not the same as everyone else, but it also felt really truthful, this fact that I actually am the same as everyone else. I'm a human, we're all humans, and in that sense, we're all the same.
I requested dokusan with Paul, because I thought this was a big question and I couldn't seem to answer it on my own. But in the mean time, I kept asking myself, "If you have nothing to offer, what are you doing? You really do have nothing to offer, so what's the point?"
And then, as I was opening the pantry door one morning, another question popped in to my head: "What if it isn't about offering? What if it isn't about what you can give? What if it isn't about what you do to make things better or worse? What if it has nothing to do with adding or contributing?"
I thought about zen, and emptiness, and "right" and "balanced" and the fullness of things that are neither empty nor full, and just letting things be as they are and I thought that maybe, I'm just supposed to be. Maybe the point of this is for me to be whatever this person is, no matter what I turn out to do. Not like all irresponsible and whatever happens, happens; more like: the best you can do is be yourself fully. In fact, it's all you can do. It's not so much that you have something to offer, it's just you have something to be.
I considered this idea for a while: that I'm not supposed to offer anything, that the world isn't waiting for me to save it, that I don't have some purpose to fulfill, that all I can do is be, whatever this self is turning out to be.
Then, a few days later, I thought about zazen. I thought about how much it helps me to see myself. And I wonder, if the point is to be yourself- to manifest whatever this thing is that's inside you- maybe zazen helps you to manifest yourself by helping you to know who that person is.
I have no idea. I don't know what I'm doing at all. But after I decided that it was more about being than it was about offering, I reread a few posts on my blog. In them, I saw myself. I saw that apparently, a blog about the zen center, is part of how I manifest.
So I'm writing again. It still feels a little self- righteous to be writing posts about all of this when I have no idea what I'm talking about. But I guess it really isn't about that. It's about seeing that this is who I am, part of me at least, so I might as well be it.
That got me thinking about the zen center, and the fact that all it is, is a building. And the zendo? It's just a basement. The whole place used to be a boarding house for Jewish women. I pictured all the people who have lived in the building all these years, all those women, all the abbots/ abbesses, all the students, and it felt like this open building with all these people flowing in and out of it.
Then I thought about Paul. I realized that he's just a person. He's an amazing teacher and has such wisdom to offer but it's still just coming from a person. He's just a person, like everyone else.
Then I thought about me. I'm just a person too, like everyone else.
And then I got confused.
Because if I'm a person, like everyone else, and I'm the same as everyone else, if there really is no self, then what's the point? If all I am is just a person, then what I am doing? I don't have anything to offer. I'm no different from anyone else. What's the point of talking? What's the point of offering my opinion or suggesting things? What's the point of expressing myself, if my 'self' doesn't exist?
This wasn't a feeling of woe is me- like I have nothing to offer or I suck- it was just the reality of it. I really am just a person, that's all.
So then, every time I thought about writing on the blog I thought, "What?! Who are you to offer advice? Who are you to think you've got this figured out? You're not special, you don't know anymore than anyone else."
So I stopped writing on the blog; because really, I had nothing to offer, I was no different from anyone else.
I kept going to zazen, and service, and soji every morning. None of this made me question my practice, I knew I was going to keep doing that no matter what. But I was still confused about the point of all this. I just kept coming back to this question of "If I have nothing to offer, because there is no self, then what am I doing?" I mean, I know I'm not the same as everyone else, but it also felt really truthful, this fact that I actually am the same as everyone else. I'm a human, we're all humans, and in that sense, we're all the same.
I requested dokusan with Paul, because I thought this was a big question and I couldn't seem to answer it on my own. But in the mean time, I kept asking myself, "If you have nothing to offer, what are you doing? You really do have nothing to offer, so what's the point?"
And then, as I was opening the pantry door one morning, another question popped in to my head: "What if it isn't about offering? What if it isn't about what you can give? What if it isn't about what you do to make things better or worse? What if it has nothing to do with adding or contributing?"
I thought about zen, and emptiness, and "right" and "balanced" and the fullness of things that are neither empty nor full, and just letting things be as they are and I thought that maybe, I'm just supposed to be. Maybe the point of this is for me to be whatever this person is, no matter what I turn out to do. Not like all irresponsible and whatever happens, happens; more like: the best you can do is be yourself fully. In fact, it's all you can do. It's not so much that you have something to offer, it's just you have something to be.
I considered this idea for a while: that I'm not supposed to offer anything, that the world isn't waiting for me to save it, that I don't have some purpose to fulfill, that all I can do is be, whatever this self is turning out to be.
Then, a few days later, I thought about zazen. I thought about how much it helps me to see myself. And I wonder, if the point is to be yourself- to manifest whatever this thing is that's inside you- maybe zazen helps you to manifest yourself by helping you to know who that person is.
I have no idea. I don't know what I'm doing at all. But after I decided that it was more about being than it was about offering, I reread a few posts on my blog. In them, I saw myself. I saw that apparently, a blog about the zen center, is part of how I manifest.
So I'm writing again. It still feels a little self- righteous to be writing posts about all of this when I have no idea what I'm talking about. But I guess it really isn't about that. It's about seeing that this is who I am, part of me at least, so I might as well be it.
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