Appreciation
The 2007 Fall Ango Zen Community of Oregon reflected upon a teisho from my teachers' teacher, Maezumi Roshi. The particular teaching we studied was entitled, "Close the Gap Between Yourself and Yourself". Hogen suggested that I really look at how to cultivate pride and appreciation for my accomplishments.
It struck me as "pretty un-Zen" at the time. When I talked with GM about it during that Ango she said she wasn't surprised I didn't get it. One of the things she notes is an area that could use some improvement is my ability to really appreciate my accomplishments. I downplay my achievements all the time.
Really most of the time it doesn't feel like I'm doing anything extraordinary. It just feels like I'm chugging along, humming & drumming through each moment.
So I struggled with this topic and a few weeks into Ango I went back to Hogen and asked for help. It struck me as somewhat comical that I was asking my Zen teacher just how one goes about cultivating pride. He suggested that I consider the task of digging a 100 foot ditch, irrigation or some such thing. He said that when one is digging a really big ditch it is necessary to turn around after the first 5 feet and recognize the effort that has gone into that work. Not to just keep feeling overwhelmed by the 95 feet yet to be dug.
Uh-huh.
GW agreed that I spend most of my time worrying about the other 95 feet. CK, after she got to know me weighed in with her agreement of this assessment.
This spring for some reason I'm finally starting to get it. In most things in my life I've been a quick learner, adapting with speed to new things. Sometimes Zen makes me feel like a rather poky student.
My doctor, the same physician I've had for over 15 years, called me "skinny" when he saw me last month. He checked out my blood pressure & pulse statistics, shook his head and smiled. Maybe it is that his reactions are so candid, so human that it is finally sinking in that my weight loss is something unusual. There have also been friends and teachers who have been telling me again and again that the changes I've made in my life, have maintained in my life, are unique.
This takes me to the berry patch at Great Vow Zen Monastery. Last week at sesshin my work duty was out in the gardens. In particular, the berry patch where another retreatant and I had been asked to remove pepper cress. There was a lot of pepper cress, it is very successful at sending seeds spraying out in all directions. It seemed like an enormous task.
The first work period I just sat down at the far corner and started pulling pepper cress. By Friday I realized I'd cleared nearly half the berry patch! I stood up looking at the ground, cleared of the invasive weed (although it is edible). I nearly started to laugh as I stood there feeling a great deal of pride in what I'd finished. On Saturday my silent partner and I finished the last 3 feet in a great flurry of weed-pulling after the clean up bell had rung. We closed the gate, laughed together merrily, and I performed a small celebratory dance, waving my 5 gallon bucket in the air. We grinned at each other and continued to chuckle while emptying our buckets before heading back in for more zazen.
I still feel a little uncomfortable with this new sensation. But I can feel the way pride is good. That it is OK to look at something I finished and really let myself feel the accomplishment, the appreciation.
Spring Frogs
I woke up with a start when the alarm went off and seemed to stay that way all day long. Feeling anxious and drawn in tight. Combined with a day at work that felt both unproductive and frustrating it meant I arrived at the Dharma Center anxious.
I hate sitting zazen when I'm anxious. Near the top of "most uncomfortable meditation periods" list.
Instead I sat down, awaiting the racing of my heart, heard the bell ring 3 times, then silence, and a chorus of frogs reminding me something I love about springtime zazen! My mind settled swiftly and softly, occasional bursts of anxiety creeping in during the first sit, but then the frogs would sing again and I'd feel myself smile inside. By the time the second sit came I felt like I was in my body instead of my anxiety.
Vernal Chorus
Outside the zendo
A choir of frogs is singing,
"Wake up! Wake up now!"
The Ninth Precept
A part of the work towards taking Jukai in October I am supposed to make a mental notes to review the precepts each day. Not for any opportunity to judge myself, encouraging my Inner Critic to point out all the ways I fail the precepts. Rather just to keep them close, learn from them.
In looking at the ninth precept, "Not to give vent to anger, but to seek its source.", I've tried to beyond the obvious fierce rage. Instead I've tried to play close attention to all the little ways frustration comes to the surface. How at work my teammates and I even call it "venting" when you just need to have someone let you complain. Let off some of the pressure of a situation by talking about it. I've come to see how this is can be a method of seeking the source so long as the frustration being shared is done so with the intention of also examining why it is so present.
I had an unexpected way to look at frustration and anger arising in myself a couple of weeks ago while I was in the car and headed over to the house. We'd made a detour and had turned around to make sure we would come down MLK in order to stop by the bank. Those few minutes of detour meant that we were on the stuck side of a parade turning onto MLK from Killingsworth.
Not so bad, right?
Except it was a pro-life protest march.
In the car in front of us a dog barked in great agitation at all the people marching by "his" car. He jumped up and down against the window. We sat silently in the car and I felt my anger rising up to the surface. At some point it occurred to me that my mind, in it's agitated state, was just making noise like the dog.
"Just how much is this police escort costing my taxes?"
"How could they bring their children along?"
"How dare they impede my busy day with an opinion I vehemently disagree with!"
"Why did we have to make that detour, if we'd gone right the first time we'd have been past this!"
All of it just so much barking! I started to watch the anger I felt, where it traced back to. It was hard. It is far easier to just stay angry, to let frustration and indignation boil over. It is so warm and energizing, enticing to just cozy up around that energy. The choice to trace that energy down and see the fear and uncertainty laid bare takes a great deal more effort.
By the time the very last marcher had turned south onto Killingsworth I could be more honest, more compassionate. No, not that I agree with any of them at all, not even close. What I am glad is that the police would block traffic if I were to march to express my opinion, regardless of how popular my opinion is, or is not. That is part of the service to the community, to ensure the right to assemble and express opinions.
Some deep breaths and willingness to deeply look and I found a little calm in a present moment I didn't enjoy. Although I cannot come to any agreement or even true understanding of the pro-life marchers, I could agree with the idea of upholding the right to express opinions. At times what I can hold to is the common desire of all beings to be heard. I may passionately not want to hear opinions from every being, wanting to close myself off in the strength of my disagreement, but I can move beyond that in understanding of the desire to express and be listened to.
Gratitude
Tonight I was in a rush to leave the office, to walk to the flat, to feed Atari, and rush over to SE to meet CK and DTH for dinner. I had planned to not rush, but got caught up in finishing setting up some things at work for one of my projects, ran late and then was rushing.
I was walking very quickly and felt tense with trying to remember what I needed to do. By the time I got to the flat from MAX my right knee ached. I changed into "zendo clothes" and rushed off to Belmont to have dinner. As I parked it hit me that I'd forgotten my zafu, wagessa (a small cloth "scarf" I wear to signify that I've taken the first five of the 16 Precepts), and a little flax seed pillow I use to support my hands. These are not minor things to forget.
During dinner, which was a lot of fun, I felt myself stiffening up. My knee and my hips ached. I took some ibuprofen when we got to the Dharma Center, hoping it would help. I tried to walk evenly, but felt myself favoring my right leg a lot.
At the Dharma Center there's extra zafus around, even of the inflatable type I have that was made at Great Vow. I popped up to the zendo when we got there and set up my spot with a zafu I adjusted until it was the same amount of air as mine and a bench, so I can switch if my hip gets too sore. I set my wrap down on CK's zafu and went back downstairs.
HB caught me before I was going up with one directive for the chanting I'd do later, "Sweetly." he said smiling.
I laughed and said I was trying. He noted the progress I've made from rushing anxiously through the chanting service, now he wanted me to work on bringing sweetness to it, treating the sutras with affection and care in addition to precision and projection.
Then I headed up to sit. Only the zafu I'd set up for myself was gone. I quickly looked at the shelf at the back and didn't see another inflatable one. This set off some worry in my heart. The last time I'd tried to sit without an inflatable zafu my legs fell asleep and I had hip cramps from the pressure on my sciatic nerve. I dashed downstairs quick and HB spotted me. I noted quickly that someone had grabbed my zafu.
HB and I have discussed how to manage my chronic leg, hip and back pain during zazen and part of that management is an inflatable zafu. He and I both looked around the downstairs and didn't spot one!! He ducked into the teacher's room, came out with some of the zafus he & CB use, we sorted out the right one for me to take, I quickly went back upstairs and settled myself down.
After the bells finished I took some deep breaths to settle myself after the rushing around, so much rushing tonight! As I started to settled down my mind finally hit upon my teacher giving me one of their cushions to use. I suddenly found myself in tears.
I think it is more of that perspective shift. I was suddenly struck with profound gratitude and love for the community I have around me now, I see how it continues to include me and provide support. I have never felt the support of an organized group like this. I've always felt a bit on the outside. To feel this way provides as disorientating shift in view where I can suddenly grasp the profound lack of this kind of community I've felt. Hence the tears.
Chanting and Breathing
I've haven't felt a lot of light these past several days. Consequentially I haven't felt like writing, working on any art I have in mind, knitting, or doing much of anything. My energy feels pretty low this week and I feel like I'm reached the overload point of things to work with in my life.
Last Sunday after teaching yoga at Dishman I went out to Corbett, out into the thick of the windstorm to my Mom's. They had no power and a tree and lines were down on the road to them, forcing a detour around the back. I saw a tree down over a house and other trees down all around, even one nearly on the road I was driving. The wind was howling at gusts between 60-70 mph. It would have been easy to imagine Dorothy flying past a window. It didn't occur to me until later, when someone exclaimed at my going out there in the middle of a windstorm, that I'd done anything that unusual.
When I got there I saw that Mom looked pale, scared and tired. I just listened to her for a while as we drank tea made with water heated on a kettle a top the wood stove. I opened the Christmas present she'd got for me. The whole time I felt tight inside, aware of all the muscles around my heart locking up, the coldness in my chest.
Finally I got Mom to settle in a chair and taught her some Pranayama. I could tell she was breathing in the top of her lungs only out of pain and fear. I coaxed her to take breaths that were as deep as possible, to learn to feel how the body moves when the breath moves into the whole lungs, just feeling the breath breathe the body.
I told her as far as any meditation goes, just to keep coming back to what the body felt like breathing. That's all she needed to try to do, that and to scan the body, finding the places that do not hurt as much. Like Hogen told me as a technique for sesshin, when my chronic pain gets really bad. What hurts is obvious, the noise of the hurt is so loud in the body & mind, find what doesn't hurt and take refuge there for a while. Feel the breath in the parts of the body that do not hurt. I told her to try this even it was only the top of her right ear that didn't hurt!
I taught Mom the most simple form of Nadi Sodhana (alternate nostril breathing), just a breath on each side. I was pleased to see doing this left her looking a little more clear in the eyes. Although I have great faith in Nadi Sodhana to restore calm and balance, some part of me was tensing against my Mom not really trying it, dismissing it as silly. She nearly did stop, not liking the feeling of breathing through one nostril that was a little congested. Much to my surprise she kept going for a while and said she did feel a little better afterward. I'm going to record this for her, I think she'll be more apt to practice if it is guided.
It was hard watching her. It felt like being a kid again, sitting waiting for her to be finished with chemo treatments. Feeling anxious and scared myself, watching all the other faces taut with fear around me. Trying to immerse myself into a book while I waited and waited, through so many appointments, until she would come out ill & frightened and we'd go home. At least I had something to do this time, teaching her to breathe and be still in her body, that is more than I've ever had when she's been sick.
This latest scare feels somehow larger and more frightening than ever before. I'm terribly aware of the ill-health Mom's experienced over the past year, how she isn't as strong. I'm trying not to actually call it cancer yet. Neither has been diagnosed, just suspicions... more tests are needed, results are inconclusive. I'm trying to hold onto that, to not react in fear to what is not yet certain. I'm finding it difficult not to tighten around the fear, to keep opening to what arises in the present.
Since last Sunday I've felt drained all week. It has felt dark to me and the momentary joy of Tuesday morning's inauguration has felt tarnished by the disappointment in Mayor Sam Adams for lying. Even worse than feeling disheartened by the lies I've felt great irritation with the media for whipping the whole thing into a frenzy that's a distraction from the real problems facing Portland. Work has been extremely frustrating all week. It just felt extra hard to generate much light at all, even for my own small corner. I've been sustained by the light others shining around me, for which I'm truly grateful.
Just this afternoon something, someone just reminded me about the light I offer. Just by my being open and receptive to the suffering of others, to being present to it. Just by offering to chant a persons name.
I maintain the list of names we chant during service with the Portland Sangha of the Zen Community of Oregon sits zazen together. Service contains a part called the Transfer of Merit. We recognize that we generate energy when we practice together and dedicate that merit to people who are ill, in distress, or who have recently died.
Most weeks I get names from people. Emails, people chatting with me at the Dharma Center. Whispers of Stage IV cancers, old age, failed business... Sometimes nothing other than a name, which list it belongs on (in distress or died). I set the list out on the table before and after zazen on Thursdays, so at times I merely see new names appear, handwritten on the page I bring each week.
This week, this afternoon in particular I've been able to tell people that I'd add a name to the Merit List. Even after performing this service for the Sangha for a year now I remain a little surprised at how so small a gesture means to people. A friend said to me she was so touched just by my offer of support for her fear for her father's health, just that I came forward at all. Another sent me a message to let me know how much it means to her and her friend to add a name to the list. A complete stranger, brought to me by way of to me by way of the Internet (friend of a friend of a friend...) emailed to ask me to chant for his brother who just died, how it was of comfort to him. It is merely my open offer to acknowledge the suffering of others that generates light.
Some days it doesn't feel like much, I think I forget how much this small thing can mean to someone suffering in grief, anxiety. It is merely the act of being open to the suffering of another person, not wishing it would go away fast and not getting too caught up in my own fears of potential, inevitable loss, just being present for their suffering and offering to formally acknowledge it.
Once a week I chant all of these names, there are other people who chant them during the rest of the week. I recite each name carefully and clearly into the silence of the zendo. Giving time to each name so everyone there can all hold the names of each person in mind. It is this small thing I can do, even when my own light feels very dim, just show up each week and say the names, even when it is tremendous effort to do so. Using my voice to make the container for the grief and worry we all carry with us.
We Merely Need to Shine
On Sunday CK and I were watching the second installment of 'The Story of India' which particularly deals with the history of the Buddha. In talking about Gotama's death I mentioned to her his last words, in doing so I was reminded of Mary Oliver's poem, The Buddha's Last Instruction (which is at the bottom of this post). I had noted this to her as well so today I went looking for it again to send to her.
The instruction from Gotama as he lay dying was, "Make of yourself a light". This fascinated me when I started investigating Buddhism, I thought it was very beautiful this last directive to continue to looking within the self for guidance, not outside.
Investigating Zen lead me to Shunryu Suzuki Roshi's playful interpretation of these words, "We say, to shine one corner of the world—just one corner. If you shine one corner, then people around you will feel better. You will always feel as if you are carrying an umbrella to protect people from heat or rain."
This sentiment is something I've found myself repeating many times. All we need to do, each of us, is to concentrate on shining our light in just our corner. Merely by making this effort we positively affect those close to us, encouraging them to shine more brightly in their corner. Think of the illumination of the whole world if each person merely concentrates on doing their very best to shine brightly in their corner.
I try to remind myself of this regularly. I tend to try to do too much, push myself too hard, and am far too quick to offer criticism to myself. At those times I try to recall that when I treat myself like that I'm not shining in my corner, I'm cultivating darkness instead. It is good to remember to just do my best at those times, to make the most ethical & compassionate decision I can make at any given moment. By doing this so I can still shine even when I feel tired, in pain, and uncertain.
The Buddha's Last Instruction
by Mary Oliver
"Make of yourself a light"
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal-a white fan
streaked with pink and violet,
even green.
An old man, he lay down
between two sala trees,
and he might have said anything,
knowing it was his final hour.
The light burns upward,
it thickens and settles over the fields.
Around him, the villagers gathered
and stretched forward to listen.
Even before the sun itself
hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
I am touched everywhere
by its ocean of yellow waves.
No doubt he thought of everything
that had happened in his difficult life.
And then I feel the sun itself
as it blazes over the hills,
like a million flowers on fire-
clearly I'm not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.
Death Comes
Last night, as I wrote about savasana (corpse pose) some of my very dear friends were with their congregation, wailing in sorrow over the loss of their teacher, Rabbi Aryeh Hirschfield. I saw one of them briefly this evening before going to the Dharma Center. We talked a little about how he and his community, P'nai Or, are doing; this is a time of what feels to be inconsolable grief. An agonizing sorrow compounded by uncertainty as to when the funeral will take place. In a religion where tradition asks that ceremonies are to be performed within specific time frames, this uncertainty only brings further sadness.
This is a terrible blow to many, many people. Reb Aryeh was a voice for inner-faith dialog, peace, music, and teaching. I said to one of my friends, when she'd confirmed the news I'd read, that I believed that we as humanity are lessened when we lose teachers like this. At times I feel as if there are so many voices of division, difference, negativity, and hatred, that the silencing of a voice of Love is particularly sad.
There is a terrible, sharp brilliance to the uncertainty, to those changes that surprise us in ways that bring us suffering. These moments stand out, cause our breath to catch in our throats, tears to spring to the eyes, and a rock of grief to settle in the belly. I could not help reflect on what it would feel if ZCO were to suddenly loose Chozen or Hogen. I thought about my teachers who also faced the unexpected news of the death of their teacher, Maezumi.
In Zen we reflect on the fact that it is only in the absolute truth of uncertainty that we can truly take refuge. To return again and again to rest in the constancy of change is all we can do. Even when, especially when it feels as though there is nothing to offer in the face of inconsolable grief or when sorrow feels unending.
Hogen was reminding of this in a Dharma talk after zazen. During the times when we most want to withdraw, become small and tight around our pain, we need to keep reaching out of the hardness of it and know that it will change. Just as we can reassure ourselves during the dark and cold of winter, that spring will surely come.
About Savasana
Tonight the wind outside howls down 9th Avenue, buffeting the sides of the flat and providing ample opportunity to appreciate the roar of the heater. How that noise means I'm warm and safe inside. The flat is cozy and I've just had a very tasty dinner. I'm enjoying sitting with CK, she's working on ideas for the new website for ZCO and I'm writing.
Got back to a yoga class at Prananda tonight. It felt gentle while still getting deeply into some areas. I'm still feeling the shoulder strain, especially in the left one I injured last spring. As frustrating as it is (which is to say as impatient as I feel), I know I need to keep being very gentle with them. I found myself going into adhomukha svanasana (downward facing dog) a lot between other poses, just feeling the relief of stretching my body and releasing the headache that had showed up during work.
Joy threw out a joke about a homework assignment at the end of class, to write a poem called "Sweet Savasana". I may have one in mind. It called to mind for me when Hogen asked me why it is called "Corpse Pose".
I had told him that a corpse is heavy, returning to the earth. There is no longer any tension whatsoever, all of the little anxieties hidden in the muscles are released. A corpse has no worry, no fear, no shame, no anger...
As the Heart Sutra states, "No eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind; no sight, no sound, no smell, no taste, no touch, no object of mind; no realm of sight, no realm of mind consciousness."
Just the body returning to the earth. We mindfully end practice this way, releasing the body from the effort of asana and returning to the breath. That breath, that is the sweetness of savasana. For we lay with the complete release and emptiness of a corpse, yet each expiration of the breath continues to be followed by another inhalation.
Silence of Practice
Finally went back to a class at Pranada tonight! It has been so long and I've felt disconnected from my yoga practice. I've been finding it interesting to note that I felt a really deep quiet practicing zazen alone, especially when I was snowed in at the flat with Atari and CK down in Sacramento. I really found myself appreciating deep quiet of those days.
Not so much with my asana practice. There is something so vital about being in a class, some synergy that happens when teacher and students come together for a class. Most of the time going to a class leaves me feeling clear and grounded in a way that practice at home doesn't quite get to. I do get to the silence, the quiet of home asana practice, but it is the energy that comes from sharing practice that I miss the most.
I still struggle with feeling nervous in my Zen community. It really has been just over a year that I started to share myself with my Sangha and only in the past handful of months that I've really started to feel like I can really open up. Sangha is the most difficult of the Three Treasures for me. I think is why silent zazen felt like such a deeply, richly silent space when I was alone.
That a shared practice of asana is a comfortable space reminds me that I will not always feel so nervous with my Sangha. It is just taking longer to get to that point of comfort. Maybe it is the deeper physicality of asana practice that leaves me more comfortable there. That the space for laughter, tears and groans to arise freely and release. I'm also nearly 2 and a half years further into my Hatha practice. Slow progress, but steady, just like asana.
Routine Visits with the Inner Critic
Today was the start of getting back to routine. I worked from home, conducting or joining four meetings throughout the day. Spent a fair bit of that time showing users how to use tools. Some of the time was devoted to clarifying some questions about automated messages a tool will send out and in the late afternoon I was able to settle into some productive coding.
It felt good getting back into routine today. I enjoyed sitting in my little room with my headset on, laptops both handy, and plugging away at my projects. Zonker came upstairs around noon and kept me company for the rest of the day. When I got a chance to grab some lunch Phoebe came and lay on her back beside me while I at, patting me with her paws so I would rub her belly. I missed being around CK, I've come to realize that her energy around me, even when she's working on her projects, just feels good to me.
I'd thought about going to Dishman for a swim this evening, but at 5:50 I was just wrapping up a couple of code changes, fixing some bugs. I went downstairs and helped AM make some Thai style curry for dinner; chopping veggies for the pan. It was a nice, companionable to be chatting while making dinner together.
I've spent the evening writing about the fun Friday CK and I shared in Eugene. I also tried playing a bit with the layout and look of this blog. AM have watch episodes of Top Gear, DW has been off babysitting for some friends. I also wrote to my teacher.
At the New Year's party I had laughed when my teacher forgot my name. Mere moments before I had been introduced to someone from the Dharma Rain Zen Center and had chatted with her for several minutes. When CK came up to us I found I was uncomfortable with the realization that in my nervousness I'd forgotten the new person's name entirely.
I was feeling the anxiousness of being in a room full of people I don't know very well, if at all. Tight tension across my chest and my mind feels scattered. Add to it the hum and murmur of many people chatting in a small, hard walled space and it is difficult for me to focus on things like names. It has improved in the years I've practiced with ZCO, coming to trust in the ways my complete self fits into my community, but it is still difficult.
When HB could not recall my name while introducing me to someone I felt so relieved at his humanity that I forgot that he's been troubled lately by forgetfulness. This is the kind of mindlessness that leaves me feeling mortified that I could be so thoughtless as to laugh. Who cares about my relief at the simple humanity of my teacher, it is all about my Inner Critic shaming me for not being perfect in remembering the potential uncomfortable spots for people.
In the past I'd have sat with my Inner Critic. Cringing away as my faux pas was replayed for me again and again. Letting the shame and guilt close my mouth and heart up tight. I'd have said nothing, avoided contact and hoped it would eventually be forgotten, not used to punish me.
Instead I wrote HB an email this evening. I am not sure if I wait until Thursday to very rightly apologize in person I'd be able to do it. Too many days of hearing nothing but my Critic's voice. The email leaves a bridge for me to say something on Thursday, now that it is sent.
What I realized is that I'm not perfect compassion. I forget sometimes because the anxiety can leave me so clouded. Other people forget sometimes too.
I appreciate my teacher for what he teaches me. I know that I appreciate his humanity immeasurably.