zenjones

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.

I don’t know, I guess I omitted it because I thought Ezra would think it was too goofy, what I call the Bulwer-Lytton exercise. One of the things I try when I’m caught up in negative emotions, as I frequently am, is to pause and say to myself, “It was a dark and stormy night.” This sets the stage for the high drama of my thinking mind, and I continue to describe my situation, only in the third person (and appropriating the corny Bulwer-Lytton style prose):

It was a dark and stormy night. She sank in a bog of depression, wishing she had never been born. I’m a failure, she thought, I’ve never accomplished anything, I live in a run-down neighborhood, the people at work hate me. She cast about for someone, something to blame: fate, her husband, her sister, her parents, her dogs. Yes, even the dogs, she realized with a pang. I can’t take them anywhere.

And so forth. Sometimes this is just the thing to get me the remove I need when I’m spinning down, down, down. It exposes the thoughts for what they are–just thoughts–and brings some humor to the situation.

my cherished i.d.:
a human non sequitur
what follows from this?

Who’s a martyr – moi?
(throws the chair across the room)
I feel better now

1) I shit on myself
thinking I’ll find some magic
equanimity

2) scats lie all about
they’re part of the pulchritude,
compassion’s nature

3) nature’s compassion
feeds our omnivorous souls
bananas and prunes

(p.s.) composing haiku
while sitting on the cushion
someone’s fast asleep

When the coyotes howled I noticed a pleasant tension in all the large muscles of my body. Not as if I had to do something right then, but just telling me to be ready. I realized that that tension is often there when I am in the wilderness—but I’d never noticed it before.

Observed how I began to salivate as we pulled out our eating bowls, just a little, but my body knew the food was coming. Enjoyed the waiting, the attempt to take just enough so we could all finish together. Amused by the way I judged those who did not do this.

As jisha, had many opportunities to notice how I judged myself—and justified, and blamed, and whined about my martyrdom—and others. Though actually less about others; they were my charges. It was my job. As a manager (in business), I think in terms of “What does this person need to succeed?” and so when people came to me with needs, I clicked into work mode.

I was smug with being awareness, thought to myself, “I have the time, the space, the reminders to be aware. Look how aware I am!” And kept being brought up to face my un-presentness: not noticing that a first-time sesshin attendee didn’t know where the kitchen was—even though she was my roommate, for example.

I had real remorse for not maintaining silence. In the past, I’ve been pretty strict with myself about this, probably from a desire to be a good zen student. But as jisha, there is some functional talk necessary, especially with a sort of complicated daisan system. But sometimes I went beyond that, and I realized the disservice I was doing to others by pulling them out of their silence. Wanting to make them more comfortable, I didn’t allow them to take the most advantage of sesshin by residing in their discomfort. Wanting to make them like me, I didn’t allow myself to take advantage of residing in my fear of being disliked.

And so much gratitude for all this, for the camera exercise, for the work of all those who came, for our teachers, for the luxury of that time. For the sound of the crow’s wings as they beat across the yard.

What were your impressions of sesshin? Please leave them in the comments.

who’s too important
too busy, scared, depressed to
be available?

visit Death Valley
and find a near miracle
fish in the desert

One of my practice period intensifiers was a short meditation period in the evening. I think I’ve committed to this for five years running and never made it through the first week.

I’ve changed it to the Daily Review, which Ezra talks about in his book Being Zen. At the end of the day, I get in bed, and I go over my day in my mind. It’s a little tricky to stay on track–my mind wants to examine things in more depth, judge, blame, all the usual stuff. But I catch myself and soldier on to the end of the day. Then I think of the things I was grateful for, and the things I feel remorse for.

And just like the book says, the more I do this, the more I notice things I’m grateful for during the day. And I also notice things I feel remorse for right away.

Last night I noticed that I’m grateful for the situation I was born into–this period in time, this social class, this place. I’m grateful for my healthy genes, and for my husband’s sense of humor, for Annie’s haikus and Susan’s story about the birds on the lake. I’m grateful for this practice and all the people who sit with me in the group, and talk about their experience, so I can be aware of my reactions.

I feel remorse that I didn’t talk to my neighbors as they moved out, and now I’ll never have a chance.

Today, my menu item was “Be aware of attachment to outcome.” Every time the message popped up on my computer or lit up my phone, I was attached to an outcome. But the reminder made me aware, and once I was aware, it was pretty easy to give up the attachment. Much easier than giving up judging or blaming.

Inspired by VLR’s post yesterday. Blaming has angles. I’m a self-blamer, for instance. When I read the Blaming post I immediately wondered if I were among the “blameworthy,” even though it wasn’t really possible (or was it?).  Then last night I discovered that Billy Jack had eaten my favorite sweater. My husband’s fault – it happened on his watch. My fault – shouldn’t have left it on the bed. Dog’s fault? Anyway:

dog chewed my sweater
it’s his fault; it’s my fault; it’s
something that happened