There are such deep-seated habit patterns that operate when we live in community. Here we are, bumping up against fellow-travellers we would never have chosen, had we any say in the matter. Forced into the pot together, our neuroses and delusions emerge reflexively, and contrary to our deepest hopes for our lives and the situation.
It seems to be my karma to fall into a sequence of events that culminates in separating myself from others, then complaining that I feel unincluded and disrespected! This begins as an attempt to avoid the inevitable frictions of family-dorm-lab-monastery life once the honeymoon phase of being a charming new person in a charming new environment wears off. Habitually, I pull inward and retract into myself. I become so sensitized to any negative interaction that I will both stew endlessly over a particular interpersonal relationship, and intentionally "check out" in group situations. I grumble to myself that I am not appreciated, as I do nothing to merit appreciation, as I cultivate a simmering poor attitude and low productivity.
In this latest round, as I find myself in the old familiar states of mind, I am realizing: somewhere along the line, I lost respect for myself because others were failing to reinforce my self-esteem. It's not their job to do so, and in this environment of intense inner work, the people around me cannot be expected to be kind. I must generate my own love, and my own respect, too. Lab was the same way: a brief period of being special, new, and exciting, followed by years of mild contempt. In reacting to others' judgements, or perceived judgements, I take upon myself a patina of inadequacy and contemptibility. From there, the judgements are confirmed and solidified. Regardless of what others thought of me, they now interact with a person who operates from a debased position. Somehow I end up collaborating in my own demise.
The irony of the situation is that there is plenty about me to respect, but it's not the things that I was taught to value. Nobody here cares (anymore) about my intellectual accomplishments, and in retrospect it seems that I was tolerated and coddled for a short time, as guests and short-term residents are, until became I normal and no-longer-adorable. (That transition is a natural one; the only unnatural thing is, perhaps, the excessive kindness that precedes normalcy.)
Not being able to hold vulnerability is really the key here. After a certain period of time, it's impossible to maintain the facade, and anger follows close on the heels of the vulnerability that is exposed as the hours of meditation-- and the general lack of being able to live life as you'd wish to--begin to take effect. It's easy to forget that just this fact-- that we live in a monastery and practice as unfailingly and wholeheartedly as we can-- is something of value, and worthy of respect.
The good news here is twofold. On one hand, I can't control what others think of me. Zen students have long been urged to put no stake in praise or blame by others. I am in charge of my own practice, and while I rely on others to reflect me to myself, I need to acknowledge that they are living their own lives and working through their own stuff, which will occasionally get vented on me. Trying to predict or prevent that pain only turns me into a scared little person. If I know myself and am grounded in who-I-am, then whatever projections I feel are harmless. I've felt (or thought I felt) the story that I'm an idiot, a bothersome loudmouth, a slut, an iron-willed bitch, and a variety of other positive and negative imaginings; the stories of others are as false as whatever story *I* might have about who I must be. If I have no particular agenda about who I must be, and no image to defend, then no projection makes contact. It's as if a punch is thrown into empty space.
On the other hand, it turns out that I *can* control what others think of me. In my demeanor and action, I can communicate respect for myself, accompanied by respect for others. If I lead with a spirit of self-effacement; if I make a request assuming it will be rejected; if I try to bluster through by way of compensation-- all these close off options and give the interaction a negative flavor before it's even begun.
Inspired by something Chozen said, I decided to act "as if." As if I have an affectionate relationship with a person. As if I merit consideration. As if I value the other person unreservedly. As if we are collaborators rather than antagonists. It sounds simple, but it's certainly not my habit to behave in such a way. And it works. You're thinking, "of course it works-- that ends the story on a feel-good note." But it really works; it works in ways words don't describe. The situation is changed by deciding to embody a certain energy. This is so simple, so natural and yet so very unnatural.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Great Heart
There are various cycles of practice, and I seem to spend a lot of time and effort suffering greatly when it's time to shed a layer. I learn a great deal from such burning-up, but the unending torment gets to be a monotonous theme after a while. Therefore, it seems only right to speak up and acknowledge when a time of great peace and rightness has arrived. The reason for doing this goes beyond self-congratulation; it's important to testify to the benefits of practice, even if no-one but myself benefits from the reminder.
Four days ago, I attended a Big Mind Workshop, an event which could be disparagingly described as a zen revival meeting, spiced up with a lot of group-think, and unsubtle suggestions on the part of the facilitator. Gempo Merzel Roshi, an American Zen master based in Salt Lake City, has developed a spiritual technique based on the principles of Voice Dialogue (a highly worthwhile discipline) and endorsed by spiritual superstar Ken Wilber. As a result of this endorsement, there were a lot of folks there with plenty of enthusiasm but little prior experience with either zazen or Voice Dialogue.
I resolved to myself that I would concentrate on my own practice, and wholeheartedly work with whatever was offered. I was there and I was not going to leave; there was no sense in being critical of the workshop. Although the proceedings resembled group hypnosis in many ways, and I have some strong reservations about the validity of trying to verbally process the ineffable, I was nevertheless transformed.
There are a few issues which have been lurking in the depths of the psyche, and are really ready to emerge and be healed. They've been down there so long that when they spring forth, they do so with some force and a "sproing!"ing sound.
The big revelation, then, was tapping into an archetypal energy, completely psychologically real, called "Great Heart." This is a feeling rather than a description, but if I were to give it words, I'd say that Great Heart seen by Shugetsu is vast and warm, deeply caring and nurturing, focused and passionate, full of boundless good will.
My life is not characterized by good will toward myself. I can cherish others, and feel tenderly towards salamanders and earwigs, but I haven't felt a sense of wonder for this person's body and mind. To find a Great Heart that cherishes this being, and to understand that I can return again and again to a tender love for myself, has been phenomenal. I don't really know who or what I am, but these ligaments and lungs and legs benefit greatly from being held by this love.
It's not that Great Heart is a part of me or a component of Shugetsu's psyche. Rather I am part of it. When I am cherishing others, this Heart is moving through me; we don't generate love, but we channel it. Others awaken that energy in me, and it naturally springs forth. But it can't be forced, and urgently wanting another to love us only stifles the natural tendency to love.
I have spent so much of my life looking for love in another person. Now I am beginning to understand that no other person can reliably gratify that desire, and that I can experience the wholeness I have yearned for whenever the vulnerable elements inside require reassurance and comforting. In other words, I have choice, and I don't need to lay my crap on others.
Four days ago, I attended a Big Mind Workshop, an event which could be disparagingly described as a zen revival meeting, spiced up with a lot of group-think, and unsubtle suggestions on the part of the facilitator. Gempo Merzel Roshi, an American Zen master based in Salt Lake City, has developed a spiritual technique based on the principles of Voice Dialogue (a highly worthwhile discipline) and endorsed by spiritual superstar Ken Wilber. As a result of this endorsement, there were a lot of folks there with plenty of enthusiasm but little prior experience with either zazen or Voice Dialogue.
I resolved to myself that I would concentrate on my own practice, and wholeheartedly work with whatever was offered. I was there and I was not going to leave; there was no sense in being critical of the workshop. Although the proceedings resembled group hypnosis in many ways, and I have some strong reservations about the validity of trying to verbally process the ineffable, I was nevertheless transformed.
There are a few issues which have been lurking in the depths of the psyche, and are really ready to emerge and be healed. They've been down there so long that when they spring forth, they do so with some force and a "sproing!"ing sound.
The big revelation, then, was tapping into an archetypal energy, completely psychologically real, called "Great Heart." This is a feeling rather than a description, but if I were to give it words, I'd say that Great Heart seen by Shugetsu is vast and warm, deeply caring and nurturing, focused and passionate, full of boundless good will.
My life is not characterized by good will toward myself. I can cherish others, and feel tenderly towards salamanders and earwigs, but I haven't felt a sense of wonder for this person's body and mind. To find a Great Heart that cherishes this being, and to understand that I can return again and again to a tender love for myself, has been phenomenal. I don't really know who or what I am, but these ligaments and lungs and legs benefit greatly from being held by this love.
It's not that Great Heart is a part of me or a component of Shugetsu's psyche. Rather I am part of it. When I am cherishing others, this Heart is moving through me; we don't generate love, but we channel it. Others awaken that energy in me, and it naturally springs forth. But it can't be forced, and urgently wanting another to love us only stifles the natural tendency to love.
I have spent so much of my life looking for love in another person. Now I am beginning to understand that no other person can reliably gratify that desire, and that I can experience the wholeness I have yearned for whenever the vulnerable elements inside require reassurance and comforting. In other words, I have choice, and I don't need to lay my crap on others.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Five Pieces of Advice
Ani Pema Chodron offered these five pieces of advice to students at the end of a retreat at Gampo Abbey. I'm not sure how long ago, but it came to me as a multi-generational photocopy. (The italics and bolding are mine.)
Life seems so unformed these days, and the future so uncertain and inevitable (as indeed it is), that sane, simple, broad advice is helpful.
1. The mudane details of our life eat us up. Therefore it is important to keep asking ourselves again and again: What is the most important thing?
Since death is certain and the time of death is uncertain, what is the most important thing?
Let that perspective be your guide.
2. Don't be afraid to challenge yourself. At the gut level, you might want to go for the most comfortable thing. Always go for the stretch. Sometimes the stretch is to stay, sometimes to go. Sometimes to say Yes, sometimes to say, No. You don't always know. The key is to be willing to go through the shedding and unmasking process.
3. Rest in the insecurity. Remember that when we lose ground we habitually panic and look for something solid to hold onto: that's a description of samasara. Go at your own pace. And don't push it. But continue to train in resting in insecurity.
4. Don't believe everything you think. If you can follow this advice, you will be in good shape.
5. Take exactly what appears as your path.
Life seems so unformed these days, and the future so uncertain and inevitable (as indeed it is), that sane, simple, broad advice is helpful.
1. The mudane details of our life eat us up. Therefore it is important to keep asking ourselves again and again: What is the most important thing?
Since death is certain and the time of death is uncertain, what is the most important thing?
Let that perspective be your guide.
2. Don't be afraid to challenge yourself. At the gut level, you might want to go for the most comfortable thing. Always go for the stretch. Sometimes the stretch is to stay, sometimes to go. Sometimes to say Yes, sometimes to say, No. You don't always know. The key is to be willing to go through the shedding and unmasking process.
3. Rest in the insecurity. Remember that when we lose ground we habitually panic and look for something solid to hold onto: that's a description of samasara. Go at your own pace. And don't push it. But continue to train in resting in insecurity.
4. Don't believe everything you think. If you can follow this advice, you will be in good shape.
5. Take exactly what appears as your path.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Peace Sun
Poetic descriptive fragment: The embroidery on a tattered old pillowcase accents a sunburst of Jizos, thereby reclaiming a symbol of imperialism in the service of peace.
Knowing Nothing: the downside
It's the day after the end of sesshin, a weeklong silent retreat. Every month monastery residents and outside practitioners gather here to sit, eat and work together in a timeless space.
In the wake of this sesshin, I can't tell you if it took a week, a day, or a number of hours. The calendar says a week has passed, and I have emerged feeling vaguely ripped-off. Where did that time go? As if I don't have some recollection of it all, I really haven't gotten my money's worth. Maybe the end of life will be like that too: I'll wonder what just happened. No matter what we are doing, or how interminable the process seems, when you stand at the end, it all seems to have been over so soon.
I sat up all through the final night, with Ryushin and Rob looming in the darkness around me, intermittent visits from other sitters, and a sweet angel bringing matcha to us around 1 a.m. Then the wakeup bell rang, and we swung into the final day along with everyone else. After the dust had settled, lunch washup finished, Rob and I took his car and drove west, to the car ferry at Westport, and up the Washington side of the Columbia on Hwy 401 (?). We stopped at a beach and watched a container ship whisk upriver, presumably empty and heading back to its home in Hong Kong. As we continued, we came into farmland far enough from a city to be lost in time: polled Herefords and baby lambs lived on beautiful old farms. Along the road, rock walls and ferns glinted like dreamfruit in the spring sunshine. We saw an old mill-wheel and ruined fishing boats. I found myself saying I wanted to live there. Or maybe I wanted to live then, in dream time, in a fairytale.
Next to me, Rob said, "Whoa! I just got lost in a thought." He had wandered too: his mind had found itself dwelling in not just a shared life with me in those green meadows, but beyond, involving itself in an argument with our grown son! In Rosburg ("not Roseburg!") WA, we stopped to look around a tiny cemetary by the side of the highway. If you were a Hedlund or an Andresen, you'd be home by now, and your recently-dead family would be sleeping near the old settlers who brought their names from Europe. The oldest stones from the 1880s were quite simple; even then, this place was off the beaten path.
As we entered the outer orbit of Astoria, newer buildings and big pickup trucks appeared, and we drove back to the present day. We stopped for what is called "Mexican" and "food" in Oregon. It's neither, but if you play along with the pretense, if you respect the scrupulously-clean cheesy decor and being earnestly called "amigo" every few minutes, you can emerge with your hunger satisfied by large amounts of rice & beans.
In a couple of weeks, we'll be eating what is called "Mexican" and "food" in San Francisco. Again, it's neither, but it tastes a lot better. The "Mission-Style Burrito" is its own culinary genre, and it's only done right there, as far as I can tell.
The current mystery: how to go to LeCharm, Burma Superstar, HuLu House, Bombay Ice Creamery, Axum, Kate's Kitchen, Firefly, Liberty Cafe, Zazie &c. in under a week, with enough money for gas to get home.
In the wake of this sesshin, I can't tell you if it took a week, a day, or a number of hours. The calendar says a week has passed, and I have emerged feeling vaguely ripped-off. Where did that time go? As if I don't have some recollection of it all, I really haven't gotten my money's worth. Maybe the end of life will be like that too: I'll wonder what just happened. No matter what we are doing, or how interminable the process seems, when you stand at the end, it all seems to have been over so soon.
I sat up all through the final night, with Ryushin and Rob looming in the darkness around me, intermittent visits from other sitters, and a sweet angel bringing matcha to us around 1 a.m. Then the wakeup bell rang, and we swung into the final day along with everyone else. After the dust had settled, lunch washup finished, Rob and I took his car and drove west, to the car ferry at Westport, and up the Washington side of the Columbia on Hwy 401 (?). We stopped at a beach and watched a container ship whisk upriver, presumably empty and heading back to its home in Hong Kong. As we continued, we came into farmland far enough from a city to be lost in time: polled Herefords and baby lambs lived on beautiful old farms. Along the road, rock walls and ferns glinted like dreamfruit in the spring sunshine. We saw an old mill-wheel and ruined fishing boats. I found myself saying I wanted to live there. Or maybe I wanted to live then, in dream time, in a fairytale.
Next to me, Rob said, "Whoa! I just got lost in a thought." He had wandered too: his mind had found itself dwelling in not just a shared life with me in those green meadows, but beyond, involving itself in an argument with our grown son! In Rosburg ("not Roseburg!") WA, we stopped to look around a tiny cemetary by the side of the highway. If you were a Hedlund or an Andresen, you'd be home by now, and your recently-dead family would be sleeping near the old settlers who brought their names from Europe. The oldest stones from the 1880s were quite simple; even then, this place was off the beaten path.
As we entered the outer orbit of Astoria, newer buildings and big pickup trucks appeared, and we drove back to the present day. We stopped for what is called "Mexican" and "food" in Oregon. It's neither, but if you play along with the pretense, if you respect the scrupulously-clean cheesy decor and being earnestly called "amigo" every few minutes, you can emerge with your hunger satisfied by large amounts of rice & beans.
In a couple of weeks, we'll be eating what is called "Mexican" and "food" in San Francisco. Again, it's neither, but it tastes a lot better. The "Mission-Style Burrito" is its own culinary genre, and it's only done right there, as far as I can tell.
The current mystery: how to go to LeCharm, Burma Superstar, HuLu House, Bombay Ice Creamery, Axum, Kate's Kitchen, Firefly, Liberty Cafe, Zazie &c. in under a week, with enough money for gas to get home.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Why is this here?
This blog is an attempt to make lemonade out of a thorny circumstance: I live in a zen monastery. I sleep 5.5 hrs per night, if I don't stay up late. It takes me a month to answer email and a week to fulfill a phone date, if I actually succeed in doing so. There's a 30% failure rate in keeping phone dates, no matter how many notes I write to myself.
None of this is actually bad. It's just difficult to maintain a number of priorities in such a busy environment. Losing touch with friends and family, or noticing my inability to maintain contact, makes me sad. I could resort to bulk email, but I never have anything that's newsworthy enough. Life needs to be eventful to justify such things.
So. I will invite 50 or so people to check up on me anytime. I hope they do. I hope you do.
Love and peace,
Delia Shugetsu
None of this is actually bad. It's just difficult to maintain a number of priorities in such a busy environment. Losing touch with friends and family, or noticing my inability to maintain contact, makes me sad. I could resort to bulk email, but I never have anything that's newsworthy enough. Life needs to be eventful to justify such things.
So. I will invite 50 or so people to check up on me anytime. I hope they do. I hope you do.
Love and peace,
Delia Shugetsu
What am I doing here?
Today I sat down to write to my third cousin, Maeve Murray of Galway, Ireland. Over a month ago, I made contact with her after a two-year hiatus, and promised to write again soon. Not surprisingly, that didn't exactly happen. Finally today, knowing I should go rest instead, I just sat down and typed. What came out seemed a pretty good report on where I am right now, and it inspired me to do another long-delayed task: starting a blog.
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There is a lot of good stuff to report, but invariably when I sit down to write I'm in some sort of exhausted state.
Two years ago when I moved into a zen center, I only knew that I wanted to have a less-painful mind. And I had a sense that there was something more there; the poetry of certain writings seemed to be talking about something that was "true" in ways that conventional language couldn't touch.
Now there is much more understanding of existing as abody and mind in daily life. Which includes being tired, sensing that I'mteetering on the edge of getting sick, and deciding that I'll just take this time to do something important.
The bigthing for me lately is that I am considering re-entering "lay" life and joining the outside world about five months from now. It feels like I'll belosing a lot, and I want to make sure I participate fully in the life here upuntil I leave. I also hope I'll be gaining a lot: cooking my own meals; trying to have a career; enough time to read and study, and time to learn and grow in arelationship. Just deciding what to do when I leave, and how to attempt to enter the worldas an aspiring grown-up, is quite a challenge.
Until now, I've either hidden away in graduate school or cobbled together a freelance livelihood. In some ways, being "self-unemployed" is a very adult thing-- it's certainly independent. But I think I was doing it because I was reflexively afraid ofthe social aspects of a workplace. I used to think the problem was the otherpeople; now I'm seeing that it's my own anxious mind. It might very well turnout that I am still unable to function in such a situation, but I'd like toknow.
--------
There is a lot of good stuff to report, but invariably when I sit down to write I'm in some sort of exhausted state.
Two years ago when I moved into a zen center, I only knew that I wanted to have a less-painful mind. And I had a sense that there was something more there; the poetry of certain writings seemed to be talking about something that was "true" in ways that conventional language couldn't touch.
Now there is much more understanding of existing as abody and mind in daily life. Which includes being tired, sensing that I'mteetering on the edge of getting sick, and deciding that I'll just take this time to do something important.
The bigthing for me lately is that I am considering re-entering "lay" life and joining the outside world about five months from now. It feels like I'll belosing a lot, and I want to make sure I participate fully in the life here upuntil I leave. I also hope I'll be gaining a lot: cooking my own meals; trying to have a career; enough time to read and study, and time to learn and grow in arelationship. Just deciding what to do when I leave, and how to attempt to enter the worldas an aspiring grown-up, is quite a challenge.
Until now, I've either hidden away in graduate school or cobbled together a freelance livelihood. In some ways, being "self-unemployed" is a very adult thing-- it's certainly independent. But I think I was doing it because I was reflexively afraid ofthe social aspects of a workplace. I used to think the problem was the otherpeople; now I'm seeing that it's my own anxious mind. It might very well turnout that I am still unable to function in such a situation, but I'd like toknow.
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