The impossibility of practice

I went hiking in Japan today, up a really steep mountain, all by myself, in snow, with fear that it was going to rain, with only red and pink plastic ties wrapped around trees to guide me, and signs, in Japanese (only, I don't speak Japanese). I wanted to stop, a lot of times; and I did, a lot of times, and I got super freaked out and in the end I cried.
But this practice, this practice of seeing things as they are, of knowing yourself and your wisdom, of considering the consequences of your actions in the grand scheme of things, actually helped me to do something that I wanted to do (actually make it to the top of the mountain), even when it seemed impossible.
And I was surprised by that, by how it could completely shift my approach to a situation; and I was encouraged by it, by this practice's ability to support us to do difficult things. Climbing up this mountain was scary and hard; but so is forgiving others, or being willing to see someone else's point of view when you really just want them to be wrong so that you can be right and be done with it. Today made me see how powerful, sweet, and enabling this practice can be- how it really can support us to do the things we are truly capable of.

If you want a good story, read on...
 
After that first day of hiking, I was prepared. One of the guests at the hotel had recommended this hike after watching me try to figure out the different trails that were on the poster in the dining hall. He said that the trail was steep but that the views were worth it. I had read something similar in the Lonely Planet guide: that the trip was long, but only because of the steep elevation gain. So, I made sure I had enough water in my camel-back, enough food for a day- long hike, and enough clothing to stay warm in case I encountered snow or inclement weather. The forecast called for a cloudy morning with rain starting around 1PM. I expected the hike up to the cabin to take about four hours (I thought it was a 6000 foot elevation gain) and figured I might hit some rain on my way back down.
It took about 15 minutes to get to the trailhead but once I got there, it was beautiful. I immediately understood what the guy had meant by the views being nice- the trail was through a forest with waterfalls, ferns, and nice wooden logs to help you up the inclines. I laughed at myself, “This trail, is actually steeper than the one you went on yesterday, but you’re loving it. And the reason you’re loving it is because you expected it to be totally steep, and it’s doable. Yesterday, when it was slightly sloping and had snow, you freaked out, because you expected it to be easy.”
“So,” I decided. “The thing to learn from this is, expect it to be hard, and it will be easy.”
“Or….” I interrupted myself. “You could just have no expectations….”
“Darnit you’re right!” I told myself, and kept hiking.
The trail got steeper and steeper and I stopped more often, drank my water, and started to wonder why I was doing this. I was choosing to hike up an even steeper trail than the one I had been on yesterday- the one where I concluded that I didn’t like hiking all day.
“The views,” I thought to myself. “He said the views were amazing. And I want to see the hut; on line it looked like a cool place to hang out. I wouldn’t mind spending the afternoon there, just sipping warm things, maybe even having lunch.” So I pressed on.
The trail continued to be steep, and it kept going up. It didn’t go up, then flatten out for a bit, and go up again, it just kept going up. And you couldn’t really see an end to the up. You just kept going up. I slowed down quite a bit, had to take big steps and put my hands on my knees to kind of boost myself up to the next step. I wondered what it would be like coming down in this in the rain. I checked my watch. I had only been hiking for about an hour. I started to wonder again about why I was doing this. 

“You still have three hours of this- and that’s only the up part. Then you have to come back down, and you might have to do it in the rain.”
But I wasn’t ready to give up yet, so I kept going.
I got to a point in the trail where it leveled off a bit and I was extremely grateful for this. “Yay leveling off!” I cheered to the trail, but I also knew it was only temporary. I had 6000 feet to climb to the hut, there was no way I was done climbing.
The leveling off part was nice but it was also a little sketchy. It was leveling off because it was going around the mountain so the trail was precarious, covered in wooden planks that weren’t securely fastened to the ground beneath them.

“This might be hard to navigate in the rain,” I thought to myself. “Are you sure you should keep going?”
“You know what?” I answered. “You have no idea if it’s going to rain. It might totally not rain at all. Stay present to what’s going on in front of you right now: it’s not raining, you can walk the trail, don’t plan for something that you don’t even know is going to happen, just focus on right now.”
And I did, I kept going.
And then, the trail went up some more. It came to one big mountainside. And I mean mountainside- just the face of a mountain, and it was covered in snow. I looked up and I couldn’t see the top. There were trees on the mountainside, and they had red tape around them to show the path. There was a trail, but by trail I mean a sequence of trees with red tape on them. Other than that it was just a mountainside covered in snow and trees.
I started to go up. I felt grateful for my boots and kicked in to the snow like I had done on the trail the day before. Then I stopped, and looked up. I had taken about 7 or 8 steps and felt like I had made no progress. I pictured myself doing this, taking steps up the mountain, for three more hours, and it seemed like a bad idea.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked myself. “Why are you putting yourself through this physical exertion of hiking up this steep mountain- this is really hard.” But I didn’t feel like turning around- I didn’t feel like I was done yet, I felt like I could keep trying a little more, maybe make it to the next peak. So I kept going.
My progress on the snow was feeble. I wasn’t getting far and it felt like I was just kicking in to the snow and not really going up. I started to get worried. Maybe I should have crampons, maybe this is impossible in just hiking boots, maybe I’m putting myself in danger. The guy at the hostel knew I didn’t have crampons, he knew I was kind of a lightweight, why would he send me up here if it was so dangerous? And then I thought maybe there was new snow from yesterday’s rain and so maybe the trail was dangerous now and I shouldn’t be on it. I took a couple more steps and found that I was falling in to the mountainside with each step. I kept having to catch myself with my bare hands on the snow and I started getting worried about frostbite. I stopped, reached into my backpack, and put on my gloves. “I wonder if this will make things worse, I wonder if wearing the gloves will keep my hands wet in the snow instead of bare hands that I can wipe off.” But then I decided that warm wet hands were better than cold dry ones. I also put on my thermal top and my wool hat. I looked up at the mountainside again. “How am I going to get down this in the rain?” I asked myself. I looked below me, it was just as steep coming down.

“You should go back,” I said. “The farther you go up, the later it will be, and the more likely it will be to rain on your descent. This is already really dangerous, imagine it in rain where you can’t even see where you’re going. Besides, who are you doing this for? Are you doing it for you? Do you so want to reach that hut or feel like you’ve climbed a mountain? You’re the only one who’s making this progress, you going back down now is only affecting you.”
And I pictured hiking up this snow, for two more hours, at a snails’ pace, constantly falling into the snow and catching myself, literally falling up the mountainside. It seemed wrong, it seemed stupid, it seemed pointless. But part of me felt like there was a top to the mountainside, that there actually was a way to get there and that I actually could get to the top, if I kept going.
I took another step and fell into the snow again.
And then I kind of whimpered- in fear, confusion, desperation: “I can’t tell if I’m being dangerous or brave. I really don’t know what I should do. It seems stupid to keep going, it seems dangerous to keep going, I can’t possibly make it up this hill like this…”
I thought about what would happen if I kept going, if I mistook the signs on the trail and got lost and couldn't find my way back, if they found my body in the snow.
"I'm not ready to die yet," I thought to myself sadly. "I haven't really loved- like real actual love, and I want to experience that before I die."

And then I stopped. I asked myself what was going on, what it was that was scaring me so much.
“It’s snow…” I answered. “What if I’m not supposed to be in this snow? What if it’s dangerous to be hiking in this snow? What if I can’t make it back down this trail in snow?”
“Snow?” I asked myself.

“It’s just snow,” I answered myself, matter- of- factly.  And I looked at the mountainside and saw that it was just snow. It was the snow that was scaring me but I also saw that it was just snow. “It’s just snow,” I explained to myself, and then I smiled.

And then I reminded myself that I had hiked in snow before, without crampons, and in the rain (in the alps in Norway). And I reminded myself that when I had hiked in snow in Norway, I had followed the steps of the guy in front of me so that I wouldn’t have to make a shelf in the snow each time and so this was different, harder because I had to make my own way. And then I remembered what I had learned, that you could kind of waddle up the hillside, turn your feet out and step up that way.
So that’s what I did, I waddled up the hillside, step by step, and started to make progress. I slipped a couple times, fell through the snow a few times, but each time reminded myself of my experiences in Norway, how that’s just what happens when you hike in the snow.
I finally made it to the top of that mountainside and told myself that I was done.  I had come to the point where I was absolutely terrified by what I was doing and completely unsure of what to do next. And I had met it, seen it for what it was, and done what was appropriate in the situation. Whether I made it to the hut or not was inconsequential at that point- what was important was what I had done: feared an impossible task, seen what it was that made it seem impossible, and relied on my wisdom to make the choice about what to do with it.
And at that point, I was ready to go on. I was fine, it really was just snow. And I kept hiking, and it kept being scary: the trail was frequently unmarked, there were parts where I had to climb under trees, hold on to rocks that slipped, pull myself up and around tree roots and boulders, and often search in several directions before seeing another red ribbon telling me where to go. I considered stopping several more times- especially when I would look at my watch and consider how much longer it would take me just to get to the hut and how miserable the trek would be on the way back down, in the rain.

I finally reached a part where the snow actually leveled off but it was at that point that I totally lost the trail. There were no red markers, anywhere that I could see and I had no idea where to go. There were small trees everywhere but I couldn’t see a path through them.
“If this is the hut…” I thought to myself, because often, the last part of the trail is the most difficult and frequently, they don’t mark when you’re near the hut because they figure you can find your way there by sight. But then I looked at my watch- it had only been two and a half hours. There was no way I had climbed 6000 feet in two and a half hours. I had no choice but to keep walking in one direction, so I did. Eventually, I got to a clearing with a steep snow bank. I looked up to my left and saw… the hut!

“This can’t be the hut,” I thought. “It has to be another hut.” I confirmed with myself, and then I laughed.

“Oh yeah, it’s that other hut, ‘cause there are so many huts up here at 6000 feet. Your hut, it’s another two hours away, this is just this other hut that’s not on the map, that’s just a pit stop on the way…”

And I decided that it didn’t matter what hut it was, I was at a hut, and I had made it.

But then, as is always the case, it was super hard to actually get to the hut. I struggled up the snow bank a ton of times but never was able to get up it. I finally hiked around it and walked up to the door of the hut. There were only a couple of people inside. I said the name of the hut, with a questioning sound, to the people who worked there. They nodded, and then laughed to each other, probably making the same joke that I had: Really? Like this would be some other hut.

I sat down, in disbelief that I had made it to the hut in two and a half hours. I watched the TV showing beautiful images of the nature in the area and really wanted a bowl of warm soup of a cup of hot cocoa. But the chalkboard menu was in Japanese and no one really seemed to be serving. I didn’t really want to ask because I didn’t know the word for soup in Japanese and didn’t know how to order from the menu either.

So, I got back up, and headed outside. I started to walk around the hut and that’s when I saw the incredible view from the hut. This was what the man at the hostel had been talking about- not the view as you were hiking up the trail, the view from the top. There was an entire new set of peaks from this vantage point. I had hiked to the top of the ridge of the valley I had been hiking in the day before and was now at the peak from which I could see the next set of peaks and they were amazing. I couldn’t believe the beauty. I wanted to walk toward it, but it meant walking downhill, and I didn’t want to walk downhill because I didn’t want to walk up anything at that point. But it was too pretty, I just had to.

So I did, I walked down a bit and sat. I enjoyed the beautiful mountains from a flat rock. Then I heard some hikers coming from the ridge below and decided to get up and get out of their way. I walked back to the hut, paid them to refill my water bottle, and decided that it would be best for me to head back down, while it still wasn’t raining.

I struggled my way down the snow bank and my left foot fell straight through the snow while I was stepping. I ended up straining my left knee as the rest of me went forward while my leg stood still in the snow. I lifted my leg out of the snow and felt grateful that it had happened after hiking up. I took it easy as I worked my way back down the trail.

As I came to the snowy forest, I found that it was my own footsteps that I was following, to find my way through the snow.

“Well that’s just poignant,” I thought. “Those very same steps of fear and uncertainty are the ones that are guiding me now.”

I made a point to take a photograph of the steep mountainside that had paralyzed me but that I had overcome and joked about the fact that when I saw it, it would probably seem like nothing. And that’s exactly what happened. It wasn’t until I got to the bottom of the mountainside that it occurred to me that I might have just come down that extremely steep slope and when I looked up, I saw that it was. It’s hard to tell whether it seemed smaller because I was coming down it instead of up it but in the photo, it looks like just a hillside- and believe me, I did everything I could to make it look as steep as it felt.

In writing this I see that this was a big moment for me, but maybe not so dramatic for others. But it doesn’t really matter. What I saw from this was that I was faced with the impossible- I genuinely believed that it was life threatening for me to continue up that mountain- and that in that situation I stopped. I looked at what actually was happening and because I saw it for what it was, it became possible. A real situation turned from life threatening to just snow and that allowed me to do it, to do what I was capable of doing all along.

This gives me great courage and faith in this practice. If I can go from being terrified by something to choosing to do it, simply by stopping, seeing things as they are, and using my wisdom to carry on, then I can do anything. And I can do it, because of me- not because of will-power or determination or stick-to-it-iveness, but by awareness of what is actually happening and then self actualization- awareness of my own abilities and the confidence to use them to do something which terrifies me.

The practice of love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image of love

This is also imaginary (yes, I know, as my teacher says: Anything can happen in your imagination and sometimes... we need a reality check. So I am aware of that, working on it...).

"What is your intention for the practice period?" he asked the group.

She heard her answer inside her head but struggled to speak it out, to share.
She squirmed, started to speak, twice.

"Love," she finally blurted.

"Could you say that again?" he asked.

She dropped her shoulders in defeat.

"You're so mean...." she said playfully. "You're going to make me say it again!"

"No," he answered plainly. "I actually couldn't hear what you said."

"Oh," she said, and looked down.


"Love," she repeated, and hung her head in shame.


"Why do you say it like that?" he asked. "What's wrong with love?"


"You're not supposed to have it," she explained, looking to him to refute her.
"It leaves you," she looked down.
"It's frivolous," she explained.

"Ah," he said. "Anything else?" he asked.

"That's all," she said in sadness, seeing that this was her image of love.

"Well then," he said. "There's your practice intention."
And then he paused.
"Love?" he asked. "Or to love?"

"To love," she replied, immediately frightened by what she had just uttered, the public vow of it, the certainty of support to do it, the inevitability of her approaching it: choosing to love.

The nature of practice

I've been thinking a lot about my practice- seeing that I'm the one doing this, that I do it a lot, that I want to do it, that it brings me joy and suffering, and also, that I didn't see my practice for a really long time.
I think that one of the main reasons that I didn't see my practice was because I had an image or definition or concept of what "practice" is. (And I have to say that, as I write this, I am absolutely feeling like this post is just as much about me seeing my self as it about me seeing my practice. All of this is true for what has been keeping me from seeing myself as well.)
I don't know why, but I had this idea in my head that "practice" meant that you were studying sutras or reading buddhist texts or considering koans or committing to a lifelong path of buddhism with a final goal of being a monk or a priest or a person who was employed by or lived at and supported the zen center.
Since I wasn't doing any of those things, I thought I wasn't practicing. I thought I was just along for the ride, "using" the zen center for what I needed (love and connection) but not being a part of the zen center community, not committing to it by actually living or working there. I felt like a fake, like I wasn't legitimate and I definitely did not think I was practicing buddhism- still don't.

But lately I have been noticing that the voices inside my head, which have been coming in the form of my teachers, are mine. I have been noticing how I want to sit every morning and to sit long enough that when the time is up, my body prefers to stay still rather than to move. I have been noticing how I choose to listen to dharma talks on line. I have been noticing that I want to write about what I am learning on a blog. I have been noticing how I want to share my practice with others whom I meet in Japan. I have been noticing that the feeling of home comes up when I say the phrase "My temple." I have been noticing the pride with which I explain that anyone can walk in the door and sit zazen- that we even have a job which entails welcoming people at the door.

And then I noticed the people back home at the zen center. I pictured them walking around in the building, going to work, setting up the bag lunches, working in the kitchen, answering phones...At no point have I ever seen one of them studying a sutra. I don't know that I've ever seen any of them read a Buddhist text. Some of them work for the zen center, though many of them work outside the zen center. Many of them live there but even in doing this, it seems to me like they're doing it as part of their practice. It seems to me like the people who work for the zen center are doing it for the benefit of all beings- that their work is their practice.

I'm sure that people at the zen center study sutras, they often refer to them when I have questions about how to practice.  And I'm sure that they read buddhist texts because they talk about which ones were helpful to them at different points in their life. But this isn't what they do all the time- this isn't all that they do with their life- it isn't their practice in total. Their practice includes living. Their practice is considering their actions, considering how to support others, considering their selves within the context of this world and making their contribution to it in a way that that leads to less suffering- or who knows, maybe it's none of those things. But the point is that, though practice may involve studying sutras and working to support a building and a center that allows others to participate in this practice, it's still the greater practice of studying the self and considering others- I think.
I don't read buddhist texts. I don't study sutras, but so what? It doesn't make me different. I am not different. We are not different. I am practicing, we are all practicing, but by putting labels or images or ideas of what practice is I keep myself from seeing the practice that I am doing. And I am doing this practice.

I have a place, because there is no place

I was listening to a dharma talk on line and when it was over, I heard the voice over, thanking people for listening and asking for a donation. I wondered about the person who did the voice over: Who is her teacher? Whatever happened to her? Did she even have a rakasu?
And I thought about her place in the zen center. I thought about how she was a poet and how she had come up with some really unique ways of looking at and sharing the dharma and I thought that was pretty cool that she got to be, kind of, the poet laureate at the zen center for a while. (I actually have no idea what this person's role was at the zen center. Everything I write about her is totally my own perception, of what I thought she did at the zen center). And I thought that was cool that the zen center did that, that it just had a place for her- that at one point, she had shown up, done her things, and the zen center had responded by creating a space, a role for her, a place in which she could exist and be who she was for the time that she was there.
And I thought about the fact that after she was gone, it wasn't like anyone had replaced her, that there was a new poet laureate or anything like that- that that position seemed to be created just when she showed up and then it went away after she left and now she was doing something poetic somewhere else.
And I thought about that-that she showed up, a space was created for her, just her, then she went away and that space was gone.
And I thought about the fact that maybe she didn't sew a rakasu and maybe she didn't have a teacher and that maybe her time at the zen center was just what it was while she was there; that maybe it had nothing to do with having a teacher or sewing a rakasu- it just was what it was for her, for her unique contrbution to the zen center, and that that didn't have to have anything to do with what you might traditionally do at the zen center. (And honestly, I have no idea whether or not she has a teacher or has sewn a rakasu- I know absolutely nothing about her other than she's a really cool poet).
And then I thought that maybe I have a space at the zen center, that I don't have to sew a rakasu, that the zen center is there for you to be whatever it is you are, that there is space for anyone at the zen center because there is no space at the zen center. It isn't a place of fixed roles or boundaries or ways of doing things- it's a place for you to come as you are and be who you are, while you are there and that is all.

I thought about this in my classroom, about all the kids feeling like they have a place, because there is no place, no one way to be, in our room, that all of their personalities have a place in our room, that together we make our classroom and that without each and every unique one of us we wouldn't be the room that we are.
And I thought about me and last summer and how I came home feeling like if I was no different then I had nothing to offer so what was the point of writing the blog and then realized that it wasn't about having something to offer, it was just about being, just being.
And I thought about me at the zen center again, that I do have a place there, that it frightens me that I do have a place there, that I don't have to be a certain person or thing or way, there is a place for me no matter who I am. I am included, have been the whole time, was just too afraid to feel it or accept it, or whatever, but I've always had a place there, from the first time I showed up.

We all have a place in this world but not like a place, not like a slot that we fit into like I thought. There really is no place, there isn't a fixed state or role or part that we play, we're just part of one great big whole. We don't know which part we're playing and it changes all the time but we're little and we're connected and we're in it, have been from the start, and won't ever leave.

I don't really know what to do with this knowledge. It both frightens and deeply assures me. It's like I've fallen back into a pillow, a full body pillow that neither swallows you nor pushes you back out again-you're neither engulfed nor supported, just held, gently, enough to know you're safe but not enough to keep you separate from the world outside the pillow.

There is a place for me at the zen center. I have no idea what it is, only that it's there. I was going to say that it's there, waiting for me to fill it, but I realize that I already am filling it, have been filling it this whole time.

And of course you know that this means that there is a place for me in this world. That I don't have to be a certain someone or a certain way. In the same way that there is a place for me at the zen center, that no matter who I am there, it is the place that I fill, it is the same in this world. I am just here, I am just being, and that is all I need to be.

I have no idea why this frightens me so much but it does. It is terrifying to see that this is all that I need to be, that I am doing it, that this who-I-am is enough, is perfect actually, in that it is true. As long as I am actually just being, not being-in-order-to-be-someone or trying to fit in some slot or trying to do some right or wrong or get there; as long as I am just being who I am, in each moment, that it is enough. I am actually true, like true as in alignment, as in a wheel that spins cleanly because it is in alignment with the forks on either side of it. When I am true and just being, I am, and as much as it frightens me to admit it it, that's actually all I need to be and so I am already doing it, I am already me.

Giving in to dokusan, giving in to yourself

THIS IS IMAGINARY- IT HAPPENED AT MY KITCHEN TABLE (all inside my head) AT BREAKFAST THIS MORNING

"Good morning," he said
as she sat facing him
in meditative pose.
"Good morning," she answered, with a smile this time.

She looked at him, from the corner of her eye, shrugged her shoulders and said
"I'm here."
She laughed, shrugged her shoulders again and said
"I just am
I have no choice in the matter
I'm here."

He straightened his spine a bit, looked up to the right, leaned forward slightly and asked
"Where is here?"
"Right here," she answered, tapping the floor with her finger.

"And where is that?" he asked, looking straight at her.
"Here," she answered. "Now."
And then she explained,
"I used to be afraid to be here. I used to try to figure out how to be here. But now, I'm just here."
She shrugged her shoulders again but with a confidence this time.
"I can't really be anywhere else," she said with a certainty of truth she felt removed from yet guided by all the same.

He smiled
"Then let us begin."

Coming home

I noticed a lot of things about myself during my trip to Japan. One of them, a big one, was that I am doing this practice. I may have issues with what it is called or what it means that I am doing it but clearly, I am doing this practice.
Part of this acceptance came from noticing myself around this practice. During the first week of my trip, I spent 4 days practicing at Ei Hei Ji temple in Japan. I watched myself happily holding a chant book (which was written completely in Japanese so I couldn't read it) two inches from my face, and chanting away while tourists outside the temple were snapping photographs and enjoying their afternoon. I felt the giddiness in my chest as the interpreter shared with me Dogen's main question and his teachings around the importance of our relationship to food. And I felt the awe and respect deep in my heart as I listened to a priest respond to a practitioner's doubt, inquiry, and confusion about this practice. I saw his respect for the practitioner, his offering not of resolution, comfort, or certainty but of essence of this practice, truth of this life and, somehow, a return back to the practitioner- that this was his choice, this was his practice, his life and how he chose to live it. My time at Ei Hei Ji completely removed my ability or desire to question what I was doing when I do this practice. It was obvious and undeniable: I enjoy and respect this practice.
This came up for me a few more times throughout my travels in Japan- when I would visit temples and hear a bell ring, when I would proudly tell others that I had sat at Ei Hei Ji, and when I would answer tourists' questions about zen practice or meditation. I realized that this is part of me, not even regardless of how I feel about it, but that it is, it just is.
It was easy to see this when I was in Japan and could say things like "my temple" and not worry that someone would think I was some religious convert. It was also easy to see this in Japan, where I had no job, no other life to deal with, no issues around identity or future. But part of me knew that when I came home, when I actually walked in to "my temple" and started practicing, with this newfound confidence in it, with this new awareness that the person who was doing this and the person who I am are the same, might be a little overwhelming. The reality of actually doing it, not just in my head, not just these feelings of respect, awe, and joy, but doing it as part of my life, might be a whole different story.
I got back from Japan on a Tuesday afternoon and realized that I could go to YUZ that night. I wasn't sure how jet- lagged I would be so I figured I'd leave it up to my body to decide. After dinner, a shower, and some laundry, I felt settled and awake enough to go. I have to admit that I got there late intentionally. I was afraid of the social interaction before YUZ- the welcoming home, the chance to share stories and the fear that they wouldn't be entertaining enough, but mostly my identity as part of this group, part of this community. By the time I got there, people had already started to settle into their sitting and it felt good to be able to rely on this practice to calm my fears, to see the reality of the situation- all I had to do was sit, and focus on my breath.  After our sit, we went around the room saying our names in a somewhat random order, and I laughed as I said mine, because my turn was immediately after my friend's. I saw the look of surprise and joy on her face as she realized that I was there, right behind her, and I felt loved and very much a part of the community. A couple of times during the night I started to freak out as I watched what we were doing: talking about our feelings, about finding meaning in life, about questioning "mainstream" values of success and the importance of achievement over happiness and connection to and awareness of others. But then I would take a breath, see the reality of the situation- that regardless of my fears and doubts about this practice, it was what brought me joy, brought me ease, it just is, no matter what I think of it.
The next morning, my alarm went off and I headed down to the zendo. Visiting temples in Japan, hearing bells, seeing forms, made me understand how fortunate I am to have a temple so close to where I live. I saw how much the forms of the temple and the people in it facilitate my practice- provide that extra support to allow me to deepen my practice, to make mistakes in it, to learn from the practice of others. I knew that going to the zendo, instead of practicing at home, made sense for me right now. It was there for me, an incredible resource, and I wanted to use it, to be held in this practice.
As I walked in the door, it felt good to put my boots in their regular spot on the bottom shelf. I kept my eyes averted as I walked down the gaitan, trying not to pay attention to who was in the zendo that morning. But then I saw my friend, sitting near the entrance, taking roll, and I smiled. I nodded to her in recognition, and she bowed to me, a silent interchange of "You're here, you're kokyo!" and "You're back!" I was still smiling as I approached the entrance to the zendo so I paused, to settle myself, to focus on the task in front of me: sitting in this meditation hall, trying to be still to the thoughts and ideas swirling around my head. But even as I walked in, and bowed, I felt the presence of the Ino, another warm feeling of "welcome home." I walked to a spot on the floor but felt an extra support cushion beneath the zafu, so decided it was someone else's regular spot and continued to walk further in to the zendo, to find an open seat. As I approached it, and bowed, the person sitting next me bowed in return.
I caught my breath, "Acknowledgement- awareness of others."
I sat down, settled in, and began to wonder who would be doshi that morning. I listened as the han hit away the time and focused my attention on awareness of the doshi's entrance so that I would be sure to put my hands in gassho as they passed. But then I realized that I could rely on the people sitting on either side of me, that they were in this too, and could support me if I needed it.
"Community," I thought, "shared practice."
During kinhin I watched as we walked together, in time. We weren't perfectly spaced or aligned but I was aware of the person in front of me and they were walking with their breath. At one point, their cellphone went off and they immediately stopped it, and held their body still.
"Life," I thought, "circumstances beyond our control, forgiveness."
At we sat back down I wondered if that person was beating themselves up over their cellphone going off in the zendo, if they were suffering and feeling bad. I knew that feeling, that fear of disturbing others, of your life or actions seeming to cause others discomfort. But I also knew that I wasn't upset with this person, and was pretty sure no one was.
"Compassion," I thought.
We went upstairs to the Buddha Hall and I worried about being the one who might have to pass out the chant books. I considered stalling, to avoid being in that spot, but kept walking instead.
"Acceptance," I thought. "Avoiding the chant book will inevitably lead to a different problem. Take the one that's given to you."
I walked in, followed the forms, and took my spot. The bell rang and as I stepped forward to fill in the front row, I realized I had forgotten to bow before stepping forward. I started to worry about the judgment of the person next to me but then realized that they were simply following the forms and were probably happy to model for me, not chastizing me for not following them.
We did our prostrations and I felt grateful for the support of the bell and its forms, letting me know when we were close to the end or ready for the next transition. I listened to the chants- about avowing my karma, about accepting my causes and conditions- about how much it had freed me to be myself. I listened to the purpose of taking refuge- of submersing ourselves, of giving in, of listening to the wisdom of others. I listened to the gratitude for our teachers, the movement of this practice across continents, and the pointing to the foundation of this temple, by one man.
And then we exited, something I hadn't done in a while and whose forms I was unclear of because I was in the first row. But again I knew there was someone to follow, someone to support me, that we were all in this together, that this is community.
And now I am home. I am living this life. I am trying to be aware, make choices based on the moment in front of me, and reflect on how I interact with them. I am aware of the judgments inside my head, the space between my rationalizations of what I am doing and my actual experience, and my capacity for love and compassion toward others.
This is life. This is living it. This is practice.
And I am grateful for finally seeing this.