zenjones

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.

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.

I think I’ve had “Nightly Reflection” on my list of added practices for Practice Period for at least three years, but every time I’ve tried it I’ve fallen asleep within seconds. Last night, I managed to stay awake, and follow the instructions.

And today was pretty amazing. It was just like Ezra says in Beyond Happiness: “…as we become more attuned to what is happening during the day, these moments begin to stand out, and gratitude is more likely to arise in the present moment.”

It’s been happening all day. Just now, as I was reading in the bedroom (not watching television), I heard the dishwasher go on, and my heart swelled with gratitude for the dishwasher, for my husband for running it, for the happy mundanity that is my morning when I empty it.

Here is a poem I have lately fallen in love with that seems as much about gratitude as love to me:

Aimless Love

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

~ Billy Collins ~