zenjones

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.

I’ve avoided following my practice period commitment as much as possible. I was out of town and off the grid, I was busy at work, I was… scared. The last one I didn’t really know about, but today I experienced that fear viscerally.

And oh boy did I try to avoid that.

My primary gap is that I avoid experiencing the pain and fear around feelings of worthlessness and failure. I have a really good example of failure to practice with. But did I? No. I was just too busy.

But today I came face to face with that failure situation and the feelings I have all around it. Thank you, Facebook. I received a notice from the person I blame for that failure—all about her success. Oh, my stomach roiled. Oh, the believed thoughts I had! And how my core fear was activated.

I decided I better go look in the fridge and see what we had to eat.

Halfway to the kitchen I said, Hey wait! This is just that opportunity you’ve been looking for, you lucky girl! So I went back and sat on my pillow and stayed with it.

It was horrible: nauseous, difficulty breathing, a clot above my sternum, aches across my shoulders, spikes behind my eyes, and a tightening around my throat. And the thoughts were all blaming, vindictive, ugly. I had this moment of clarity wherein I thought, “So that’s where all these thoughts come from!” And then I went on to wish that I could get rid of them… Realized I was adding something, and went back to the sensation in my body. Thought of suicide—which really surprised me. Thought: I. Don’t. Want. This. I don’t want to be this person. I sat there in the miasma of thoughts and sensations as long as I could. My brain kept wanting to take me away: it came up with images of success (I just got a promotion, I have a wonderful marriage and fabulous friends) and I wanted to follow it there because that is much more pleasant than WorthlessFailureLand. But I came back and I came back and then I said, If you come back one more time for three breaths you can think about what you’ll make for dinner.

Here’s something I found interesting: I really didn’t want to write about this. I really didn’t want you to know this about me. I am not this kind of person.

Except I am. And now you know.

I am so in love with this phrase.

At least twice last night, it showed me my fears. Which is my goal!

One time, I was waiting for my husband to call. I have a most believed thought that “He’s always late.” So, I rush home, and wait by the phone. 15 minutes go by. I’m heating up.

It has been thus for 16 years. About 10 years ago, I pretty much stopped reacting. But still, I’d steam. I also got curious about it. I explored some other thoughts: my father thought people who were late were trying to bolster their self-image (“See, I’m so important that I can treat people rudely and they’ll still wait for me”). That doesn’t sound like my husband at all. He’s more the absent-minded professor-type.

But last night, I noticed myself getting agitated, some tension in my neck and around my mouth. I was all confused, too, about what to do, how I should feel—a sure sign that something is going on.

So I asked myself, “What is my most believed thought?” And I realized that it was, “I am not worth treating respectfully.” Even now, just writing that, gives me a little thrill of anger, shame, and sadness. I am worthless. One of my most painful believed thoughts.

Er, where was I?

Oh, yes, I just love “what is my most believed thought?” Because after I experience those sensations, after I recognize what it is, I can remember that “most believed thoughts” are just that: thoughts. They are not this: the truth.

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.

I have a touch of agoraphobia. There is a part of me that wants to stay in my pajamas all day, lock the doors, not answer the phone. I do this once in a while and it’s almost like tasting the forbidden fruit. This could become my life.

Many years ago, it was my life. I didn’t leave the house for six months. I could not make myself leave—it was very frightening. In fact, I lived submersed in the quick-sand of fear. I have had short—2-day, maybe—relapses. Ever since then, though, when I feel it coming on, I head it off.

Yesterday, my practice period awareness task was to “Be aware of anxiety around leaving.” It was pretty interesting. When my little alarm went off, I’d notice that my shoulders had crept up toward my ears. I’d settle them back down where they belonged. And then the next time the alarm went off, there they’d be, all hunched up. It made me smile.

But today is not so fun. Today has a turbulent tummy and a little bit of shortness of breath. And this fragmented feeling, where I’m having a hard time concentrating on any one thing. Feeling like I should be doing something, but really, there’s no something there, so I’d like to make something up. And unable to concentrate long enough to actually do the things I should. But there really aren’t many of those things. So should I make some things up?

While I sat this morning, I just planned about work. Then, 20 minutes into my time on the cushion, I realized that I don’t sit on Wednesday mornings. I sit Wednesday evenings with the group.

I’m going to go workout, see if I can use up some of the adrenalin. And then I’m going to call my Zen teacher.

But really? I’m experiencing this in my body. And I’m labeling my thoughts. And then I’m not.

That’s what my husband calls the place where his mother lives, and where we have come to visit. He calls it that because it is a cinder block building, so it’s difficult to get cell phone reception, and also because for a long time there was no way to get an internet connection here. He solved the latter problem by seeting up a computer room for the folks here at Friendship Manor, and now I am working in that room, on one of nine computer stations, complete with flat screen monitors. Very snazzy.

It is the black hole for me because it is the place where so many of my hidden fears are lodged.

Earlier yesterday we stopped at a nursing care home, where my husband’s aunt has gone. It is probably her last stop on this earth. She is a sweet woman, and she was fully cognizant when we were there. But she was also angry in ways I hadn’t seen in her before–she was angry about her nightgown, and angry that her best friend had had a stroke, and angry for not being able to get dressed and feel like herself again. That anger seemed so obviously related to fear.

Sitting and talking with her, it was as if I was on the pillow. I kept bringing myself back to the present, to sitting in this room with the fear of loss of control and loss of life just coming at me. My brain was begging me to think about something else, and I did, but I kept coming back.

Here at Friendship Manor, it is not the last stop for many of these people. They must be ambulatory to stay here, so these people are doing pretty well, in comparison. They have activities, they have gossip, they can make a lot of choices about their lives. But they are no less angry. Many times they will be angry about things that happened sixty years ago.

At Friendship Manor my fear of not being loved surrounds me like a miasma. I tense my body to deny it entrance, and so I often leave here sore, as if I’d worked out lifting weights. I talk to some of these old folks as they go on and on about the tiny things in their lives, their dissatisfaction, regrets, judgements; their fears leaking out of ever phrase. And I have a hard time feeling compassion for them because I am so afraid. So afraid of the same things they are afraid of.

I decided I must get rich, and get all those lifts and things so I can look like Gloria Vanderbilt at 85. That’s the true route to a good life. Forget all this zen stuff!

paranoia rings
true when fear unencumbered
runs rings around you

My expectation was that I’d be all zen-like, present, and with a little Buddha smile on. My overall practice concentration is thought-labeling, to help me be aware of my gap, which I consider to be my unwillingness to sit with fear. I revert to anger, and that has never done me any good.

I haven’t been zen-like today. I’ve been cranky and defensive and suspicious and many other un-zen behaviors. I try to be aware, but you know? Self-righteousness is a lot more fun.

Last night I explained our practice’s thoughts about fear, starting with Ezra’s great article in Tricycle, to my husband. He is not a  Zen practitioner, but he is a good listener. Certainly when I was done I felt like I had it all goin’ on. I understood how my conditioned fears transformed into thoughts and sensations which made me uncomfortable, so I got mad, and blamed him. It seemed so obvious, so easy to be aware of.

But by this morning I was all wound up again. He said some innocuous thing which I could somehow interpret as dangerous or insulting, and I reacted with anger, and sheesh.

So now I am practice with guilt and self-judgement. There’s always something useful for practice. Period.

In my meditation group we are studying the being kindness meditation in Ezra Bayda’s book, Zen Heart. Ezra is my teacher, has been my teacher for eight years. He is a very good teacher.

Before Ezra was my teacher, I lived in Boston and read daily in Joko Beck’s two books, Nothing Special and Everyday Zen. These books, especially Nothing Special, spoke to me in ways that no other had. Every statement rang true, and I felt that for the first time in my life I had found a practice that overlaid perfectly my own spiritual thoughts and beliefs. (more…)

They go at it twice a week. It escalates throughout the night, until somewhere between midnight and 6 a.m. the yelling and the thumping wakes me up. I lie there and listen, trying to convince myself that this is their choice, they have been married for 30 years, it’ll be over soon. But lately their words have become clearer and they are definitely threatening. I imagine one of them dead, and me having to say to the reporters, “Well, I listened to them for years, but never did anything.” Also, after a bad night, I wake up trembling and spikey. And shut down. Anxious and afraid, I spend the day jumping at the slightest sound.

So I wrote them a letter, with the name of a therapist, and I said that if they didn’t stop, I’d call the police. And I gave a copy to my landlord. I think they will be evicted now. It will probably take a month.

Yesterday, the day they got the letter, I crept around the house, afraid they’d come over. I saw the wife get the mail and walk into the house. Then there was thumping. Violence is so unpredictable. Am I next? And, of course, it calls up all the sensations of when I experienced domestic violence personally. As a child, there was so much fear and dread. And that conspiracy of silence–we never talked about it in my house. I’ve just broken that covenant. I’ve brought in the outside world to their private hell. Since they brought their private hell into my little world.

I have this expectation that my life now will be free of violence. I have a non-violent husband and non-violent friends. Must I be reminded of the horrible way people can treat each other? Must I be reminded of my own experience?

Well, yes. That is the face of God. It reminds me of that poem we sometimes read at the Zen Center in San Diego, “Please Call Me By My True Names,” by Thich Nhat Hanh, about the pirate who rapes the little girl. It easy to feel compassion for the little girl, but the real shocker in that poem is the part where we must say,

And I am the pirate,
my heart not yet capable
of seeing and loving.

I am my next door neighbors.