Our golden-flanked goddess slips behind the hills
A new sky silvers with morning light
Bamboo transplants whisper overhead
The day's first birds dart silently in flight.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Moon-set 5:00 a.m.
Our golden-flanked goddess slips behind the hills
A new sky silvers with morning light
Bamboo transplants whisper overhead
The day's first birds dart silently in flight.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Jizo Of Hell
We've been madly preparing banners and other offerings to take to Japan on July 31.
Chozen-roshi asked me to make this panel, and it seems to be the culmination of a year's worth of artwork.
I'm quite comfortable describing my panels as incredibly beautiful; I love them, and I have no sense of personal responsibility for their creation. They just seem to..happen.
Chozen-roshi asked me to make this panel, and it seems to be the culmination of a year's worth of artwork.
I'm quite comfortable describing my panels as incredibly beautiful; I love them, and I have no sense of personal responsibility for their creation. They just seem to..happen.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
In Memoriam
For all those who perished in London today,
and for all those who die violently at the hands of their misguided fellows.
Jizo Bodhisattva is the Buddhist saint whose cheerful benevolence and unflagging determination protect all those beings who die in fear and bewilderment. S/He guides all who stumble and wander through the treacherous transitions of life and death.
(The Jizos For Peace Project has collected over 370,000 images of Jizo Bodhisattva, which will be taken to Hiroshima and Nagasaki to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the atomic bombing of those cities. These images, mostly stamped or drawn on cloth, exceed by over 100,000 the initial goal of one image for every person who perished. Learn more at www.jizosforpeace.org)American Jizos for Peace
Originally uploaded by Shugetsu .
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Three Lacquered Bowls
On Monday afternoon I made my first visit to Shogun's Gallery in NW Portland. The folks there are good friends of the monastery, and the relationship is a mutually beneficial one. Their upscale clientele isn't very interested in arcane Buddhist figures and instruments. We, by contrast, are often thrilled to purchase these, both because we like to care for sacred antiques, and because the prices are a small fraction of what it would cost to buy similar items from a Japanese temple-supply catalog.
In the clearance room in the back of the store, I found what I was seeking: bowls. We eat formal meals as a ceremony, using a little eating kit that is anchored by three bowls of descending size. Three antique lacquer bowls with gold edging came home with me. Total cost: $15.
Good lacquerware is hard to find these days. Traditionally, only certain families worked in lacquer because the process involved highly-irritating and -allergenic resins. The process itself takes place over many weeks, as dozens of extremely thin coatings are applied to an object carved from aged cryptomeria wood. The result is a very light, durable, and beautiful article. The Chinese pioneered lacquerware, but the Japanese raised it to an art of profound accomplishment. Today the best pieces are old.
I do a lot of thinking and silent kvetching during meals, but sometimes I am actually just sitting there. Just being present, aware of the act of eating, of receiving and transforming. These bowls, now dust-free and glistening under the fluorescent lights, have witnessed untold meals, parties, quarrels and ennui, without ever being noticed. I know this is true, because I can taste the slightest flavor in them.
When I finish drinking tea from the bowls, a little puddle collects at the bottom, and it soaks into the lacquer, making a dark spot. I realize that, although the finish is durable, it is also permeable: water is exchanging in and out of the lacquer all the time. As it soaks in, it displaces something, and when I drink the dregs of the bowl, I am ingesting a faint, almost-familiar flavor. It's a hundred-year-old meal, from Japan, sealed in dust and resin until now.
That was yesterday. Today the bowls taste normal. They still carry a sense of otherworldliness, though. Their improbable lightness, given size and shape, is part of the effect. But beyond that, they have some aura of another world, one where their users had no concept that I would ever exist to cup my hands around the same article. And how could they have imagined that the world would be this way?
An age ago, a small number of people developed a resistance to lacquer-- allowed themselves to be poisoned, in fact-- so that objects of enduring beauty could be created. In this age, we are beginning to perceive that a planet-wide poisoning is underway. Penile malformations in baby boys are creeping into the double digits; pollution is the most likely cause. Most of us can sense that the weather is noticeably changed from twenty years ago, and only the lunatic fringe (conveniently funded by Big Oil) is so foolish as to assert that humankind is not to blame.
We are all paying the price for something. And what we have purchased is the way the world is today: technology, entertainment, and the intoxicating stench of ego-driven existence. Hundreds of years of this sort of activity now comes due-- it is unfolding in our bodies, and in the assurance of an uncertain future.
The great truth of time and life is that there is only change, and we have as little idea of the future as the long-dead ones who made and used these three lacquer bowls.
In the clearance room in the back of the store, I found what I was seeking: bowls. We eat formal meals as a ceremony, using a little eating kit that is anchored by three bowls of descending size. Three antique lacquer bowls with gold edging came home with me. Total cost: $15.
Good lacquerware is hard to find these days. Traditionally, only certain families worked in lacquer because the process involved highly-irritating and -allergenic resins. The process itself takes place over many weeks, as dozens of extremely thin coatings are applied to an object carved from aged cryptomeria wood. The result is a very light, durable, and beautiful article. The Chinese pioneered lacquerware, but the Japanese raised it to an art of profound accomplishment. Today the best pieces are old.
I do a lot of thinking and silent kvetching during meals, but sometimes I am actually just sitting there. Just being present, aware of the act of eating, of receiving and transforming. These bowls, now dust-free and glistening under the fluorescent lights, have witnessed untold meals, parties, quarrels and ennui, without ever being noticed. I know this is true, because I can taste the slightest flavor in them.
When I finish drinking tea from the bowls, a little puddle collects at the bottom, and it soaks into the lacquer, making a dark spot. I realize that, although the finish is durable, it is also permeable: water is exchanging in and out of the lacquer all the time. As it soaks in, it displaces something, and when I drink the dregs of the bowl, I am ingesting a faint, almost-familiar flavor. It's a hundred-year-old meal, from Japan, sealed in dust and resin until now.
That was yesterday. Today the bowls taste normal. They still carry a sense of otherworldliness, though. Their improbable lightness, given size and shape, is part of the effect. But beyond that, they have some aura of another world, one where their users had no concept that I would ever exist to cup my hands around the same article. And how could they have imagined that the world would be this way?
An age ago, a small number of people developed a resistance to lacquer-- allowed themselves to be poisoned, in fact-- so that objects of enduring beauty could be created. In this age, we are beginning to perceive that a planet-wide poisoning is underway. Penile malformations in baby boys are creeping into the double digits; pollution is the most likely cause. Most of us can sense that the weather is noticeably changed from twenty years ago, and only the lunatic fringe (conveniently funded by Big Oil) is so foolish as to assert that humankind is not to blame.
We are all paying the price for something. And what we have purchased is the way the world is today: technology, entertainment, and the intoxicating stench of ego-driven existence. Hundreds of years of this sort of activity now comes due-- it is unfolding in our bodies, and in the assurance of an uncertain future.
The great truth of time and life is that there is only change, and we have as little idea of the future as the long-dead ones who made and used these three lacquer bowls.
Monday, June 27, 2005
What to do Shu? What to do?
Rob and I are just returned from a weekend in Corvallis, Oregon.
Although I frequented this quiet town of 50,000 a great deal as a child, I hadn't realized how old-fashioned it is. Inviting public spaces, easy pedestrian access to shops, and the grand lawns and plantings of the OSU campus all lend an air of civility and graciousness to the place. The overwhelming culture is comfortably progressive, and far from passive. People seem genuinely interested in how public policy influences their community. They're also a literate crew. You can see local theatre for $10; local bookstores flourish, and 80% of residents use the library at least once a week.
The weather was beautiful; the roses in Avery Park were romantic; people were eating gelato at little sidewalk tables on 2nd St. Our friend Mushin has a lovely house that truly feels like home; her backyard contains a sweet little zendo; the rent for her upstairs is reasonable; she's willing to let me put up a clothesline outside, get a worm box for the luxuriously-oversized back porch, and make yogurt and sauerkraut in the kitchen. Falling in love was all too easy.
I do have a worry, though. I have no job. I have no profession, no idea of how to make money. Yet so far everything is working out well, and working in its own time. I vow every morning to cultivate patience, gratitude and faith. Here is the field where the practice of faith is necessary; I have no deeper fear than having no place to live and no way to make money. How to hold that fear, and to discern the appropriate path to take?
Yes!
Although I frequented this quiet town of 50,000 a great deal as a child, I hadn't realized how old-fashioned it is. Inviting public spaces, easy pedestrian access to shops, and the grand lawns and plantings of the OSU campus all lend an air of civility and graciousness to the place. The overwhelming culture is comfortably progressive, and far from passive. People seem genuinely interested in how public policy influences their community. They're also a literate crew. You can see local theatre for $10; local bookstores flourish, and 80% of residents use the library at least once a week.
The weather was beautiful; the roses in Avery Park were romantic; people were eating gelato at little sidewalk tables on 2nd St. Our friend Mushin has a lovely house that truly feels like home; her backyard contains a sweet little zendo; the rent for her upstairs is reasonable; she's willing to let me put up a clothesline outside, get a worm box for the luxuriously-oversized back porch, and make yogurt and sauerkraut in the kitchen. Falling in love was all too easy.
I do have a worry, though. I have no job. I have no profession, no idea of how to make money. Yet so far everything is working out well, and working in its own time. I vow every morning to cultivate patience, gratitude and faith. Here is the field where the practice of faith is necessary; I have no deeper fear than having no place to live and no way to make money. How to hold that fear, and to discern the appropriate path to take?
Yes!
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Chozen's Advice for Difficult Times
This morning Chozen-roshi said:
If you take refuge in tight muscles,
In a closed heart,
And in a mind that believes problems are solved by thinking,
You are taking refuge in the wrong things!
Today we had a morning of silent work, and I sat stiching meditation cushions after filling them with buckwheat hulls. Against the background of this very simple task, my mind was chattering away, really bent on reliving or previewing conversations. When I looked at them, both the chatter itself and the fantasy interaction it concerned were motivated by a desire to protect myself and promote my own safety and comfort. Sigh....
I realized something then:
No good idea hasever come as a result of repetititous hashing-over in my mind.
Insights come suddenly to a calm mind. Or they arise as if by magic in the course of a natural, stimulating conversation. No progress at all is made by flogging a topic, whether silently or through speech.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Dangerous Friends on the Path
Last week, our teachers Chozen and Hogen each gave a way-seeking mind talk. These are autobiographical accounts of the path that has led a person to the dharma as they now practice it. Talking about our lives in this way, processing past events through the lense of practice, is often deeply therapeutic to the individual speaker. To those in the audience, learning more about their fellow-practitioners builds a sense of community and an appreciation for one another's trials and triumphs.
It was quite unusual and special to hear these two teachers recount their lives in some detail. Many of their trials and transitions are deeply moving, and hearing about them gave me a new perspective on some of my more recent adventures.
Even in casual conversation, asking an experienced Zen teacher about their life and path of practice often leaves me feeling deeply impressed, as if I'd been touched by a very personal lesson about faith and perserverence. (The monastery has hosted three large teachers' meetings in the last year, and by now I know more zen teachers than most people do!) Beyond getting acquainted and fulfilling some social niceties, learning about their life and path of practice tells me something about my own life. The real miracle in all these strories, much more striking a person's flair with language or the energy of their presence, is that they have continued to sit for years, in spite of the distractions, and in spite of staggering setbacks.
These people are not obvious superheroes, and it's not always clear how the sweet and humble (or blustering and canny) person before me has managed to endure, and continues to endure, a galaxy of impossibilities and challenges. It's so easy to project great nobility or power onto the teacher, but the fact is, a life in the Dharma is neither easy or glamorous.
The most important thing in their lives is the Dharma, the teachings of Buddhism in all their unfurled wisdom and transformative potential. More than the abstraction of these teachings, what seems to propel these individuals is the compelling burden and joy of maintaining the warm human aspect of the Dharma. They were, without fail, so deeply connected to their teacher that they can live no other way than by continuing their own teacher's work.
I realize that, for my own life, simply resolving to sit for thirty years is an ingenuous proposition; I have no hope of sitting with any kind of intensity of purpose for even ten years, without first becoming bonded to a teacher. From what I can tell, "bonded" is an accurate term-- a kind of committed, voluntary "bondage."
I have been going along thinking that I want a teacher who will parent me, and feeling somewhat shallow and childish for harboring that desire. It seems reasonable, though, to seek someone I can trust completely, and with whom I really resonate. I want (and fear that I'll find) someone who speaks directly to my heart, who will guide me and really have my best interests at heart.
Theoretically, one could study with whatever teacher was available, and many people had no choice about doing so back in the 60s and 70s. One could also marry anyone and make it work; given the vulnerability and total catharsis of practice, why not find someone with whom you have a real affinity, with whom you can readily fall in love?
However, as Chozen pointed out the other day, there are truths that are too harsh to tell to someone you love. To really serve the student's best interest, the teacher has to be ruthless. They cannot cherish the student in any sort of self-serving way, no matter how platonic. So I have to be willing to put myself at the mercy of someone who I deeply trust and can relate, while simultaneously knowing that they are charged with separating me from my dearest delusions by any means necessary.
It was quite unusual and special to hear these two teachers recount their lives in some detail. Many of their trials and transitions are deeply moving, and hearing about them gave me a new perspective on some of my more recent adventures.
Even in casual conversation, asking an experienced Zen teacher about their life and path of practice often leaves me feeling deeply impressed, as if I'd been touched by a very personal lesson about faith and perserverence. (The monastery has hosted three large teachers' meetings in the last year, and by now I know more zen teachers than most people do!) Beyond getting acquainted and fulfilling some social niceties, learning about their life and path of practice tells me something about my own life. The real miracle in all these strories, much more striking a person's flair with language or the energy of their presence, is that they have continued to sit for years, in spite of the distractions, and in spite of staggering setbacks.
These people are not obvious superheroes, and it's not always clear how the sweet and humble (or blustering and canny) person before me has managed to endure, and continues to endure, a galaxy of impossibilities and challenges. It's so easy to project great nobility or power onto the teacher, but the fact is, a life in the Dharma is neither easy or glamorous.
The most important thing in their lives is the Dharma, the teachings of Buddhism in all their unfurled wisdom and transformative potential. More than the abstraction of these teachings, what seems to propel these individuals is the compelling burden and joy of maintaining the warm human aspect of the Dharma. They were, without fail, so deeply connected to their teacher that they can live no other way than by continuing their own teacher's work.
I realize that, for my own life, simply resolving to sit for thirty years is an ingenuous proposition; I have no hope of sitting with any kind of intensity of purpose for even ten years, without first becoming bonded to a teacher. From what I can tell, "bonded" is an accurate term-- a kind of committed, voluntary "bondage."
I have been going along thinking that I want a teacher who will parent me, and feeling somewhat shallow and childish for harboring that desire. It seems reasonable, though, to seek someone I can trust completely, and with whom I really resonate. I want (and fear that I'll find) someone who speaks directly to my heart, who will guide me and really have my best interests at heart.
Theoretically, one could study with whatever teacher was available, and many people had no choice about doing so back in the 60s and 70s. One could also marry anyone and make it work; given the vulnerability and total catharsis of practice, why not find someone with whom you have a real affinity, with whom you can readily fall in love?
However, as Chozen pointed out the other day, there are truths that are too harsh to tell to someone you love. To really serve the student's best interest, the teacher has to be ruthless. They cannot cherish the student in any sort of self-serving way, no matter how platonic. So I have to be willing to put myself at the mercy of someone who I deeply trust and can relate, while simultaneously knowing that they are charged with separating me from my dearest delusions by any means necessary.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Transmission of the Light Sesshin
We have just emerged from a weeklong sesshin with Dharma Rain, a Soto Zen sangha in Portland who are good friends with the Great Vow monastics and teachers. Last year during this sesshin, I struggled greatly; dying would have been more comfortable. This time, the experience was profound and unobstructed.
The work I've been doing with just trying to feel vulnerability, rather than react with a scenario, has led to another stage: reassurance. It's been a very slow process to go from noticing fear/anger reactions arising, to beginning to cultivate a sense of safety and oneness. I have no idea why, but somehow many situations are colored by a sense of unease, and my default attitude in the presence of others is reliably one of vigilant watchfulness.
I've found a great deal of relief in noting the unease, and then also noting that I am not actually in any apparent danger at the moment! It's surprising how helpful this cognitive aspect is! In meditation, there's a chance to work more deeply, and that's what I did this week.
When I start to sit, I have been consciously allowing love to expand through me. Opening the heart allows every breath, every second of time, every bizarre behavior to become a gift. It's easy to see the sunlight rain-speckled leaves as a beautiful treasure, offered freely to all who would see it. To accept this body and this moment, however, is not our first inclination. I was determined to stay focused, and not to drift off into a pleasant stupor; there is work to be done from a place of comfort. Nevertheless, just to sit there, satisfied, for days on end was a real joy, and a definite novelty.
It was a shock how quiet my mind was. For days. I hadn't realized this, but it makes sense: the bulk of the mind-chatter and discursive thought that comes up in meditation is actually resistance, and it's in response to feeling uncertain and unsafe sitting on a little black cushion in the zendo.
In this quiet place, I didn't think much, but I do have some things to remember :
"What I Learned in Denko-e Sesshin"
Musings by Shugetsu
A teacher who is good for you...
...sees your true self, and reflects that truth back to you.
...is committed to working with you, engaging but not "fixing" you, no matter where you go.
...can guide you because they were guided by their teacher before them.
Submission... (as opposed to surrender)
...is a strategy in response to stress
...involves withdrawing the personality and hiding
...eventually leads to anger and other self-defending states
...involves contraction rather than expansion or transformation
Surrender
You surrender primarily to the dharma and to the practice, but you do so by putting yourself under the direction of a teacher.
Surrender is a continuing process rather than a static state.
Resistance in zazen
is what all that nattering thinking IS
is ameliorated by feeling safe and at-one with all that is
arises in the form of voices
voices tend to be childish, such as the squirmy 6-year-old
voices tend to come up when the body-mind system is vulnerable: tired, in pain, etc.
the end
The work I've been doing with just trying to feel vulnerability, rather than react with a scenario, has led to another stage: reassurance. It's been a very slow process to go from noticing fear/anger reactions arising, to beginning to cultivate a sense of safety and oneness. I have no idea why, but somehow many situations are colored by a sense of unease, and my default attitude in the presence of others is reliably one of vigilant watchfulness.
I've found a great deal of relief in noting the unease, and then also noting that I am not actually in any apparent danger at the moment! It's surprising how helpful this cognitive aspect is! In meditation, there's a chance to work more deeply, and that's what I did this week.
When I start to sit, I have been consciously allowing love to expand through me. Opening the heart allows every breath, every second of time, every bizarre behavior to become a gift. It's easy to see the sunlight rain-speckled leaves as a beautiful treasure, offered freely to all who would see it. To accept this body and this moment, however, is not our first inclination. I was determined to stay focused, and not to drift off into a pleasant stupor; there is work to be done from a place of comfort. Nevertheless, just to sit there, satisfied, for days on end was a real joy, and a definite novelty.
It was a shock how quiet my mind was. For days. I hadn't realized this, but it makes sense: the bulk of the mind-chatter and discursive thought that comes up in meditation is actually resistance, and it's in response to feeling uncertain and unsafe sitting on a little black cushion in the zendo.
In this quiet place, I didn't think much, but I do have some things to remember :
"What I Learned in Denko-e Sesshin"
Musings by Shugetsu
A teacher who is good for you...
...sees your true self, and reflects that truth back to you.
...is committed to working with you, engaging but not "fixing" you, no matter where you go.
...can guide you because they were guided by their teacher before them.
Submission... (as opposed to surrender)
...is a strategy in response to stress
...involves withdrawing the personality and hiding
...eventually leads to anger and other self-defending states
...involves contraction rather than expansion or transformation
Surrender
You surrender primarily to the dharma and to the practice, but you do so by putting yourself under the direction of a teacher.
Surrender is a continuing process rather than a static state.
Resistance in zazen
is what all that nattering thinking IS
is ameliorated by feeling safe and at-one with all that is
arises in the form of voices
voices tend to be childish, such as the squirmy 6-year-old
voices tend to come up when the body-mind system is vulnerable: tired, in pain, etc.
the end
Monday, May 16, 2005
Vulnerability
It sounds obvious and pat to say that our everyday experience full of spiritual gifts.
But. It's. True.
Lately I'm coming to understand that every single experience in this life is an opportunity for spiritual practice and transformation. (To call this an understanding suggests that it is a mental formation like any other; rather, it's a deep feeling, a sort of discovery-in-process that confirms classic spritual teachings.)
"Every single experience in this life," includes objects, other people and the things they do, and the internal chatter of thoughts which apparently arise of their own accord. The thoughts are the toughest. A particular opportunity for practice lately has been to sit with, and feel, vulnerability, rather than reacting and making the leap to anger. Most of the time, I don't really know why I'm uncomfortable. By the time I realize it, I've slid into some state where I can't clearly see myself or my path to that state. It's hard to understand the mess from inside the mess!
But. It's. True.
Lately I'm coming to understand that every single experience in this life is an opportunity for spiritual practice and transformation. (To call this an understanding suggests that it is a mental formation like any other; rather, it's a deep feeling, a sort of discovery-in-process that confirms classic spritual teachings.)
"Every single experience in this life," includes objects, other people and the things they do, and the internal chatter of thoughts which apparently arise of their own accord. The thoughts are the toughest. A particular opportunity for practice lately has been to sit with, and feel, vulnerability, rather than reacting and making the leap to anger. Most of the time, I don't really know why I'm uncomfortable. By the time I realize it, I've slid into some state where I can't clearly see myself or my path to that state. It's hard to understand the mess from inside the mess!
Friday, April 29, 2005
Respect
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.
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.
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