zenjones

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.

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!

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.

Perfect day to notice how I blame others. It was pretty comical, really. Something unexpected would happen, there’d be a miscommunication, I’d make a mistake, and zhoop! I’d be blaming the nearest warm body.

But today, having it be my practice period intensification, I was aware of it most of the times I did it. So I noticed that even after I noticed it, and said, Look what you are doing, I kept coming back and trying to blame someone else for the same event, the same thing I’d just caught myself doing minutes ago.

I also noticed that I want to be angry; I think I crave that juicy self-righteous sensation. It distracts me from feelings of unworthiness (as does blame). I think I’m going to make my concentration tomorrow be to notice those feelings of unworthiness. I don’t hold out a lot of hope that I will; I’m too fast on the draw of my gun of distraction.

Having a thought that I’m not a very good thought-labeler. Hey! I just did it! Okay, having a thought that I’m not that bad of a thought-labeler.

It is just so interesting to me the strength of my desire to be elsewhere. Anywhere else but where I am. In the morning I look-forward to sitting. And then I set down and say my practice intention and take a breath or two and suddenly I am looking-forward to waking my husband up! How does that happen?

We have a new-ish student in our zen group. During sharing he recounts how hard he is working to be present. He sounds amazed that he can’t do it—can’t be present all the time. During sharing, we don’t have cross-talk. It is a time to talk about your own experience of practice. But it is all I can do not to say, “I’ve been doing this every day for 15 years and I am still only present for a tiny part of any day!”

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.