zenjones

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

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.

On the shuttle there were 4 sales-types who’d just come from their annual meeting. They were loud and hearty and swell-fellow-well-met. I was texting. One of them apologized for being annoying. I said they weren’t. They told me where they’d been, and asked where I was going. “Actually, I’m going to a silent zen retreat.”

At first they themselves were newly silent. Then they were so funny, making jokes, asking about sweat lodges and spa treatments. They seemed a little interested, but having fun with the concept. “What is your goal?” one of them asked.

“I don’t have one.”

Then they were completely silent.

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

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!

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.

People in my way!
I feel like shoving them – but
is it worth the view?

Yes, I’m having one of those days full of lovely practice gifts.