zenjones

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.

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 ~

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.