The world of sesshin is as different from this one as Childhood is from Today.
When I return to the monastery, my body will fall into its old habits and associations, some of which actually promote harmony and stability of mind. The place is familiar, but there is always some new novelty. In the past, novelty was most unwelcome: why, oh, why, must we now use this mallet to strike the densho bell? How in hell did they come up with the idea of removing all the towels from the guest area?
With time and distance—and the illusion of safety in my life—there has developed some measure of curiosity and generosity in the face of change. Last time, for example, I paid special attention to my least-favorite activity, meal washup. Normally, the glut of clueless anxious neophytes being inefficient in the kitchen would get me going, and the worst aspects of mind wold flare up in those precious minutes before the post meal break—a break that wasn’t happening, because here we would be, dealing with somebody trying to mop the floor before having swept it, or some such.
But last time, as a person with a home of her own and a decent paycheck to go home to, I considered the fact that meal washup is an event of finite length. The fact that, regardless of how painful it may seem, meal washup will eventually be over. The fact that, no matter how irritating others’ behavior is, it must be far more painful to be them than to merely witness their befuddlement. The fact that, if I am not the one in charge, it is none of my business! how--or if--the person who is in charge, decides to be in charge. I can go, and try to do some good for twenty minutes, and be done when we’re done.
Having a home of one’s own, and a decent paycheck to go home to, seems to promote this sense of perspective. When I lived at the monastery, and had nothing, and no sense of a safety net, every little stressor felt like a survival issue. I was not as well-liked as others, I thought. I had no family to retreat to if things did go sour. There was no backup plan. And yet, stressed as I was my time there could only be temporary. I was flinching before the stick came down. I was flinching, even though there was no stick.
That flinching was itself the problem: the way to stay at a place is simply not to leave. But it was right that I did go. Or maybe leaving was just what I did next. You have to leave before you can come back. And coming back is quite OK.
Although the world of sesshin is distinct from the world of bathroom tile choices, and miles away from the realm friends who drink wine and tell stories until late, there is a certain smearing that happens, consciousness-wise. Sesshin does not take place within normal time and space. (This is just as well, since in the conventional world I seem to be sleeping ten hours a night--not exactly monastic.) The retreat is out there, like a sound on the horizon. As early as last week, I felt it: a thinning of this life, a sense of that-which-shines-behind-everything.
Last night, we went for a walk as night was falling, and I just couldn’t. Couldn’t go uphill, couldn’t go in a particular direction. I told B how a friend of mine literally runs a fever on the way to sesshin. He knows to keep going, in spite of the urge turn around and drive home. I’ll be alright, I said. I just need to be distracted. So we found a coffee shop and worked on my favorite procrastinated task, overdue taxes, instead.
But B was a little worried. I used to do this every month, I told him. It came to be like a break from the regular schedule, since we had to work less, and nobody could bother me. I could just sit, and not have to be anyone, for a week.
Sesshin seems crazy if you haven’t done it. Especially sesshin with no eating after noon. Some of us look forward to that as a macho challenge. Some of us, meaning this person who has, at various times, thought it normal to throw bales of hay around, kill animales, walk barefoot on gravel and dung, ride her bike in ridiculous danger, discuss science with Nobel laureates, and live without electricity. There were winters when I had no proper coat, and long stretches of time, past and recent, when I owned one pair of disintegrating shoes. I have found myself far afield from consensus notions of reality and selfhood more than once. None of that was a problem at the time—and it makes for some good stories—but none of those adventures would come easily now.
So I’ll go off and sit for a week. If you go into it thinking you own it, you’re going to get smashed by it. But: curious, generous, knowing it will end? You’ll come out OK, even if you’re not the same person who went in.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
A Birth-Control Moment at Three Lions
It's a bright day in Northwest Portland. As I walk to the coffeeshop, sights and sounds slip by. Everything seems as it should be, unremarkable and good-humored. Ahead of me, a man is bent over, reaching into a newspaper box. Instead of a newspaper, he pulls out a little boy.
It takes a moment to register, but now I am paying attention. The man is in his early twenties, with large eyes and a full beard. One of your modern hippies, maybe. The boy is around five years old, and he is being propelled quite forcibly--and silently--toward the coffeeshop that is also my destination.
Inside, a young woman is hunched over a computer. The man joins her, and the boy begins running around the coffeeshop, interacting with the chairs, going into the bathroom, chattering constantly. The couple are examining the computer screen with great care.
"Dad, will you go outside with me?" The screen continues to fascinate.
The mother takes him to the bathroom, and leaves him there to do whatever little boys do. The parents scowl at their laptop, and all is silent until someone's phone rings.
It takes a moment to register, but now I am paying attention. The man is in his early twenties, with large eyes and a full beard. One of your modern hippies, maybe. The boy is around five years old, and he is being propelled quite forcibly--and silently--toward the coffeeshop that is also my destination.
Inside, a young woman is hunched over a computer. The man joins her, and the boy begins running around the coffeeshop, interacting with the chairs, going into the bathroom, chattering constantly. The couple are examining the computer screen with great care.
"Dad, will you go outside with me?" The screen continues to fascinate.
The mother takes him to the bathroom, and leaves him there to do whatever little boys do. The parents scowl at their laptop, and all is silent until someone's phone rings.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Phone Call from Central Asia
My father calls. It is 11pm in Baku, Azerbaijan, and 11am in Portland, Oregon. We are literally a world apart, but we talk anyway about our lives and various administrative tidbits. He tells me he's in a park, sitting on a bench in the darkness.
Is that safe?
Probably not, but he'll be OK.
He says he goes for weeks without speaking English. When I was growing up, my dad's command of language always seemed comically optimistic. He had no compunction about foisting his fractured Spanish on anyone at all. You can imagine my embarrassment, but the reality was even more excruciating. I took Spanish quite seriously. I took everything more seriously then. I conjugated verbs and considered the subjunctive. My father was trapped in present tense, to the extent that he could utilitize even that. Still, I wonder now if I inherited some language talent from him.
Now father's lingua franca is Russian. Since leaving the US 10 years ago, the place he's worked--Estonia, Lithuania, Bulgaria, Azerbaijan--have all been countries hoping to join Europe after decades of Soviet influence. Almost everybody understands Russian, even if they don't want to. Since my dad is obviously not a native speaker, people are willing to lay resentment aside and answer him. Someone complimented his Russian the other day and he told them, "Oh, no, I sound a lot better than I am."
It’s true, his accent is so good that you could imagine he knows something about Russian. Even I can tell that it comes to him easily. Not like Spanish.
Everywhere my dad goes, he seems to get along well. In Baku, it was the same story. After about three minutes he finds himself having a drink and laughing and getting to know people. There is a language barrier, but it doesn’t seem to bother anyone.
One time he went on holiday to Egypt and came back saying he hadn’t been kissed so much since he was a little boy in Winamac, Indiana. Presumably, being Egypt, he made all these friends without even drinking.
The next port of call for my father may be Kyrgyzstan. The first challenge, I think, is learning to spell the name of this country. I find it goes easier if you insert the letter "y" in every conceivable location.
The next thing to do when heading to Kyrgyzstan is to see what Lonely Planet has to say. I think my dad will fit in just fine in a place with "a healthy distrust of authority and a fondness for drinking fermented mare's milk."
The distrust of authority part is self-evident: my dad is an itinerant globe-trotting IT consultant who takes no crap from no- one. And he already knows plenty about mares and milk.
A lifetime ago, when we lived on a farm, my dad milked goats by hand; and later, he hooked up our Jersey cow to an old vacuum milker. He engaged in tests of will with at least two mares, and took no crap from them, either. So he’ll fit in great with the Kyrgyzis: he can probably already discuss mares and milk, in Russian--after a fashion.
It’ll be great: the Kyrgyzis can put him in a yurt and he can design a database or two for their government. Sounds like a good sort of exchange.
Our conversation is interrupted then, and my father takes a call on another phone.
In the silence, I hear women's voices in the darkened park speaking words I do not understand. Somewhere in the world, it is night, and somewhere people live an ordinary reality I cannot imagine, expressed as a language I cannot grasp.
Somewhere, in a city on the Caspian Sea, my father will happily talk to anyone in any language he can dredge up. He sounds better than he is, and his secret is that he doesn't let that stop him.
Is that safe?
Probably not, but he'll be OK.
He says he goes for weeks without speaking English. When I was growing up, my dad's command of language always seemed comically optimistic. He had no compunction about foisting his fractured Spanish on anyone at all. You can imagine my embarrassment, but the reality was even more excruciating. I took Spanish quite seriously. I took everything more seriously then. I conjugated verbs and considered the subjunctive. My father was trapped in present tense, to the extent that he could utilitize even that. Still, I wonder now if I inherited some language talent from him.
Now father's lingua franca is Russian. Since leaving the US 10 years ago, the place he's worked--Estonia, Lithuania, Bulgaria, Azerbaijan--have all been countries hoping to join Europe after decades of Soviet influence. Almost everybody understands Russian, even if they don't want to. Since my dad is obviously not a native speaker, people are willing to lay resentment aside and answer him. Someone complimented his Russian the other day and he told them, "Oh, no, I sound a lot better than I am."
It’s true, his accent is so good that you could imagine he knows something about Russian. Even I can tell that it comes to him easily. Not like Spanish.
Everywhere my dad goes, he seems to get along well. In Baku, it was the same story. After about three minutes he finds himself having a drink and laughing and getting to know people. There is a language barrier, but it doesn’t seem to bother anyone.
One time he went on holiday to Egypt and came back saying he hadn’t been kissed so much since he was a little boy in Winamac, Indiana. Presumably, being Egypt, he made all these friends without even drinking.
The next port of call for my father may be Kyrgyzstan. The first challenge, I think, is learning to spell the name of this country. I find it goes easier if you insert the letter "y" in every conceivable location.
The next thing to do when heading to Kyrgyzstan is to see what Lonely Planet has to say. I think my dad will fit in just fine in a place with "a healthy distrust of authority and a fondness for drinking fermented mare's milk."
The distrust of authority part is self-evident: my dad is an itinerant globe-trotting IT consultant who takes no crap from no- one. And he already knows plenty about mares and milk.
A lifetime ago, when we lived on a farm, my dad milked goats by hand; and later, he hooked up our Jersey cow to an old vacuum milker. He engaged in tests of will with at least two mares, and took no crap from them, either. So he’ll fit in great with the Kyrgyzis: he can probably already discuss mares and milk, in Russian--after a fashion.
It’ll be great: the Kyrgyzis can put him in a yurt and he can design a database or two for their government. Sounds like a good sort of exchange.
Our conversation is interrupted then, and my father takes a call on another phone.
In the silence, I hear women's voices in the darkened park speaking words I do not understand. Somewhere in the world, it is night, and somewhere people live an ordinary reality I cannot imagine, expressed as a language I cannot grasp.
Somewhere, in a city on the Caspian Sea, my father will happily talk to anyone in any language he can dredge up. He sounds better than he is, and his secret is that he doesn't let that stop him.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Awhirl
I said, "Sweetie, what are we going to do this weekend?"
Maybe see the sunrise on a mountain.
Maybe see the sunrise on a mountain.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Heedlessness vs Engagement
On the wall in my kitchen, just above the little folding table where I eat my breakfast, there is post-it note that says “heedlessness,” with a line through it. A few inches away is a prayer plaque from a Japanese temple, depicting Bodaidaruma.
Bodhidharma was a hundred years old when he made the sea voyage from India to China. The winds opposed him. The dharma he taught concerned the importance your true nature. Not falling for illusion or ideas, but systematically and exhaustively investigating the self as it truly is. To make this point, Bodhidharma sat in a cave meditating for nine years, and accepted as his first disciple an experienced meditator who was nevertheless willing to sacrifice his own arm for the key to freedom.
For a long time I thought that freedom, in the spiritual sense, meant that one had cultivated the mind so extensively that one no longer needed to calculate what effect an action might have. The advanced teachers I’d met, and myself on a good day at the monastery, moved and acted with a unselfconscious ease, like flowing water. It seemed they did not know what they were doing until they did it. Their answers were always profound, and they met all of life with a light touch.
One day, fresh out of sesshin, with an expansive mind and a ready tongue, holding forethought to be anathema and impulsiveness a virtue, I found the limits of this easy-flowing freedom. A friend and I were perhaps too intoxicated with our own cleverness, and one another’s cleverness, and we carried on a conversation that caused harm to others. There was trouble--not a lot, but more than enough.
Working my way out of that steaming pile o’ karma, I was confronted by the question of how a person acting from a free and unencumbered place can possibly do harm. I hadn’t been harboring any explicit malice in my heart; but I had been a jerk anyway . And others had been hurt by my actions. The answer seemed to be something like the resolution of the koan of Baizhang’s Fox: an Enlightened Being is aware of cause and effect. (The link is worth a click.) No matter how high you might be flying, ignoring the consequences of volitional actions turns you into a low, slinking creature--the fox of Japanese folklore--bound to inquire endlessly into just how this outcome came to be.
Three weeks ago today, I met an old friend for sushi at a restaurant in my neighborhood. Bun and I had gone to high school together, and although we weren’t close, we had all the same friends in common. I last saw him a few years ago at one of those friends’ weddings, and I don’t have any memory of him, really. Except that we later went for a walk on the beach in San Diego, and had a good chat together.
When I look now at the group photo from the wedding reception, I see that Bun’s gaze is direct and true. Now, I recognize it, but at the time what stuck in my mind was the incredible abundance of delicious food at the reception.
After about five minutes at the sushi restaurant, Bun had invited me to go with him to the country of his birth, which he left as a tiny child. I accepted instantly--perhaps heedlessly, who knows?-- and came home that night smitten.
I have come to enjoy being single, finally, after so many cycles of heartbreak and disillusion--many purely imaginary, but some all too real.
(Like so many with a taste for dharma, I see disillusion as a good thing: incorrect ideas drop away, fantasies are punctured, the harsh medicine of reality releases the bondage of grasping. But it’s been hard. It hurts. It’s supposed to hurt. In fact, what hurts, hurts because it is delusional.)
But here was Bun, eminently qualified in every external way to be the man for me. And truly a man: grounded; knowing himself in an important way; having found some understanding, in spite of never having sat with Bodhidharma. This deeply noble and generous person was lit up from the inside. I was lit up from the inside, too! After our next outing, he held my hand and told me how much I meant to him. The next time, he kissed me and told me he loved me. Since then, we haven’t spent much time apart.
In my diary I wrote, “I didn’t think people like Bun existed anymore.” If I had known... what learning experiences I would have missed--or perhaps become have become embroiled in anyway. But so it is. This.
Normally, I am the outgoing and impulsive one. I find myself in a Zen monastery. I find myself not in a Zen monastery. Then, I find myself in Portland, working hard. I am keeping commitments, making some money, taking a job for next year that will require my effort and skill five days a week. Some maturation may be happening. By contrast: Bun, who has worked for the same technology company for nine years, patiently and earnestly doing some good inside the bowels of the behemoth. Not particularly interested in dating--certainly not in dating just for its own sake. But he knew, when he met me. And he acted.
I look at the “no heedlessness” sign. I have known this person for twenty years, and although I never really saw him until last month, an understanding and a trust arises from that history together. I look carefully at the outcome I am headed for: buying a place together, getting married, and the valuation is positive. Beneficial. As though there is some inkling of a deep spiritual bond already present, which is being reenacted in the surface world in a manner that is at once natural, inexorable and full of delight.
Having sat it silence, it is time to move, to take up the heart’s desire and step into the future. To pay attention to the pull of karma. Not heedless, but engaged.
Bodhidharma was a hundred years old when he made the sea voyage from India to China. The winds opposed him. The dharma he taught concerned the importance your true nature. Not falling for illusion or ideas, but systematically and exhaustively investigating the self as it truly is. To make this point, Bodhidharma sat in a cave meditating for nine years, and accepted as his first disciple an experienced meditator who was nevertheless willing to sacrifice his own arm for the key to freedom.
For a long time I thought that freedom, in the spiritual sense, meant that one had cultivated the mind so extensively that one no longer needed to calculate what effect an action might have. The advanced teachers I’d met, and myself on a good day at the monastery, moved and acted with a unselfconscious ease, like flowing water. It seemed they did not know what they were doing until they did it. Their answers were always profound, and they met all of life with a light touch.
One day, fresh out of sesshin, with an expansive mind and a ready tongue, holding forethought to be anathema and impulsiveness a virtue, I found the limits of this easy-flowing freedom. A friend and I were perhaps too intoxicated with our own cleverness, and one another’s cleverness, and we carried on a conversation that caused harm to others. There was trouble--not a lot, but more than enough.
Working my way out of that steaming pile o’ karma, I was confronted by the question of how a person acting from a free and unencumbered place can possibly do harm. I hadn’t been harboring any explicit malice in my heart; but I had been a jerk anyway . And others had been hurt by my actions. The answer seemed to be something like the resolution of the koan of Baizhang’s Fox: an Enlightened Being is aware of cause and effect. (The link is worth a click.) No matter how high you might be flying, ignoring the consequences of volitional actions turns you into a low, slinking creature--the fox of Japanese folklore--bound to inquire endlessly into just how this outcome came to be.
Three weeks ago today, I met an old friend for sushi at a restaurant in my neighborhood. Bun and I had gone to high school together, and although we weren’t close, we had all the same friends in common. I last saw him a few years ago at one of those friends’ weddings, and I don’t have any memory of him, really. Except that we later went for a walk on the beach in San Diego, and had a good chat together.
When I look now at the group photo from the wedding reception, I see that Bun’s gaze is direct and true. Now, I recognize it, but at the time what stuck in my mind was the incredible abundance of delicious food at the reception.
After about five minutes at the sushi restaurant, Bun had invited me to go with him to the country of his birth, which he left as a tiny child. I accepted instantly--perhaps heedlessly, who knows?-- and came home that night smitten.
I have come to enjoy being single, finally, after so many cycles of heartbreak and disillusion--many purely imaginary, but some all too real.
(Like so many with a taste for dharma, I see disillusion as a good thing: incorrect ideas drop away, fantasies are punctured, the harsh medicine of reality releases the bondage of grasping. But it’s been hard. It hurts. It’s supposed to hurt. In fact, what hurts, hurts because it is delusional.)
But here was Bun, eminently qualified in every external way to be the man for me. And truly a man: grounded; knowing himself in an important way; having found some understanding, in spite of never having sat with Bodhidharma. This deeply noble and generous person was lit up from the inside. I was lit up from the inside, too! After our next outing, he held my hand and told me how much I meant to him. The next time, he kissed me and told me he loved me. Since then, we haven’t spent much time apart.
In my diary I wrote, “I didn’t think people like Bun existed anymore.” If I had known... what learning experiences I would have missed--or perhaps become have become embroiled in anyway. But so it is. This.
Normally, I am the outgoing and impulsive one. I find myself in a Zen monastery. I find myself not in a Zen monastery. Then, I find myself in Portland, working hard. I am keeping commitments, making some money, taking a job for next year that will require my effort and skill five days a week. Some maturation may be happening. By contrast: Bun, who has worked for the same technology company for nine years, patiently and earnestly doing some good inside the bowels of the behemoth. Not particularly interested in dating--certainly not in dating just for its own sake. But he knew, when he met me. And he acted.
I look at the “no heedlessness” sign. I have known this person for twenty years, and although I never really saw him until last month, an understanding and a trust arises from that history together. I look carefully at the outcome I am headed for: buying a place together, getting married, and the valuation is positive. Beneficial. As though there is some inkling of a deep spiritual bond already present, which is being reenacted in the surface world in a manner that is at once natural, inexorable and full of delight.
Having sat it silence, it is time to move, to take up the heart’s desire and step into the future. To pay attention to the pull of karma. Not heedless, but engaged.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
A Trend Toward Privacy
Dear Friends,
(And especially T-chan, DeShu, and Frobbo)
Yes, I made the blog secret for a day. 21 hours, actually. Not to shut you out, though! I'm fiddling around with the settings, trying to find a way to create some boundaries while still sharing my life with like-minded folk around the world.
The impetus for this is that I will be teaching next year, part-time, at a school that is named elsewhere in this blog. A school where I will be expected to project something like a professional demeanor.
Where I will not be able to tell my students that I am incredibly in love (which I happen to be).
Where I will not be able to buy tasteful and silly nude calendars made by the senior guys as a fundraiser. See, I tried to do this--right around the advent of the job that was abruptly listed, offered and accepted--in blithe ignorance of the obvious fact that purchasing said nudie calendar looks really bad. Mitigating factors do not save you when you're a high-school teacher. We gotta stick with what looks bad, in spite of the fact that I am, for example, not into 18-year-old. Or that I am a fan and family friend of one of the kids. Or that I thought it was hilarious, and I'd like to support the senior class--
--but not in that way. No no no. Deep breath. Accept embarrassment at hands of older and wiser faculty members, and move on.
The point of all this is that it's too easy to type in my given name (or the "Shugetsu" that decorates all my email messages) and end up here. So blog privacy hath arrived. Enjoy it.
Saved
(And especially T-chan, DeShu, and Frobbo)
Yes, I made the blog secret for a day. 21 hours, actually. Not to shut you out, though! I'm fiddling around with the settings, trying to find a way to create some boundaries while still sharing my life with like-minded folk around the world.
The impetus for this is that I will be teaching next year, part-time, at a school that is named elsewhere in this blog. A school where I will be expected to project something like a professional demeanor.
Where I will not be able to tell my students that I am incredibly in love (which I happen to be).
Where I will not be able to buy tasteful and silly nude calendars made by the senior guys as a fundraiser. See, I tried to do this--right around the advent of the job that was abruptly listed, offered and accepted--in blithe ignorance of the obvious fact that purchasing said nudie calendar looks really bad. Mitigating factors do not save you when you're a high-school teacher. We gotta stick with what looks bad, in spite of the fact that I am, for example, not into 18-year-old. Or that I am a fan and family friend of one of the kids. Or that I thought it was hilarious, and I'd like to support the senior class--
--but not in that way. No no no. Deep breath. Accept embarrassment at hands of older and wiser faculty members, and move on.
The point of all this is that it's too easy to type in my given name (or the "Shugetsu" that decorates all my email messages) and end up here. So blog privacy hath arrived. Enjoy it.
Saved
Thursday, May 24, 2007
What Is Buddhism, Anyway?
Thanks be to the Resident for first sharing this article.
Lately I have been wondering: What is the Dharma? If the Dharma is not a "thing," what is it that happens in temples? What is Dharma practice apart from meditation?
I guess I'll get to investigate these questions this summer, when I'll attend a three-week residential intensive at San Francisco Zen Center. It focuses on modes of practice; teachers from other traditions will come to share their practices and perspectives.
Enjoy the article.
Buddhism With a New Mind-Set
Western spiritual seekers who have focused on meditation have fueled a remarkable growth in Buddhist practice in the United States. So what to do if you are part of an ancient Buddhist tradition that is huge in Asia but has failed to catch on in the United States, in part because it has no real place for meditation?
Change the tradition.
That is what the Rev. T. Kenjitsu Nakagaki of the New York Buddhist Church and other leaders of the Buddhist Churches of America, one of the oldest and most established Buddhist movements in the country, are doing.
The 65 temples across the country that make up the church network are part of a school of Buddhism known as Pure Land that is one of the most widespread in the world and was once a thriving part of the Japanese-American community. Over the last few decades, however, the movement has lost two-thirds of its United States members as a result of assimilation and the diminishing numbers of Japanese coming to this country.
Spurred by a new reform-minded bishop, Koshin Ogui, a growing number of the movement's temples have abandoned their traditional lack of interest in meditation and are offering the practice as a way to survive by reaching out to non-Japanese adherents.
In some ways, the story line is familiar. Religious traditions have long adapted to fit changing cultural circumstances. Consider how Hanukkah, a relatively minor holiday on the Jewish religious calendar, has leaped in importance among many Jews in the face of the crush of attention surrounding Christmas in this country. But while Zen and Tibetan Buddhism -- the Buddhist forms that have largely driven the religion's surge among Western practitioners -- focus on meditative practices as a way to achieve enlightenment, Shin Buddhism, the Pure Land school that the Buddhist Churches of America embraces, teaches that meditation is ultimately useless because of the inherent human limitations.
But the Rev. Marvin Harada, of the Orange County Buddhist Church in Anaheim, Calif., who started a Sunday meditation service several years ago, sees an interim use -- to calm the mind so it can receive Buddhist teaching.
''It's really something that's needed in our modern lifestyle,'' he said, because that lifestyle ''is so hectic, so fast-paced, we have a shorter attention span.'' Only by renouncing all self-effort in attaining enlightenment and trusting in what Shin Buddhists call ''Other Power,'' embodied in the form of the Amida Buddha, revered by Shin adherents, can a believer attain birth in the transcendent realm of Pure Land. That is a place -- similar to the Christian concept of heaven -- where nirvana can be achieved.
''Shin Buddhism defines itself as a form of Buddhism that does not rely on meditation,'' said Matthew Weiner, a Buddhism analyst for the Interfaith Center of New York. ''It's not just a stylistic difference. That's why this is so kind of radical, in a sense.''
The growing incorporation of meditation into Shin Buddhism also offers an intriguing study of how white converts, who are actually outnumbered by their Asian immigrant counterparts in the United States but have driven the rising profile of Buddhism here, are reshaping Buddhist practice.
As a minister in Cleveland and Chicago, Bishop Ogui said he began offering meditation several years ago because 60 percent of the people who called his temple were asking about it. Any venture that turns away that many potential customers, he said, is bound to close.
Clergy members ''are supposed to respond to the needs of the people,'' Bishop Ogui said. ''Any program, including meditation, tai chi, yoga, anything which makes people feel comfortable, or willing to step into the temple, should be offered.''
At the New York Buddhist Church, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, Mr. Nakagaki has been leading meditation classes and incorporating the practice into his Sunday services for years. On a recent Wednesday evening, for example, Mr. Nakagaki, seated on a mat, led a small group of followers, most of them non-Asian practitioners, in an extended period of sitting quietly and concentrating on breathing
It is a familiar scene to those accustomed to the Buddhism that has come into vogue among white spiritual seekers, many of whom have jettisoned Buddhism's other tenets to focus exclusively on meditation.
Colin Anderson, 47, a regular participant in New York Buddhist Church's class, drops in on meditation centers all over the city.
''I don't see it as a religion,'' he said. ''I see it as more of a science of the mind.''
The concept that is taught at many meditation centers -- that controlling one's mind can lead to better controlling one's actions -- which might lead to being reborn into a better life, makes sense to him.
''You're in control of your own life with your own karma,'' he said.
But that idea directly contradicts what Shinran, the founder of Shin Buddhism, taught some 800 years ago. Shinran came to Pure Land after growing frustrated with meditation and other practices taught by other Buddhist schools. He advocated that believers not pursue any specific practice but instead trust in the Amida Buddha's infinite wisdom and compassion for liberation from the endless cycle of life, death and rebirth.
''Shin is based on entrusting, entrusting in the idea that we as human beings are limited, and we're incapable of cultivating ourselves,'' said the Rev. Fumiaki Usuki of the West Los Angeles Buddhist Church, who described himself as wary of the growing use of meditation among his fellow Buddhist Churches of America ministers.
''Just because we have meditation doesn't mean these people are going to stay,'' he said. ''They're driven by this Hollywood aura of meditation. They're supermarket shopping.''
Nevertheless, on Sundays at the New York Buddhist Church, which is now about 70 percent non-Japanese, Mr. Nakagaki begins services with five to seven minutes of meditation.
The meditative practices are a bridge to usher the curious into a Buddhist tradition that can be difficult to grasp, Mr. Nakagaki said.
''My way of thinking, it is a form of kindness, a form of compassion to help them understand Pure Land Buddhism better,'' he said.
The growing use of meditation has sparked a debate within the Buddhist Churches of America about whether its priests are going too far in catering to the whims of an audience that many Asian Buddhists see as dabblers.
''I am maybe more conservative than some,'' said the Rev. Gregory Gibbs of the Oregon Buddhist Temple, who came to Shin Buddhism after years of Zen practice. ''We don't want to obscure our fundamental teaching.''
The debate has also highlighted fissures among Asian practitioners, who tend to be more traditional, and Western spiritual seekers.
''There's a split between converts and so-called ethnic Buddhists,'' said Jeff Wilson, a contributing editor to Tricycle, a Buddhist magazine, who is working on a doctorate on Buddhism in America at the University of North Carolina and has followed the debate over meditation in Shin Buddhist circles closely. ''The people in the so-called ethnic component tend to think of the converts as very elitist, that they're taking over Buddhism and changing it.''
Shin Buddhist leaders in Japan, worried about doctrinal purity, have also questioned the changes Bishop Ogui is encouraging.
''Whatever people worry about in Japan does not make sense most of the time here,'' Bishop Ogui said. ''In America, we have to understand the American culture, and we have to go along with these unique differences.''
In some ways, Pure Land Buddhism has always been at a disadvantage in this country because its teachings about the Amida Buddha make it appear similar to Christianity. During World War II, Shin Buddhist practitioners also started calling their temples ''churches'' and holding regular Sunday services as a way to appear more Christian in the face of anti-Japanese discrimination. Many Westerners looking for the exotic, or an alternative from their Judeo-Christian upbringing, have gone elsewhere. Now Shin Buddhist leaders are hoping to lure them back.
At the New York Buddhist Church, the meditation classes, along with other changes that Mr. Nakagaki has incorporated, including shaving his head and wearing a robe to look more like monks from other Buddhist branches, appear to have had some effect.
Mr. Nakagaki's congregation has grown to about 50 people on Sundays from fewer than 20 when he first started, a little over a decade ago. But attendance is not his primary concern, he said. He merely wants to bring Buddhism to the American people.
Lately I have been wondering: What is the Dharma? If the Dharma is not a "thing," what is it that happens in temples? What is Dharma practice apart from meditation?
I guess I'll get to investigate these questions this summer, when I'll attend a three-week residential intensive at San Francisco Zen Center. It focuses on modes of practice; teachers from other traditions will come to share their practices and perspectives.
Enjoy the article.
Buddhism With a New Mind-Set
Western spiritual seekers who have focused on meditation have fueled a remarkable growth in Buddhist practice in the United States. So what to do if you are part of an ancient Buddhist tradition that is huge in Asia but has failed to catch on in the United States, in part because it has no real place for meditation?
Change the tradition.
That is what the Rev. T. Kenjitsu Nakagaki of the New York Buddhist Church and other leaders of the Buddhist Churches of America, one of the oldest and most established Buddhist movements in the country, are doing.
The 65 temples across the country that make up the church network are part of a school of Buddhism known as Pure Land that is one of the most widespread in the world and was once a thriving part of the Japanese-American community. Over the last few decades, however, the movement has lost two-thirds of its United States members as a result of assimilation and the diminishing numbers of Japanese coming to this country.
Spurred by a new reform-minded bishop, Koshin Ogui, a growing number of the movement's temples have abandoned their traditional lack of interest in meditation and are offering the practice as a way to survive by reaching out to non-Japanese adherents.
In some ways, the story line is familiar. Religious traditions have long adapted to fit changing cultural circumstances. Consider how Hanukkah, a relatively minor holiday on the Jewish religious calendar, has leaped in importance among many Jews in the face of the crush of attention surrounding Christmas in this country. But while Zen and Tibetan Buddhism -- the Buddhist forms that have largely driven the religion's surge among Western practitioners -- focus on meditative practices as a way to achieve enlightenment, Shin Buddhism, the Pure Land school that the Buddhist Churches of America embraces, teaches that meditation is ultimately useless because of the inherent human limitations.
But the Rev. Marvin Harada, of the Orange County Buddhist Church in Anaheim, Calif., who started a Sunday meditation service several years ago, sees an interim use -- to calm the mind so it can receive Buddhist teaching.
''It's really something that's needed in our modern lifestyle,'' he said, because that lifestyle ''is so hectic, so fast-paced, we have a shorter attention span.'' Only by renouncing all self-effort in attaining enlightenment and trusting in what Shin Buddhists call ''Other Power,'' embodied in the form of the Amida Buddha, revered by Shin adherents, can a believer attain birth in the transcendent realm of Pure Land. That is a place -- similar to the Christian concept of heaven -- where nirvana can be achieved.
''Shin Buddhism defines itself as a form of Buddhism that does not rely on meditation,'' said Matthew Weiner, a Buddhism analyst for the Interfaith Center of New York. ''It's not just a stylistic difference. That's why this is so kind of radical, in a sense.''
The growing incorporation of meditation into Shin Buddhism also offers an intriguing study of how white converts, who are actually outnumbered by their Asian immigrant counterparts in the United States but have driven the rising profile of Buddhism here, are reshaping Buddhist practice.
As a minister in Cleveland and Chicago, Bishop Ogui said he began offering meditation several years ago because 60 percent of the people who called his temple were asking about it. Any venture that turns away that many potential customers, he said, is bound to close.
Clergy members ''are supposed to respond to the needs of the people,'' Bishop Ogui said. ''Any program, including meditation, tai chi, yoga, anything which makes people feel comfortable, or willing to step into the temple, should be offered.''
At the New York Buddhist Church, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, Mr. Nakagaki has been leading meditation classes and incorporating the practice into his Sunday services for years. On a recent Wednesday evening, for example, Mr. Nakagaki, seated on a mat, led a small group of followers, most of them non-Asian practitioners, in an extended period of sitting quietly and concentrating on breathing
It is a familiar scene to those accustomed to the Buddhism that has come into vogue among white spiritual seekers, many of whom have jettisoned Buddhism's other tenets to focus exclusively on meditation.
Colin Anderson, 47, a regular participant in New York Buddhist Church's class, drops in on meditation centers all over the city.
''I don't see it as a religion,'' he said. ''I see it as more of a science of the mind.''
The concept that is taught at many meditation centers -- that controlling one's mind can lead to better controlling one's actions -- which might lead to being reborn into a better life, makes sense to him.
''You're in control of your own life with your own karma,'' he said.
But that idea directly contradicts what Shinran, the founder of Shin Buddhism, taught some 800 years ago. Shinran came to Pure Land after growing frustrated with meditation and other practices taught by other Buddhist schools. He advocated that believers not pursue any specific practice but instead trust in the Amida Buddha's infinite wisdom and compassion for liberation from the endless cycle of life, death and rebirth.
''Shin is based on entrusting, entrusting in the idea that we as human beings are limited, and we're incapable of cultivating ourselves,'' said the Rev. Fumiaki Usuki of the West Los Angeles Buddhist Church, who described himself as wary of the growing use of meditation among his fellow Buddhist Churches of America ministers.
''Just because we have meditation doesn't mean these people are going to stay,'' he said. ''They're driven by this Hollywood aura of meditation. They're supermarket shopping.''
Nevertheless, on Sundays at the New York Buddhist Church, which is now about 70 percent non-Japanese, Mr. Nakagaki begins services with five to seven minutes of meditation.
The meditative practices are a bridge to usher the curious into a Buddhist tradition that can be difficult to grasp, Mr. Nakagaki said.
''My way of thinking, it is a form of kindness, a form of compassion to help them understand Pure Land Buddhism better,'' he said.
The growing use of meditation has sparked a debate within the Buddhist Churches of America about whether its priests are going too far in catering to the whims of an audience that many Asian Buddhists see as dabblers.
''I am maybe more conservative than some,'' said the Rev. Gregory Gibbs of the Oregon Buddhist Temple, who came to Shin Buddhism after years of Zen practice. ''We don't want to obscure our fundamental teaching.''
The debate has also highlighted fissures among Asian practitioners, who tend to be more traditional, and Western spiritual seekers.
''There's a split between converts and so-called ethnic Buddhists,'' said Jeff Wilson, a contributing editor to Tricycle, a Buddhist magazine, who is working on a doctorate on Buddhism in America at the University of North Carolina and has followed the debate over meditation in Shin Buddhist circles closely. ''The people in the so-called ethnic component tend to think of the converts as very elitist, that they're taking over Buddhism and changing it.''
Shin Buddhist leaders in Japan, worried about doctrinal purity, have also questioned the changes Bishop Ogui is encouraging.
''Whatever people worry about in Japan does not make sense most of the time here,'' Bishop Ogui said. ''In America, we have to understand the American culture, and we have to go along with these unique differences.''
In some ways, Pure Land Buddhism has always been at a disadvantage in this country because its teachings about the Amida Buddha make it appear similar to Christianity. During World War II, Shin Buddhist practitioners also started calling their temples ''churches'' and holding regular Sunday services as a way to appear more Christian in the face of anti-Japanese discrimination. Many Westerners looking for the exotic, or an alternative from their Judeo-Christian upbringing, have gone elsewhere. Now Shin Buddhist leaders are hoping to lure them back.
At the New York Buddhist Church, the meditation classes, along with other changes that Mr. Nakagaki has incorporated, including shaving his head and wearing a robe to look more like monks from other Buddhist branches, appear to have had some effect.
Mr. Nakagaki's congregation has grown to about 50 people on Sundays from fewer than 20 when he first started, a little over a decade ago. But attendance is not his primary concern, he said. He merely wants to bring Buddhism to the American people.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Would Someone Please Open the Door
In the world that appears to be Outside--the world which has been such a trial lately--a flower appears.
I am so ready to see flowers, and the grimy hallway carpet on which they appear, as somehow external. So ready to feel as if there is something I must *do* in order to administrate a life that feels safer and more certain.
Then the barriers soften. The division between Inner and Outer loses substance. There are impossible coincidences; there are meetings that make me cry; there are things breaking apart so suddenly that I come apart along with them. All along, there is some understanding developing, but I can't put it into words.
I read Ismail Kadare's The Palace of Dreams in two sittings, yesterday and the day before. His books give substance to the symbolic world of the unconscious. They're tragic, and they shine with a soft understanding. Reading them, I become more whole.
I won't say what I dreamed last night, but it was truly strange and hopeful. The flower, coming after that, is no great surprise.
I am so ready to see flowers, and the grimy hallway carpet on which they appear, as somehow external. So ready to feel as if there is something I must *do* in order to administrate a life that feels safer and more certain.
Then the barriers soften. The division between Inner and Outer loses substance. There are impossible coincidences; there are meetings that make me cry; there are things breaking apart so suddenly that I come apart along with them. All along, there is some understanding developing, but I can't put it into words.
I read Ismail Kadare's The Palace of Dreams in two sittings, yesterday and the day before. His books give substance to the symbolic world of the unconscious. They're tragic, and they shine with a soft understanding. Reading them, I become more whole.
I won't say what I dreamed last night, but it was truly strange and hopeful. The flower, coming after that, is no great surprise.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Wheel of Becoming
A thousand-word commentary on my life:
Attachment, attachment, attachment.
Aversion, aversion, aversion.
Is there anything more than this?
(Wikipedia on the Bhavachakra.)
Attachment, attachment, attachment.
Aversion, aversion, aversion.
Is there anything more than this?
(Wikipedia on the Bhavachakra.)
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Monks on Ice
Zen Boys fall too. This adorable video shows how.
As with Life (and all forms of Practice), the importand thing is not that you fall down, or how many times you fall down--or how many times you fall down compared to someone else. The important thing is that you get up, again and again.
(Presence of Sangha member with video camera is optional.)
As with Life (and all forms of Practice), the importand thing is not that you fall down, or how many times you fall down--or how many times you fall down compared to someone else. The important thing is that you get up, again and again.
(Presence of Sangha member with video camera is optional.)
Four Words
There is an article in the New Yorker magazine about aging. It is beautifully written by Atul Gawande, one of my favorite writers.
Why we age is the subject of vigorous debate. The classical view is that aging happens because of random wear and tear. A newer view holds that aging is more orderly and genetically driven. Proponents of this view point out that animals of similar species and exposure to wear and tear have markedly different life spans. The Canada goose has a longevity of 23.5 years; the emperor goose only 6.3 years. Perhaps animals are like plants, with lives that are, to a large extent, internally governed. Certain species of bamboo, for instance, form a dense stand that grows and flourishes for a hundred years, flowers all at once, and then dies.
The idea that living things shut down and not just wear down has received substantial support in the past decade. Researchers working with the now famous worm C. elegans (two of the last five Nobel Prizes in medicine went to scientists doing work on the little nematode) were able to produce worms that live more than twice as long and age more slowly by altering a single gene.
"...and age more slowly..."
Those are my words.
From 1997 until 2001 I did PhD research at UCSF in one of the leading labs studying aging in C. elegans. We had long-lived mutant worms, but the link between their long-life and aging was unexplored. I explored it, finding simple markers for aging, and identifying a rapid-aging mutant. Of all the paths I explored, this one paid off best and soonest. So I published a paper and went off into the land of Zen.
Four years. Four words. Some imperceptible mark upon the world.
Dauers
Originally uploaded by dhavalsubhaspatel.
Tools of the trade (III)
Originally uploaded by md&r.
Why we age is the subject of vigorous debate. The classical view is that aging happens because of random wear and tear. A newer view holds that aging is more orderly and genetically driven. Proponents of this view point out that animals of similar species and exposure to wear and tear have markedly different life spans. The Canada goose has a longevity of 23.5 years; the emperor goose only 6.3 years. Perhaps animals are like plants, with lives that are, to a large extent, internally governed. Certain species of bamboo, for instance, form a dense stand that grows and flourishes for a hundred years, flowers all at once, and then dies.
The idea that living things shut down and not just wear down has received substantial support in the past decade. Researchers working with the now famous worm C. elegans (two of the last five Nobel Prizes in medicine went to scientists doing work on the little nematode) were able to produce worms that live more than twice as long and age more slowly by altering a single gene.
"...and age more slowly..."
Those are my words.
From 1997 until 2001 I did PhD research at UCSF in one of the leading labs studying aging in C. elegans. We had long-lived mutant worms, but the link between their long-life and aging was unexplored. I explored it, finding simple markers for aging, and identifying a rapid-aging mutant. Of all the paths I explored, this one paid off best and soonest. So I published a paper and went off into the land of Zen.
Four years. Four words. Some imperceptible mark upon the world.
Dauers
Originally uploaded by dhavalsubhaspatel.
Tools of the trade (III)
Originally uploaded by md&r.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Surrendering the Self
A quote that illustrates 1. the interpenetration of Taoism and Zen--the unity of Truth-- and 2. the disconnect between romanticized views of practice, and Reality.
I took minor liberties with the language in the final stanza.
I took minor liberties with the language in the final stanza.
Accept disgrace willingly.
Accept misfortune as the human condition.
What is meant by “Accept disgrace willingly?”
Accept being unimportant.
Do not be concerned with loss or gain.
This is accepting disgrace willingly.
What is meant by “Accept misfortune as the human condition”?
Misfortune comes from having a body.
Without a body, how could there be misfortune?
Surrender your Self humbly; then you can be trusted to care for all things.
Love the world as your true self; then you can wholeheartedly care for all things.
Tao Te Ching Verse XIII
adapted from the translation by Gia-fu Feng & Jane English
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