zenjones

I went to the San Francisco Zen Center to sit early in the morning. I would have walked, but my husband was concerned about me walking alone in the dark through what he considered dangerous neighborhoods, so I called an Uber. It seemed to go against my ideas of Zen and simplicity, but it was actually very simple, so I didn’t worry too much.

There was a young student at the door, standing straight and respectfully, ready to direct newcomers. He was helpful and friendly. The first thing I did was step on the mat before the shoe rack while still in my shoes. I looked up to see a sign saying, “Please remove shoes before you step on the mat.” So immediately I was thrown into beginner’s mind.

I entered the Zendo left foot first, as the the young student had told me. He’d also told me to sit on any spot that didn’t have a plaque, but it was dark and I couldn’t see any plaques at all. I’m sure my posture was one of confusion and a literal helping hand came out of the dark to indicate a free pillow. I was relieved and grateful. I plunked down and was immediately comfortable in the silence. There was that familiar smell of oryoki bowls on the third day of sesshin. The sound of people getting comfortable on their pillows. Also the sound of a wooden hammer banging on a wooden block. I recognized it from our closing ceremony. The banging did not seem to have any rhythm or reason for the changes in loudness. Then there were bells and I sensed teachers in robes walking by.

(more…)

So last week we read the “Experiencing Grief” by Stephen Levine. According to Levine, we don’t grieve only when we have lost someone (if only if were that simple, he says), but more or less constantly in our daily lives through our self-doubt, our “not-enoughness.”

This is all well and good, but some people didn’t buy it. Why “grief”? they asked? Grief is over loss, not angst. Why should we regard our fears and self-judgments specifically as grief?

I’ve been thinking about this. What goes on when I’m caught in some downer belief, like “I’m a loser”? Well, that belief carries with it a sense of doom and irrevocability. It seems like a permanent state. There’s also an underlying and unacknowledged sense of blame: if only circumstances had been different, I wouldn’t be such a loser.

If only my parents had been more understanding, I would be less neurotic. If only I’d gotten my mother’s wavy hair and my father’s lean face, instead of my father’s straight hair and my mother’s round face, I would be so much better looking! If only I’d had nicer elementary school teachers instead the judgmental harridans I got. And so on.

These more favorable circumstances never came to pass, of course, so I experience them as loss, permanent, irrevocable loss, like death. That’s why “grief.”

But it’s really an almost fake grief, because it’s totally dependent on my belief in the might-have-been world, which doesn’t exist, didn’t exist, and frankly we don’t know if it could have existed, really.  What I experience and feel is real enough, but what lies underneath is illusion. Levine writes, “Examining what we feel, not analyzing why, we discover the labyrinthine patterns of our grief and unfinished business, the skeletons of so many moments of life which became lost by the wayside. And the darkness of a thousand moments of helplessness and hopelessness is illuminated in a clear and merciful awareness.” Grief, as he puts it, is workable. I can see that now.

 If only I’d had this answer ready for people last Wednesday. :  )

Mostly we missed Ezra and Elizabeth. We worried, we catastrophized, we were sad. But we also practiced with our reactions. We showed up; we were sitting on our cushions at the beginning of every period. We sat and we supported each other. We didn’t leave.

We stepped up.

When Ezra had to leave, I had a little internal tantrum. I would leave! I spent a period between bells planning my escape. But then I decided to stay another period. During which Chuck asked us to imagine what it would be like if we did not swat away the flies. I snarled at him as a fly buzzed into each of my ears. But I did not swat them away. Nor the next. I was still.

Claudia lead the mindful movement practice with grace and care.

Al’s second talk was a delight: a Zen ancestor and Shakespeare. And there were moments where I felt a king of infinite space within the nutshell of sesshin.

At the second gatha walk, Steve reminded us that the oxygen we breathed had been breathed by all the life around us–the trees, the dragonflies–and I was aware of my place in the world in a larger way. And then he said, “What requirements do you have? Is there too much sun? Too much shade? Is it too steep? Too long? Too short?” That question stayed with me throughout sesshin, sharpening my practice.

Sho-san was intense. The sun through the oak leaves was soft and shifting. We told the stories of our sesshin, of our difficulty, our fear, our grief, our moments of clarity. Our gratitude.

Don’t feel much more coherent than I did last night but just did want to say how much I loved the picture of you floating quietly between rooms at work admiring the scenery.  Know your workplace probably as hermetically sealed as mine but envisioned you standing in front of an open window with long white curtains floating gently in a small breeze.

So nice to hear you explore the possibilities of a little less pressure.  Good grief.  Is this the pay off for being brave enough to risk losing our cramped grip on our lives?  Last Wednesday night Annie and I spoke about the joy of being present for a few moments in the morning when we clean up after our dogs.  On workdays it’s my only time outdoors.  The birds sing, my neighbor’s chickens natter on to each other, the damp grass wets my slippers, the air is cool on my cheek…in short, a glorious five minutes in nature.  Our days could be a long string of these small pleasures if we were truly present to them?  I run about looking for Satisfaction and Contentment and, yes, Enlightenment.  Maybe what all these teachers keep saying about being present to THIS moment is all it takes.  And, just possibly, maybe even the moments of disappointment and frustration and whatever other “negative” stuff could be just as luminous if viewed with full attention and compassion for ourselves and others?  My birthday yesterday was full of such small pleasures.  No big gifts, no huge party but basking in the warm and glowing love given freely by people who have allowed me into their hearts.

May we be present today as often as possible and remain here for as long as possible.

I was anxious going into sesshin because Ezra had told me a few days earlier that I was jisha. I don’t mind that job for our own Santa Rosa sesshin, but all I could think about was how unworthy I was to do it in San Diego, and that everyone would be judging me as not being senior enough or a good enough student to have that job and would be waiting for me to screw up.

There is a bell-ringing sequence that the jisha does with the timekeeper after a teacher gives a dharma talk, and I was all stressed-out about getting this right. Barbara (timekeeper) was coaching me in the zendo, when over her shoulder I spotted the flowers on the altar. They were a lovely, ethereal arrangement of pink Gerbera daisies floating over rose-shaped succulents in a long, shallow vase, and they looked like lotus blossoms in a pond. But there were no thoughts about the flowers. I just noticed them without realizing that I was noticing them.

Later during the dharma talk, someone made a comment that made me think (somewhat contemptuously), “Well, duh!” As I labeled the judgment and started scold myself for indulging my little self, I looked towards the altar and saw the flowers again. Then I remembered how I had seen them earlier, and I seeing them again I felt something open up. I thought about how one could be full of small self pettiness and yet still be able to take in something beautiful outside the small self. I realized that not only was the small self judging others, but that my fears of being judged by others assumed that they were coming from their small selves. The flowers triggered the momentary ability to just take something in and experience it directly, so I was able to apprehend in that moment the big self that contains the small, and that in fact, it is one big self that contains all of our small ones.

I messed up the bell-ringing after that particular dharma talk, but I got it right the next time.

Practice period is over.

What have I learned? What was the value?

First: the gratitude practice was most helpful. I have added in the weekly “gratitude day,” and the nightly reflection has been second nature lately. It was something I’d tried to do for years; I’m grateful it worked this time.

The weekly pattern interrupts were most enlightening. I had to struggle with staying with the experience most of the time. I missed my comforts—and was able to see how much of my actions were seeking comfort.

I also saw how I used anger as a defense—I was so cranky, so easily annoyed. Especially during the week when I gave up my reading habit.

One effect of practice period is in the intensification of my usual daily practice. For example, today is Loving Kindness Meditation Day and while it is only 10 am I have noticed already three times my propensity for separation—heard that little voice say “not me”—and have breathed into the center of the chest, and thought “May you dwell in the open heart.” Usually I do the meditation in the morning and forget about it. But I believe practice period has brought practice nearer the surface.

Not drinking was not that hard. I thought it would be—I have a nightly glass of wine. It’s a signal that it’s time to put away the work and relax. But that part wasn’t the difficult part. It was the not joining in with the crowd. I went to a work event down at Hal Riney on the Embarcadero and never quite synched up with the other attendees, who were all drinking. But as far as my practice, it was good to notice the way I use these external cues to not experience the moment. And how hard it is—especially at a social event where I am often self-conscious and shy—to stay present to those feelings.

Tonight I’m going out to dinner with acquaintances I don’t know that well and feeling grateful already for the promised glass of wine.

But this week—the last week of practice period—the comfort I am giving up is reading. Though today is only the first day, and it’s only 9 a.m., I have already become aware of how I use this habit for comfort.

Last night I found myself awake at 2 a.m. and unable to return to sleep. My normal habit is to read on my iPhone ’til I fall back asleep. It usually works pretty well, but even if it doesn’t, I don’t much care because I’d rather read than most anything.

So I lay there practicing with it, and doing my nightly reflection in more depth. It was difficult to be grateful—I was cranky. As 3:30 rolled around, I decided to cancel my workout that was scheduled for 6:00 so I could sleep some more, and I fell back to sleep.

And now I find myself thirstily reading online, trying to drag myself away from The New York Times. Also, I caught myself unconsciously reading a New Yorker. I go now to hide them from myself.

This week is going to be difficult.

Floating on that pink cloud, glowing with big love. Is this not a great feeling? Of course, I am already grasping at it. How can I keep this? Bad Zen student.

During Ezra’s dharma talk on Saturday, he mentioned the dance of practice, and that answered so many questions for me. Questions like “Should I just go back to the breath all the time? What about staying with the sensation? What about loving-kindness?” I realized that different practice situations call for different tools. That there isn’t a prescription for this. Rather an awareness of the possible ways to approach a situation is called for.

In Elizabeth’s talk under the oak tree on Sunday she explained the recognizing, refraining, and returning practice in a way that made it very immediate and clear to me, and others told me it had the same effect. During the talk, one student mentioned how she went so quickly from asleep to awake using this practice that it surprised her.

Most of this sesshin was, for me, smooth and easy. The air was silky and warm and sweetly scented with pine or eucalyptus or the soap on a slow-walker’s skin. It was a joy to experience the changes of light throughout the day. I very much enjoyed being the camera, not as much being the photographer. Oh! And I almost forgot: the magic of the starlit gatha walk. It was something I’ve been afraid to do for years, and regretted missing. It was really something.

This year’s closing ceremony was poignant and moving and lovely. I am so grateful for all the attendees for their meticulous attention to their practice, and our shared aspiration.

This has always been the hardest week for me—the week where I give up coffee. In fact, I’ve never gone more than a couple days. But this year not drinking coffee has been very useful.

My mornings do not have that driven quality. I usually feel like I can’t do anything ’til I’ve had coffee. But now, the morning unfolds without that imperative. Most mornings, I’ve had a cup of tea, but I don’t get that jolt. So this practice has made coffee a preference, not a demand. And I feel a little less addicted.

I also used to have a cup of coffee every afternoon—I thought it kept me alert. But I had no problem staying alert without it, and even went out and stayed out late a couple nights without coffee.

I head into sesshin tomorrow. It’s lost that far away glow; I’d really rather stay home. But I’m committed. And hoping that the coffee table coordinator brews fresh coffee on Saturday morning!

It’s only been five days and I’m feeling like an addict, going through withdrawal. I don’t know what to do with myself. I come into the bedroom (where the TV is) and I just sort of stare in that direction. I knew that I was using TV to self-medicate to some degree, but I didn’t realize how much it helped me stay asleep to my pain. Now I know. Thanks a lot!

Of course, I have books and the Internet. I have distractions. But TV was my evening drug of choice. As long as I could zone out, I didn’t have to face these feelings of worthlessness.

To the five questions:

1. What is going on right now?
2. Can I see this as my path?
3. What is my most believed thought?
4. What is this?
5. Can I let this experience just be?

My most believed thought is that I should be comfortable. I want to go in the other room and whine at my husband. Something along the lines of “I am useless I am worthless nobody loves me.” And sob. And then maybe he’ll make me a cup of tea—or a big glass of whiskey!—and then do something to distract me from… me.

But I have found a book, a good distracting book. Will I just go there? Just replace one soporific with another? But shouldn’t I be feeling these yicky feelings? I can only take so much. Maybe three breaths. Okay, I’ll take three breaths.