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Dogen’s Continuous Practice 4

Norman gives the fourth talk in a six part series on “Dogen’s Continuous Practice” given at the Samish Island 2010 Sesshin. This work is also referred to as “gyoji” in Japanese and is a fascicle of Dogen’s “Shobogenzo”

Dogen’s Continuous Practice

Talk 4

June 22, 2010

Samish Island

Transcribed and edited by Anne Johnson, Barbara Byrum, and Cynthia Schrager

Continuing with our reading of Continuous Practice, Dogen next gives us the biography of Huineng, the sixth ancestor. Huineng is not an important person in the monastery. He is relegated to the storeroom, where he pounds and grinds rice. But he’s singled out for receiving transmission secretly in the middle of the night from Hongren. Then Huineng leaves and goes on wondering for some years before he emerges in the world as the famous sixth ancestor. There is one interesting detail: Dogen says that the whole time that Huineng was wandering around, he carried the grinding stone on his back. Dogen says that even later, when Huineng did emerge as the famous sixth ancestor, “He did not neglect the grinding stone.”

After the biography of Huineng, Dogen talks about other important Masters: Matzu, Yunyan, Daowu, Yungju, Baizhang and several others. Briefly he recounts a few stories of their lives. As you read along, he is now talking about the Chinese ancestors. The point of the stories and the structure of the stories change a little bit. Instead of emphasizing only their ascetic efforts and their fierce determination, Dogen begins mentioning some dialogues of these ancient worthies – some teaching stories and encounters that they had in word and deed.

So this, Dogen is implying, is also continuous practice. Expressing, sharing and creating the way is the way itself for Zen practice. There’s not some specific secret to be understood; the effort to understand and the effort to express our life become the way.

I thought today I would start with one of Dogen’s dialogues: the story of Changqing Da’ an. I’ll start in the middle of Dogen’s text:

Changqing Da’an was called the Second Guishan. He said, “I lived on Mount Gui for twenty years. I ate Mount Gui’s rice and shit Mount Gui’s shit. I was not studying the words of Ancestor Guishan [Ling-you] but was just taming a water buffalo, wandering around all day long.”

And then Dogen comments on this:

Know that raising a single water buffalo is the sustained practice of living on Mount Gui for twenty years. Ancestor Guishan had studied in the assembly of Baizhang. Quietly think about and remember Changquig’s activities of those twenty years. There are many who study Guishan’s words, but the continuous practice of not studying the words of Ancestor Guishan is rare.

As I think we all well know, taming a water buffalo is a metaphor for continuous practice, our practice of Zen. The water buffalo stands for our mind and our heart. To us, perhaps, a water buffalo is pretty exotic, but actually the whole point of the water buffalo is that it is the most common thing in the world. In those days, and even now, in the countryside, in the villages and the farms of Asia, nothing is more common than the water buffalo. It plows the fields, hauls the grain and shits the fuel needed for cooking and heating the houses. So every day they depended on the water buffalo. But if you don’t tame the water buffalo, it can run amok. It can become stubborn and refuse to do the work that you need it to do; or worse, it can become a little unruly and trample down your house.

So training your water buffalo is necessary, careful, painstaking work. Now the buffalo is a domestic animal that wants to be trained. That’s its nature. It’s actually bred to be trained; nevertheless, it is not automatically trained. You still have to do the work. It takes time; it takes a lot of patience, a lot of diligent repetition, but once the water buffalo is trained, then we can just wander all day long. We can drink wine with the farmers and take a nap in the fields, and that will still be continuous practice.

Dogen says that studying the words of Guishan is not as good as not studying the words of Guishan. “Studying the words of Guishan” means conforming to standards, externalizing yourself, externalizing your practice. “Not studying the words of Guishan” means truly taking the words of Guishan into your heart and finding your own path of continuous practice.

Next I’ll read a page or so of Dogen’s biography of Zhaozhou:

Zhaozhou, Priest Congsen, who would later become Great Master Zhenji of the Guanyin Monastery, first aroused the way-seeking mind at the age of sixty-one.

It’s odd that Dogen says this, because as we know, Zhaozhou began practicing as a boy and found his teacher when he was quite young. Zhaozhou’s teacher died after he spent forty years with him. He was age sixty-one at that time. So Dogen says that Zhaozhou’s actual practice began then.

He traveled around, carrying a water gourd and a staff with metal rings on top [a monk’s traveling staff]. He kept telling himself, “I will inquire about dharma of anyone who excels me, even a seven-year-old child. I will teach dharma to anyone who has less understanding, even a hundred-year-old.”

Thus he studied and understood Nanquan’s way [and his words]. It was an endeavor of twenty years. Finally, when he was eighty years old, he became abbot of the Guanyin Monastery, east of the city of Zhao Province (Zhaozhou). After that, he guided humans and devas for forty years.

Zhaozhou did not write a single letter of request to donors. The monks’ hall was small and without front or back platforms. Once, a leg of a sitting platform [Zhaozhou’s teaching chair] broke. He replaced it with a charred stick from the fireplace, tying it on with a rope, and used it for many years. When an officer asked for permission to get a new leg, he did not allow it. Follow the spirit of this old buddha.

Zhaozhou became abbot after receiving dharma transmission in his eighties. This was authentic transmission of the true dharma. People called him Old Buddha. Those who have not yet received true transmission of the dharma are lightweights compared with Zhaozhou. Those of you who are younger that eighty may be more active than Zhaozhou. But how can you younger lightweights be equal to him even in his old age? Keeping this in mind, strive in the path of continuous practice.

During the forty years Zhaozhou taught, he did not store worldly property. There was not a grain of rice in the monastery. So the monks would pick up chestnuts and acorns for food, and they would adjust the meal time to fit the situation. Indeed this was the spirit of the dragons and elephants of the past. You should long for such practice.

Zhaozhou once said to the assembly, “If you do not leave the monastery in your lifetime and do not speak for five or ten years, no one can call you speechless. Even buddhas would not know what to make of you.”

So that’s the dialogue of Zhaozhou that Dogen is reporting. And then he goes on to comment:

Zhaozhou expresses sustained practice in this way. You should know that not speak for five or ten years may have the appearance of being speechless, but because of the merit of do not leave the monastery and do not speak, it is not the same as being speechless. The buddha way is like this. One who is capable of speaking but doesn’t speak is not like an ordinary person who has not heard the voice of the way. Thus, unsurpassable continuous practiceis not leave the monastery. Not leave the monastery is total speech that is dropping off. Most people do not know, nor speak of, going beyond speechless. No one keeps them from speaking of it, but nevertheless they don’t speak of it. They do not discover or understand that to go beyond speechless is to express thusness. How regrettable!

So that’s his comment on Zhaozhou’s words. As you all know, I am very fond of Zhaozhou, and there are so many great stories about him that we always love to tell. This one is a little bit more obscure than most. And it’s a good one for sesshin—not leaving the monastery, not speaking—because we are more or less in the monastery this week and also we’re not speaking. So it’s a good story for us this week.

The rest of the time when we’re not here in sesshin, we’re yacking all the time to one another, which means we’re interacting with one another. As we all know, there are many, many problems that come from this troublesome, beautiful and completely unavoidable human practice of speaking with one another. And you know, as soon as we open our mouths, it gets complicated.

So we all know about speaking and how tough that is, and we’re all trying our best to figure out how to do it in this lifetime, but we don’t know that much about not speaking – the speech of not speaking that Zhaozhou is talking about here. Not leaving the monastery means not leaving your true home, this present moment of being alive, this present intimate moment of continuous practice, in which we’re refraining from what we usually do: longing and lusting after what we want and what we think we need.

Will you please love me and tell me how great I am? Will you approve of me? Will you save me?

We are always saying this to one another in so many words. Not leaving the monastery is returning home to what is fully given and is fully granted in our lives. In the monastery we don’t speak, and there is no need to speak. There are no questions, and there are no answers. But as I hope we are seeing this week, and as Dogen says, not speaking is not the same as being speechless, being silenced. Conventionally we are aware of this problem of not being allowed to speak, of being silenced, of having our expression cut off. It’s oppressive. We feel diminished. We have to speak our truth. And this is so in the conventional sphere of human action.

But in the monastery, silence is the most eloquent speech. We express ourselves fully when we stand or sit or lie down, when we serve tea, when we eat a meal or when we go to the toilet. The whole world and the whole of the past and the future express themselves through our activity. As he says, when we are capable of speaking but do not speak, we are engaging in what Dogen is here calling, “total speech that is dropping off,” what he is calling “going beyond speechlessness to express thusness.”

I’m trying really hard not to be mysterious here. Continuous practice just means that we are committed to humbly returning always to our human heart, the heart that is always sufficient and satisfied, always firm and dignified, always compassionate and loving, without neediness and without grabbiness. And we all have this heart. It comes in the package with body, mind and human consciousness. So it’s not a mystery.

In remaining silent, we eventually become capable of true speech. As Dogen says, “True speech that is dropping off.” Speech that comes from love and freedom. A speech that is true and kind and healing. And this is not something that we figure out how to do or learn how to do. It is something that becomes natural to us, each one of us, when we activate our continual practice.

And Dogen finishes this little story of Zhaozhou with these words,

Quietly engage in the sustained practice of not leave the monastery. Do not be swayed east or west by the winds of east or west. The spring breeze and the autumn moon of five or ten years, unbeknownst to us, have the ring of emancipation beyond sound and form. This voice is not known to the self, not understood by the self. Learn to treasure each moment of sustained practice. Do not assume that not to speak is useless. It is entering the monastery, leaving the monastery. The bird’s path is the forest. The entire world is the forest, the monastery.

I am going to take up the fascicle several pages later, where he’s summing up all he wants to say:

In the continuous practice of the way of buddha ancestors, do not be concerned about whether you are a great or a modest hermit, whether you are brilliant or dull. Just forsake name and gain forever and don’t be bound by myriad conditions. Do not waste the passing time. Brush off the fire on top of your head. Do not wait for great enlightenment, as great enlightenment is the tea and rice of daily activity. [So in other words, don’t wait for it, just open your eyes and it’s right there]. Do not wish for beyond enlightenment, as beyond is a jewel concealed by your hair.

If you have a home, leave your home. If you have beloved ones, leave them. If you have fame, abandon it. If you have gain, escape from it. If you have fields, get rid of them. If you have relatives, separate from them. If you don’t have name or gain, stay away from them. Why should you not remain free from them, while those who already have name and gain need to give them up? This is the single track of continuous practice.

To forsake name and gain in this lifetime and practice one thing thoroughly is the vast continuous practice of the Buddha’s timeless life. This continuous practice is bound to be sustained by continuous practice. Love and respect your body, mind and self that are engaged in continuous practice.

So that’s pretty strong. It’s pretty daunting. Maybe we’re up for most of this. Maybe a little fame and gain can’t be too bad. Just enough fame and gain, not too much. So, okay, that’s not so bad. But if you have a home, give up your home? I’m not so sure about that. If you have a beloved, give up your beloved? I’m don’t know about that one. Maybe when you hear these word of Dogen, right away you think, Oh, I didn’t sign up for that! I just thought I was coming to a retreat, but I’m hearing all these drastic things here. This is going a little bit too far. Thank you Mr. Dogen.

So at first it sounds like that. But let’s think about it a little bit more. Notice that he says, “Why should you not remain free of all this when those who already have all of this need to give them up?” Did you notice he said that?

Why would we recoil when someone rattles off this little litany: Give up your home! Give up your family! Give up your beloved! Why would that be so upsetting to us? The only reason that we would recoil at having to give up our home and our beloved and our fields and our fame and our possessions is if we thought we actually had these things—that we were enjoying them and thought we could continue to enjoy them.

But, he says, the truth is people who have name and gain and all these other things do need to give them up anyway. And if you look closely enough, you can actually see that at the moment that you have name and gain and home and beloved and relatives, at that moment, you are, in fact, already giving them up. Even while you think you have them, they are slipping through your fingers. We all know this, which is exactly why we are all holding on so tightly. That is why we freak out when someone says, Give it up! When any of these things in our lives, especially our reputation, our sense of being someone, is threatened, we dig in right away, because we know we don’t have these things to begin with. The threat is too much for us.

Holding on tightly to things that are slipping away doesn’t work. It causes us suffering. We know this. I think we can all accept the fact that we lose everything in the end. We can all agree to the reality of that. It may be more difficult to see the reality that we have already lost everything, that we never had anything in the first place. So it’s when we know this that we are happy to engage in the continuous practice that Dogen is talking about. And when we do that, we can really cherish things. That’s when we can really appreciate things.

If we have a home, it’s a source of pride and satisfaction, but it’s also a burden. Everybody who has a home knows that it’s wonderful, and it’s also a burden. A name and gain and our beloved and our relatives are the same. But if we have nothing but continuous practice, nothing but open hands to face each moment whatever it will bring, then we don’t have a home, and we can really appreciate our home. We don’t have any relatives, but we can really appreciate and take care of our relatives without entanglements.

Now, I don’t want to make this sound too sweet and nice, because Dogen is really talking about the need to abandon everything. Yet at the same time, he is certainly saying that abandoning everything is not what we think it is.

Later on, as you heard, he says, “Love and respect your body, mind and self that are engaged in this continuous practice.” So this is really important. The ultimate consequence of abandoning everything (that you never had to begin with) is recognizing your precious human life: your body, mind and self, that are engaged in continuous practice.

Now this is not ultimate selfishness and narcissism. He’s not talking about the conventional body, mind and self. He’s talking about this miraculous life that enables us to continue our practice. To fully appreciate our life and the gift of our life is to appreciate everything that arises in our life. That is continuous practice.

And a little bit later he says this:

It is not that buddha ancestors lacked family obligations and attachments, but they abandoned them. It is not that buddha ancestors were not bound by relationships, but they let them go. Even if you are bound by relationships, you cannot keep them. If you do not throw away family obligations and attachments, the family obligations and attachments will throw you away. If you want to cherish the family obligations and attachments then cherish them. To cherish the family obligations and attachments means to be free from them.

So let me be clear about what I am trying to say. I don’t mean to say that everyone here should feel this way or see life the way Dogen sees it here in his writing of Continuous Practice. As I said the other day, there are many worlds, many kinds of beings, many rules and structures, and each of us must understand our own place and our own way in this lifetime. Still, it is important to understand other ways. What Dogen is talking about here is true. No matter what our place, what our position, we can appreciate Dogen’s teaching and we can make use of it in our own way.

So, thank you very much for listening and we will continue tomorrow.

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Dogen’s Continuous Practice 3

Norman gives the third of a six part series on “Dogen’s Continuous Practice” given at the Samish Island 2010 Sesshin. Unfortunately the battery on the recording device expired during this talk. This work is also referred to as “gyoji” in Japanese and is a fascicle of Dogen’s “Shobogenzo”

Dogen’s Continuous Practice Talk 3

Samish Island

June 21, 2010

Transcribed and edited by Anne Johnson, Barbara Byrum, and Cynthia Schrager

[note this recording was cut off]

You can tell a lot about a person or about a culture by looking at that person’s relationship to the past. Do they think of the past as yesterday’s old news, pretty irrelevant, gone and forgotten? Or, on the other hand, do they slavishly imitate the past and honor the past, as if only the past mattered and the present didn’t count?

It’s always an important human question, because we all live in the past, present and future. As Dogen says in this essay, continuous practice is the practice of past, present and future. This is one of the main points that Dogen makes in this essay Continuous Practice. We illuminate the past with our activity of the present, and our activity of the present is illuminated by the past. The past is impossible and unimaginable without the present. The present is impossible and unimaginable without the past.

So our challenge in the present is to redeem the past; in every moment of the present, we either do that or we fail to do that. According to what we do now in relation to the past, a future appears as a new present. This is living in time.

For Dogen, the past time of the buddhas and ancestors is very much alive in his daily activity as a monastic in 13th century Japan. It’s probably really hard for us to appreciate how it must have felt for Dogen to live with the Buddha and Dongshan and Rujing and Parshva and all the ancestors of the past. He must have felt their presence in the daily round of activity of the small monastery Koshoharinji outside the imperial capital outside of Kyoto, where he was living at the time when he wrote this essay. He was about 42 or 43 years old and had been practicing the way since he was a boy, so he must have deeply felt the ancestors’ presence every day. He must have felt like he was meeting them around every corner.

The world that we live in now is centered on today and tomorrow; it’s probably impossible for us to feel the texture of what it must have been like for Dogen, for whom the past was alive and contemporary. This feeling for the depth of all of time, especially the past, is probably the main point of the fascicle Continuous Practice. Having the past so present is to have a powerful sense of calmness and settledness, a tremendous sense of the depth of each moment, a sense of acceptance and receiving of time. I think it’s hard for us to appreciate what that would feel like, because we live so much for today and tomorrow, pushing time forward. Living so much for today and tomorrow automatically produces a level of anxiety that I think was not known to Dogen, because he lived in a different sense of time.

Dogen devotes many pages to brief biographies of the sages of the past – living companions in Dogen’s everyday life. This is what he means by continuous practice: encountering the profound wisdom of the past as the present moment.

I’m going to read some of the things he says about the sages. He begins, of course, with the Buddha, whom he calls “Our Great Father.” And yesterday was Father’s Day, so it’s very appropriate. Happy Father’s Day to Buddha!

Compassionate Father, Great Teacher Shakyamuni Buddha, was engaged in continuous practice in the deep mountains from the time he was nineteen years old. At age thirty, after practicing continuously, he attained the way simultaneously with all sentient beings and the great earth.

As you know, this is the Zen spin on Buddha’s awakening. When Buddha is awakened, he realizes that it’s not just him. All sentient beings, in the past, present and future, including ourselves, as well as the great earth, are awakened.

Until he was eighty years old, his practice was sustained in mountains, forests, and monasteries. He did not return to the palace, nor did he claim any property. He wore the same robes and held the same bowls throughout his lifetime. From the time he began teaching he was not alone even for a day or for an hour. He did not reject offerings from humans and devas. He was patient with the criticism of people outside the way. Wearing the pure robes and begging for food, the Buddha’s lifetime of teaching was nothing but continuous practice.

As Dogen describes it, the life of the Buddha is not the life of an historical figure. It’s not the life of some person of the past. It’s a kind of archetype. It’s the pure archetype of continuous practice – total devotion to practice and completely sharing the life of practice with others, patiently, quietly, continuously, selflessly. That’s the Buddha’s life, the whole of it, beginning to end.

Next Dogen tells the story of Mahakashyapa, who was one of the eighteen great disciples of the Buddha. Mahakashyapa is really important in Zen, because Mahakashyapa is understood to be the first disciple in the Zen lineage that flows from Buddha. And as we will see in a moment, Mahakashyapa is a real hard-ass ascetic, a real tough guy. So that’s why Zen likes Mahakashyapa, because he’s very tough. So here’s the story of Mahakashyapa:

Mahakashyapa, the Eighth Ancestor [after Seven Original Buddhas], is Shakyamuni Buddha’s heir. Throughout his lifetime he was engaged without negligence in the twelve ascetic practices. (1) Not to accept invitations from people, to practice begging daily, and not to receive money as an alternate for food. 2) To stay on mountains and not in villages or towns. (3) Not to ask for or accept clothing, but instead to take clothing from the dead in cemeteries, and dye and sew the cloth for robes. (4) To take shelter under a tree in the field. (5) To have one meal a day, which is called sangha asanika. (6) Not to lie down day or night, but to practice walking meditation and sleep sitting up, which is called “sangha naishadika.”

It seems unbelievable, but they actually followed these practices, and I think it’s still done in places today. It’s hard to believe isn’t it? They would sleep, but sitting up. This was something Dogen took note of because he practiced it. It was practiced in Rujing’s monastery when he went to China, so he practiced like this when he was in the meditation hall.

(7) To own three robes and nothing more and not to lie down with a robe on. (8) To live in cemeteries rather than in monasteries or houses; to sit zazen and seek the way while gazing at skeletons.

This refers to the practice of going to cemeteries and charnel houses and contemplating impermanence by hanging around dead bodies, and reminding yourself that your own body was of this nature. Don’t waste time fooling around when death comes so soon. Don’t forget.

(9) To seek out a solitary place, with no desire to lie down with or to be close to others. (10) To eat fruit before the meal and not after. (11) To sit in an open space and not to desire to sleep under a tree or in a house. (12) Not to eat meat or cream and not to rub the body with flax oil.

Well, I do that one. I don’t rub the body with flax oil. You probably do that too. So that one’s pretty easy.

These are called the twelve ascetic practices. Venerable Mahakashyapa did not turn back or deviate from them throughout his lifetime. Even after authentically receiving the treasury of the Tathagata’s true dharma eye, he did not retire from these practices.

Once the Buddha said, “You are old now; you should eat like the rest of monks.”

Mahakashyapa said, “If I had not encountered the Tathagata, I would have remained a self-enlightened Buddha living in mountains and forests. Fortunately, I have met you. This is a beneficent gift of dharma. So I cannot forgo my ascetic practice and eat like the rest of the monks.”

[end of recording]

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Dogen’s Continuous Practice 2

Norman gives the second talk in a six part series on “Dogen’s Continuous Practice” at the Samish Island 2010 Sesshin. This work is also referred to as “gyoji” in Japanese and is a fascicle of Dogen’s “Shobogenzo”

Dogen’s Continuous Practice Talk 2

June 20, 2010

Zoketsu Norman Fischer

Transcribed and edited by Anne Johnson, Barbara Byrum and Cynthia Schrager

I am continuing to read from Dogen’s Continuous Practice:

Accordingly, by the continuous practice of all buddhas and ancestors, your practice is actualized and your great road opens up. By your continuous practice, the continuous practice of all buddhas is actualized and the great road of all buddhas opens up. Your continuous practice creates the circle of the way. By this practice, buddha ancestors abide as buddha, not-abide as buddha, have buddha mind and attain buddha without cutting off.

So this is something that dawns on us as we continue to practice. At first, one shows up and it seems as if your practice is about you. It’s about your life. You’re the one who’s doing it, and it’s your practice. I think that’s what it feels like to all of us at first. But after a while of going on with practice, you begin to notice that actually you are not doing your practice; you are practicing with others. It’s not about your practice, it’s the practice you are doing with others, and after a while it begins to dawn on you that you are also doing the practice for others. You begin to notice that others inspire you and encourage you, and their practice is really part of who you are now and part of what you value in practice.

And still later – and this is what Dogen is speaking about here – the circle of practice extends even further, and you see that it is an extension of the practice of the sages of the past. It becomes clear to you that when we say the word “Buddha” or “Dogen” or “Suzuki Roshi” or “all the sages of the past,” we’re not really talking just about historical figures whose wisdom and teachings we appreciate. It begins to feel more personal than that. It begins to feel as if they are here with us. It begins to feel as if their lives are present in our lives.

We feel a sense of gratitude that it’s thanks to them that we are gradually becoming who we are most truly meant to be. Little by little, we’re becoming that person, and it’s thanks to them, and their lives within us, that this is happening. This is why it makes sense that we express our gratitude to them in every service. Buddha, Bodhidharma and Suzuki Roshi brought the dharma from four countries, and it’s thanks to them that we are becoming who we have always needed to be.

As Dogen goes on to say, the opposite of this truth also comes into view, that the practice of the ancient sages depends on us. The Buddha depends on us for his practice. His practice, Suzuki Roshi’s practice and Dogen’s practice literally don’t exist without our effort. Our activity of the present illuminates the past and creates the past. Without the present, there is no past. Just as without the past there is no present. The past is not an object, a thing that exists somewhere. So the past is changing and coming alive according to the present effort.

Our lineage papers express this profound fact. If you open one of these papers up, you will see Buddha at the top. From the Buddha, all the different sages of the past flow through India, China and Japan. Ninety-two names, ninety-two generations, that come down to me and then you. When you receive the Precepts, your name is in this lineage. There is line that connects your name back to the top to the Buddha.

So that means that you are a student of the Buddha, but also the Buddha is a student of you. You are actually the Buddha’s teacher. The Buddha is completely depending on you for his life, as are the other ninety-two generations, myself included, all depending on you for our life. The completion of the Buddha’s destiny and of all the masters of the past will only come through your life’s energy and effort and its effects.

Because of this practice, there are the sun, the moon, and the stars. Because of this practice, there are the great earth and the open sky. Because of this practice, there are body, mind, and their environs [the human world]. Because of this practice, there are the four great elements and the five skandhas. Continuous practice is not necessarily something people in the world love, but it should be the true place of return for everyone. Because of the continuous practice of all the buddhas of the past, present and future, all buddhas of the past, present and future are actualized.

I find this really inspiring. The sun, moon and the stars depend on our continuous practice. This is his most important teaching: “Continuous practice is unstained, undivided, not limited physically or conceptually and yet fully expressed by the physical and conceptual world.” So it’s not that there is a causal connection in a conventional way between our sitting sesshin and the sun and the moon and stars staying up in the sky. The sun, moon and the stars are already themselves continuous practice. This great round of being is already itself continuous practice. Whether we do sesshin or not, continuous practice goes on.

The effect of such sustained practice is sometimes not hidden. Therefore, you aspire to practice. The effect is sometimes not apparent. Therefore, you may not see, hear, or know it. You should understand that although it is not revealed, it is not hidden.

Dogen is talking very specifically about something that is essential in all religious practice: as human beings we face a truth that is by its nature inaccessible to us. So then, you might think, the whole thing is irrelevant. What would be the point in trying to understand or know what is incomprehensible and unknowable? What would be the point? Why not just set all that aside and go ahead and live your life?

But also, as Dogen says here, it is not hidden and not irrelevant. In fact, one could say there is nothing less hidden and nothing more relevant. None of us know what death is, for example, and none of us ever will. At the moment when what we call death is present, we will exactly be absent. And yet, the strategy of avoiding death and all considerations of death is not a good strategy. It’s thanks to death that we live. Life depends on death. Even though we can’t really understand these things, we feel them as experiential facts. If we pay attention in our living, we realize, that we cannot avoid them. Sooner or later we have to figure out how to situate ourselves within this. So we aspire to practice. As he says, it’s not hidden.

Continuous practice that actualizes itself is no other than your continuous practice right now. The now of this practice is not originally possessed by the self. The now of this practice does not come and go; enter and depart. [Even] the word “now” does not exist before continuous practice. The moment when it is actualized is called now. [In other words there is no now. There is only continuous practice. We call this moment now.] This being so, your continuous practice of this day is a seed of all buddhas and the practice of all buddhas. All buddhas are actualized and sustained by your continuous practice.

What really matters is the continuous practice that is happening right now in your life. It’s all very simple and concrete, if also conceptually ungraspable.

Let’s see if we can, in this moment, step back from my words and from Dogen’s words and just enter the next inhale and exhale – the moment of the presence of being alive, the next moment of continuous practice.

(a few moments of silence)

So that’s all there is to it. It’s not a big deal, but at the same time, you cannot understand it. It’s as concrete as your body and your breath. There is no past; there is no future; there is only continuous practice.

By not sustaining your continuous practice, you would be excluding buddhas, not nurturing buddhas, excluding continuous practice, not being born and dying simultaneously with all the buddhas, and not studying and practicing with all the buddhas. Blossoms opening and leaves falling now is the actualization of continuous practice. Polishing a mirror or breaking a mirror is no other than this continuous practice.

We do have an awesome responsibility. All the Buddhas are depending on us to take up the practice, so we have to do it. But it’s not a matter of “the pressure is on,” because we always do it anyway. “Blossoms opening and leaves falling” is Dogen’s beautiful, Japanese way of describing ordinary life, which is wonderful and beautiful. Wonderful and beautiful things happen every day if we pay attention. And also, if we pay attention, there is some sadness; there is some loss. Blossoms open and leaves fall. There is yesterday, today and tomorrow. There is love, and there is hate; there is good, and there is bad. The profound practice that we call living in time is just another name for continuous practice.

Even if you might try to ignore it[continuous practice], to hide a crooked intention and escape from it, this ignoring would also be continuous practice.

You can’t get away from it. This is Dogen’s way, something which you see so often in Dogen. He shows the breadth and depth of his understanding, his powerful compassion and his tremendous forgiveness.

The human world is full of crooked intentions. And it’s not just other people who have crooked intentions; we have plenty of crooked intentions. We see it inside of us and everywhere we look: greedy actions, violent actions, deceitful actions, actions blinded by narrowness and self-interest. And then there are those few souls, so profoundly twisted by hurtful action and woundedness, that they actually have tremendous energy to do bad things. They delight in it, and they can’t stop.

This has always been a reality in our human world, and it won’t work to cover it up with Buddhist compassion and loving kindness and pretend that it’s not there. It’s there. It’s shocking. It’s dismaying. But Dogen is saying that we accept it with no condemnation. There is no putting these things outside of us. It is all, without exception, continuous practice and not different from us.

In Buddhism, there is no concept of an independently existing evil force. There is only the continuous practice of body, speech and mind, and the actions and consequences that flow from this. So we do what we must do to protect ourselves and to protect others, and to reign in bad conduct, whether it’s our own bad conduct or the bad conduct of our society. But the spirit of this is not a spirit of condemnation. It’s a spirit of continuous practice.

To go off here and there looking for continuous practice appears similar tothe aspiration for [continuous practice]. But it is like leaving behind the treasure at the home of your true parent and wandering poor [and confused] in another land. Wandering through wind and water at the risk of your life, you should not discard the treasure of your own parents. While you were searching in this way, the dharma treasure would be missed. This being so, continuous practice should not slacken even for a moment.

Since continuous practice is only in the place where you are, there is no real need to run off here and there looking for it. While running off in search of continuous practice may seem as if we’re trying to fulfill our aspiration to practice, in fact the opposite is true. So we could make the true statement that sesshin is completely useless. It’s superfluous. There is no need to go to all this trouble, because continuous practice is always as close as the next breath.

Unfortunately, although this may be true, we don’t know this. And because we don’t really know it, even though we can hear it and can understand the concept, when we look at our way of living, we’re not living as if this were true. But according to what Dogen is saying here, we do live it. We do live it anyway. It’s just that we don’t know that we’re living it.

So, in other words, even though everything is actually fine and there is no problem, it seems that we do need to straighten out. Most of us would agree that Yes, somehow or other, things might be fine, but I do need to straighten out somehow. So maybe we could say that the reason why we come to sesshin and go through all this is so that we could actually learn that sesshin really is useless. That is why we are here. I think one learns this. I am certainly quite aware of the fact that sesshin is totally useless, but I think it takes a while to learn this. I would say somewhere between twelve and twenty sesshins. Somewhere in there you get the idea, Oh this is really completely useless. It took me all this time to find that out.

Now what happens once you find this out? Once you find it out, you either stop coming to sesshin and just enjoy your life without all this trouble. People do that, and people having found this out, are living their lives quite differently. Or, more likely, you keep on coming to useless sesshins, because you find that sesshin is beautiful, and you want to come. We come to sesshin for the beauty of it.

Dogen says, don’t disregard the treasure of your own parents, running around looking for something. When he speaks of the treasure of your own parents, he means your own human heritage that comes to you from your parents, your culture, your language, and most especially your human body and mind, which are gifts to you from your parents. That’s how you access continuous practice. The body is so very, very wise. Even with all of its aches and pains, the body is wise. We can trust the body and trust the breath as our guide. Body and breath will show you the way to the specialness and the beauty and the depth of your own continuous practice.

He ends by saying that “Continuous practice should not slacken even for a moment.” So the good news, or the bad news depending on your point of view, is that you really don’t have to go to sesshin, because continuous practice is everywhere, even at the movies. And the bad news, or the good news depending on your point of view, is even if you do go to sesshin, that’s not enough. You don’t take care of your continuous practice by coming to sesshin, making a really big effort, and then going home and forgetting about it and going on with your life.

“Continuous practice should not slacken even for a moment.” I often say in sesshin that we will have no breaks. That means that even the breaks are part of the sesshin. Every moment, even when you are lying down to sleep at night, is your practice. Please continue your practice all the time. Remain present and aware even when you are sleeping. And when sesshin is over, it’s not over at all. It goes on and on and on. There is no break from life. You will get your break soon enough. In the meantime, no breaks. There’s no break from continuous practice. There’s no break from the responsibility of being a human being.

edz

Dogen’s Continuous Practice 1

Norman gives the first of a six part series on “Dogen’s Continuous Practice” at the Samish Island 2010 Sesshin. This work is also referred to as “gyoji” in Japanese and is a fascicle of Dogen’s “Shobogenzo”

Dogen's Continuous Practice

Talk by Zoketsu Norman Fischer June 27, 2010

 

Abridged and edited by Ryūsen Barbara Byrum

In Zen practice a lot of people find that the way we talk about the practice is very strange and paradoxical, because, in general, the understanding of Zen practice is that there is no practice, although on a day like today, we bow, we chant a sutra, we offer incense, and we sit on a cushion in a particular way. In other words, we have very specific forms that we do that you could say are the practice, but the actual understanding of all of these things is they are just one way of articulating our life. Our life is actually the practice. We chant a sutra, but the attitude actually is that there is nothing more holy in the sutra than there is in the sound of the ocean outside.

Life – real life, lived fully and engaged in with a whole heart – is the practice. That is the way we understand it. We don't think of Zen practice or religious practice as some special, extra, holy something added on top of life. It is just a way to help us appreciate the fact that life is practice. At first we naturally think we're trying to get it all right; but after awhile, most of us do come to feel that life is the practice. At first sitting on a cushion in zazen might seem pretty different from the activity of daily life; but after awhile, we don't really see it that way. Basically we see that zazen is the same as our everyday activity, which also includes breathing, being aware, sometimes not being aware, thinking, sometimes not thinking, being embodied. That's what we do every day in all our activity, and that's also what we focus on in zazen. So when you really come down to it, there's not so much difference.

In Zen the hope is not that we are going to get really good at all these forms – that we are going to be Olympic level meditators, having more robes, and bowing, and looking better bowing. Our hope, I think, for our practice is that we would get to the point where there would be no gap at all between our deepest goodness and our most sacred aspirations, and the way we come across and act in ordinary events every day. However imperfectly we manifest it, we hope to someday be able to do that, and we really understand it that way.

I am saying all this as background to this essay of Dogen's called Continuous Practice. That's what he means by continuous practice. Living our lives like that, with full engagement, with our whole hearts, all the time. That's the theme of this essay. I will read you the opening paragraph:

On the great road of Buddha ancestors there is always unsurpassable practice, continuous, and sustained. It forms the circle of the Way, and is never cut off. Between aspiration, practice, enlightenment, and nirvana, there is not a moment's gap. Continuous practice is the circle of the Way. This being so, continuous practice is unstained, not forced by you or others. The power of this continuous practice confirms you as well as others. It means your practice affects the entire earth, the entire sky, in ten directions. Although not noticed by others, or by you, it is so.

So that is the very lofty and beautiful opening paragraph. He uses the phrase, "The great road of the Buddhas." So this tells you that as Dogen understands practice, it is not a destination or a skill. It is a road. It is a way. It is a feeling by which we lead our lives. There is no standard and no template for a human life. Every life arises on the ground of its own conditions. My life doesn't look like your life, and your life doesn't look like mine. But we both have the question, "How do I truly live this life? How do I truly live what I've been given?" That question – that we all answer in our own way, for our own conditions – is the great road.

For Dogen, what's really important is that that great road has been trod in the past by the great sages. He calls them Buddha Ancestors, but it means all the great, wise people of the past – all the wise ones who have discovered the way to live a true, human life – who walked the great road and devoted themselves to walking it continually. There is nothing more wonderful, nothing more significant, for a human life than this great road. It is, as he said, continuous, sustained, and it forms, he says, "The circle of the Way, which is never cut off."

The great road is also reckoned as a circle, because it is not going anywhere, as from point A to point B. We're not getting somewhere or improving on a linear continuum. We're going in a circle! The great thing about a circle is that with every step you take, you are always coming back home. It's the paradox of a circular path that with every step you take, you are literally leaving home and then returning home. Isn't that really the truth? Life comes from nothing, and it returns to nothing. There is no beginning and no ending, though from our small, human view there seems to be a beginning and an ending. In fact, the circle of our larger life is never ending, never cut-off. No matter what we do or don't do, we are always part of this great circle of life.

Then he says,

Between aspiration, practice, enlightenment, and nirvana, there is not a moment's gap.

This is Dogen's great insight, his greatest and most characteristic teaching. He is talking about the convention in Buddhism that says that first you start out with the aspiration or motivation to practice. You begin practice when the great aspiration to practice the Way arises in you. The aspiration comes to each of us in one way or another, maybe through a dramatic crisis in our life – a lot of really strong suffering. Sometimes it comes through more run-of-the-mill and vague dissatisfaction with our lives. Sometimes it comes by just some chance encounter, like we took a wrong turn, and we ended up at Tassajara, and, "Oh, that's interesting. I wonder what that's like?" [Laughter] One way or the other, we give rise to the aspiration to practice, and then we practice. This initial aspiration is always considered as something very precious and very much to be prized, because it's the beginning of this endless, circular road.

After we begin, we go on to practice, and this takes awhile, and then we eventually achieve enlightenment – a transformation that makes us different. Radically different. I think the real characteristic of this transformation is that with our awakening it is now impossible for us to go backwards. We can't walk backwards anymore. The only thing that we can do is go forwards in our practice, now with a feeling of benefitting other people. Then, after that goes on for some time, we get to nirvana, when we achieve complete peace and letting go, and there is nothing more to do. I am tracing for you the traditional process. This is the path. This is the circular road that cannot be cut off, and the path one goes on for awhile in this way. One famous text says, "How long do you go on in that way? Ten to the 25th power lifetimes." That's how long it takes to complete this circular journey. So – awhile.

So that is the background. But Dogen is saying that's not how it is. That is way too small-minded, too narrow an understanding of how this works. "Between aspiration, practice, enlightenment, and nirvana, there is not a moment's gap." All these stages happen at the same time, he says. So with the initial aspiration, however unclear it may seem at the time, all the rest is already there. Nirvana is already there. This is what Dogen means by continuous practice, this circle of the way. There is no advancing; there is no hierarchy of understanding, of experience. To think so is to miss the most important point about continuous practice. Whether you are in deep samadhi on the fifth day of sesshin on Puget Sound, or downtown at a busy meeting, if you enter that moment of your life with full commitment and full letting go, that is aspiration, practice, enlightenment, and nirvana, without anything left out. Practice is continuous and perfectly available on every moment. It might not feel that way to us at first, but it will eventually, throughout various conditions, throughout various states of mind. Practice is continuous.

Then he says,

This being so, continuous practice is unstained. [In later translations the word "unstained" is translated as "undivided," because that is what unstained means in dharma. It means "without divisions, without discriminations, not forced by you or others."]

So this is a very subtle and important point. Continuous practice – though I am now talking about it, and you are now listening to me and thinking about these things – cannot be identified with a concept of "continuous practice." It would then become a standard, some kind of measuring stick, which would inevitably become imposed upon you. If somebody else didn't impose it upon you, you would impose it on yourself.

I think that everybody here is an American. Right? Americans generally don't like to be told what to do. We don't like to be oppressed by others. We don't like to follow rules or to have people tell us that we have to do it this way or that way. We don't like others to define us or judge us, although sometimes in religion we allow that. In fact, we even look for it. "Would you please tell me how I should be? Would you please tell me what to do? And then by your authority, I will be sanctioned, and I will know that I am a good person." Sometimes that's how religious life works, right? As independent-minded as we are, we sometimes seek out that kind of oppression.

But, as he says, continuous practice cannot be imposed by others. And it also cannot be imposed by ourselves, because as bad as it might be to be oppressed by others, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, it's probably far worse to be oppressed by ourselves. You could always, potentially, get away from the others; but you can be plagued by yourself wherever you go! It's possible that we ourselves are the worst possible taskmasters.

Continuous practice is unstained and undivided. This is a very radical and thoroughgoing thought from Dogen. Think about it. There are no marks, no boundaries, no definitions of continuous practice, because continuous practice is exactly life itself. But it's even more than that. Continuous practice includes death. It includes non-existence too. Whatever you or anyone else would impose from outside will only stain and divide your perfect life of continuous practice. Life is pure, and it is whole, so there is nothing to force here.

When you sit in zazen, as soon as you force yourself, as soon as you try to shove your mind this way or that way, you see that it doesn't work. It just makes things painful. What you need to do on your cushion is the opposite of that. You need to enter this moment and let go of all impositions that come from fear and confusion. You need to take a breath and relax into the present conditions. The whole essence of practicing zazen is forcing nothing. Life, at every point, has its own imperatives, regardless of what you or anyone else has to say about it. Because life is always a much larger category than anything that we think about life. So we know our thoughts and ideas as thoughts and ideas. They come and go. When you sit in zazen, you try not to let your thoughts and ideas tyrannize you. Sometimes you cannot prevent that, and if you can't, at least you know what's going on, and you don't have to be quite as fooled by it as you were before. That's what is so great about zazen. It's such a simple, clear, human situation. There is hardly anything to worry about, except this moment of your life. Zazen makes it very easy for us to finally see this point with clarity.

Then Dogen says,

The power of this continuous practice confirms you as well as others.

So once you get the hang of all this, and you are simply willing to enter into a moment of sitting in zazen, letting go of your resistances and impositions and your concepts of what is supposed to happen, just giving yourself to the moment of your life, your life and the lives of others are always confirmed. Always. The world of right or wrong, of course, exists on a practical level. There is no living without discrimination and choice and preference. But containing all of that is the larger scope of life itself, existence itself. The feeling of this one, eternal moment of our lives. This is not preference – good, bad, right, wrong.

Giving yourself to this moment of your life is completely good. Completely right. Always, utterly confirmed. You are confirmed, and others are confirmed equally in that moment. All the others. Not some of the others, like "the good Zen others." All the others! What is, is. What happens, happens. This is not a complicated thing. Pretty simple, pretty straightforward, and pretty immense, if you pay attention to it. Always something to be grateful for. Here we are! We did not produce this moment of being alive. We do not have that much talent. We do not have that much power. By being, we are being confirmed.

The second paragraph says,

Accordingly, by the continuous practice of all buddhas and ancestors, your practice is actualized, and your great road opens up. Because of your continuous practice, the continuous practice of all buddhas is actualized, and the great road opens up for them because of you. Your continuous practice creates the circle of the Way. By this practice, the buddha ancestors abide as Buddha, non-abide as Buddha, have attained Buddha mind and attain Buddha, without cutting off.

So, again, this is something that we gradually do come to appreciate as we continue on with our practice. At first it seems that our spiritual practice is about us. "I'm the one who got interested in this. I'm the one who came to do it. It's me on the cushion and my thoughts. I'm the one who is changing. This is my practice." That is how it feels, and that is completely reasonable and genuine. But after awhile it dawns on you that this is not only about me. I'm practicing with other people and for other people. Other people really help me. They really inspire me, and they give me strength. "My practice is not just about me, and these other guys happen to be around. Somehow they are influencing me, and I am influencing them. And they are caring about me, and I am caring about them. That begins to be part of the process for me, and I need to practice with them, and they need to practice with me."

That's what happens as a natural consequence of continuing to practice. Still later, the circle of the Way extends even further. We see that it is not just us and our Everyday Zen sangha friends who are doing the practice. You begin to get it – and, again, this is not an article of faith or belief; this is something that you begin to feel from the inside – that our practice depends on, and is a reflection of, an extension of, the practice of the buddha ancestors.

The Buddha, Dogen, Suzuki Roshi – these are not historical figures of the past, whose teachings we appreciate. After awhile, it actually feels like they are right here. It begins to feel as if we are living their lives in our lives, and that makes our lives feel different. We begin to realize that thanks to them – I mean, this is so strange, but this is what it feels like – we are becoming who we were always meant to be, but never could become! Thanks to them, we could become who we really are meant to be. That's how it starts to feel, and then it makes sense that we would chant the sutra, and we would say, "We dedicate this sutra to Buddha and Bodhidharma and Eihei Dogen and Suzuki Roshi, and all the people who transmitted the teaching from here and there." At first it seems that all religions do this. There is a lot of piety, but after awhile, it is actually meaningful to you. "Thank you, Mr. Dogen! Thank you Mr. Buddha, because it's thanks to you – and the life that I am living that is your life – that I can be free of my smallness and really live my life."

Then Dogen says,

The opposite thing comes into view also. The practice of the ancient sages depends on us.

Think about it. The Buddha's practice, Dogen's practice, Suzuki Roshi's practice is all meaningless without us. Their practice literally does not exist without us. Our activity of the present illuminates the past. It actually creates the past. Without the present, there is no past, just as without the past, there is no present. The past is not objective. It is not an object that exists somewhere that you could go and find. "Where is the past? Is it over here, over there, under the ocean? It is somewhere high up in the sky? Where do they keep it?" Well, it's an absurdity to talk like that, because we all know that the past is not an object that is kept somewhere. The past is always in relation to the present and the future, and it's changing according to the present and the future.

The buddhas and ancestors depend on us. We create their practice. Our lineage papers that we give at ordination and initiation ceremonies express this. If you open up the paper, you see that the Buddha is at the top, and from the Buddha, all the sages come – ninety-two generations down to the present generation – and my name appears, and then your name appears on that paper as the ninety-third generation. Then there is a little line that connects your name to Buddha. If you trace the line, it goes from the bottom of the page, and then it sneaks around and goes all the way back up to the top of the page, and then it comes down to Buddha. So the Buddha is your disciple. That's what it means. Buddha is your student. You are the Buddha's teacher. The Buddha is completely dependent on you for the Buddha's life. The completion and fulfillment of the Buddha's destiny will only come with your life's energy and its effects.

Dogen says,

Your continuous practice creates the circle of the Way. By this practice, Buddha ancestors abide as Buddha, don't abide as Buddha, have Buddha mind, become Buddha over and over, and on and on, and it is never cut off. [And all of this depends on us and on our continuous practice of the present.]

So continuous practice is unstained. It doesn't need us to be continuous practice, but if suffering is to be reduced, our practice is necessary. So we have to do zazen in order to remember continuous practice and to come to love it. It is, as Dogen says, the true place of refuge for everyone. He doesn't mean here that everyone should be doing zazen. No, because the truth is that this kind of practice we are doing will never be something that most of the people in the world will do. It will always be something that a few people will do. But that place in the heart that knows continuous practice, and loves it, and will let go of narrowness and selfishness. That place in the heart that feels confirmed and met and comforted by reality at every point, in all times; that place in our heart that we all have, even though we have desperately lost track of it, that place in the heart is the true place of refuge for everyone.

edz

Four Immeasurables – Equanimity (Upeksha) – Talk 4 – 2010 Series

Norman speaks on Equanitmity (Upeksha) the fourth and final of the Four Immeasurables. Norman refers to the book “The Four Immeasurables: Cultivating a Boundless Heart by Alan Wallace.

Equanimity (Upekkhā) – Fourth of the Four Immeasurables

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer | May 27, 2010

Editor’s note: This talk contains guided meditations on equanimity. You might consider pausing during the reading of the talk to do this practice. The pauses and bells that end certain stages are indicated in the text.

Let me go on to talk about the last of The Four Unlimited Abodes, Upekkhā, or equanimity. It’s the fourth of the Brahmaviharas, and that word is usually translated as “divine unlimited” or “divine abodes.” These four are divine because they are such beautiful human emotions – divine human emotions. It’s heavenly to feel love, compassion, and joy for others, so they are really heavenly emotions, God-like emotions. They are considered to be abodes, because they are conceived of as strong foundations, or places, or locales, where we can really take our stand, our firmest stand as human beings. They are understood as unlimited, in contrast to materiality and afflictive emotions, which are, by definition, limited.

I have always been fascinated by the definition in Abhidharma of material, physical things. The definition is, “That which can be abused.” Meaning harmed. A physical thing, whether it is a body or a stone or a cloud – you can wreck it, break it up. You can take it apart. You can’t do that with a thought. You can’t take a thought apart or an emotion apart. But physical matter is that which can be harmed and, in the case of the body, can become ill and will eventually disintegrate and disappear. So, by nature, physicality is limited. Afflictive emotions are inherently limited, because they are based on the idea of separation and isolation. Envy, greed, despair, unrequited desire, anger, aggression, and so on, are based on the certainty that there are limited objects. There is me and there is you. Those emotions couldn’t exist without that assumption of limits. But love, joy, compassion, and equanimity ultimately flow from the absolute, empty, unlimited nature of things. These emotions are conceived of as not just nicer and more pleasant than the afflictive emotions, but as emotions that flow from a completely different basis. They’re grounded in awakening, in the clear understanding of a unified and unlimited reality. So these four are by their nature unlimited.

I am saying this in relation to the fourth one, equanimity, because equanimity has a special place within the list of four. If you remember when we did practices for maitri, mudita and karuna, it was a little different in each case, but it was typical for us to start with oneself. Then, next, a person that we really appreciated and liked, and then a neutral person or persons, and then we went from there to all beings without limit. Then we went to a hostile person. Always, at the end, we returned to emptiness and simple presence. That was the way we practiced these meditations.

So equanimity is actually built into the other three practices. Equanimity is part of loving-kindness, compassion, and sympathetic joy. As you come to develop those other emotions fully and in an unlimited way, you always end up with equanimity-lovingkindness, equanimity-compassion. Equanimity implies equality – not favoring or rejecting anything, but equally regarding everything.

This is always a stretch, an aspiration, rather than something we could have claimed to achieve. But we practice it little by little, extending ourselves with the faith that it is possible to get there, not in some idealistic way, but in some really down-to-earth, practical way. It really is possible to have equanimity. But it does take time, and we do have to practice it continuously, and extend it step-by-step. We all noticed, I think, in the doing of the practice, that it was a lot easier to have love, joy, and compassion for people who we are close with and admire and like, than it was to have those emotions for people with whom we really have problems.

Maybe you also noticed – and maybe it’s not true for everybody – that it’s much easier to have positive emotions for people that we like and have affection for than for oneself. It seems like it wouldn’t be the case, but actually it often is. Maybe it is even easier to have compassion, loving-kindness, sympathetic joy for all beings than it is for oneself. But if you leave out yourself, then you can’t really say there is equanimity, because there is still self-clinging. When the practices of maitri, mudita, and karuna are developed to the point of equanimity, or equality, and when you can love warmly and equally all beings, even an enemy, even yourself, then you are practicing equanimity.

So, in a sense, you could say that equanimity is not a fourth practice, a different practice. It is the full development of the other three. Note, though, that the near enemy of equanimity is stupid indifference, or a kind of neutrality. A lot of people think of equanimity as a kind of a lukewarm neutrality. But it’s not a neutrality. It’s an active, loving, eyes-wide-open regard for all beings – equally. Further, equanimity is a strong emotion that even extends beyond one’s relationships to other beings. It extends to our capacity to have equanimity under all conditions that arise within our lives. Whatever we would meet, even if we were having some pretty adverse situation, we would have this balanced, calm, warm attitude.

There are two Pali words for equanimity, and they both express aspects of what I am talking about. The one I used before, upekkhā, literally means “to look over.” It’s interesting. The literal root meaning of equanimity is “to look over.” I think it implies being circumspect, being able to see the whole picture in its fullness. To see all reality accurately. To see the interconnected, non-separate nature of our lives clearly.

The far enemy of upekkhā is attachment or aversion. In other words, a partial seeing. Not looking over everything, but just seeing only parts of it. Partial feeling. Feeling for some over here, but not feeling for others over there. Seeing some over here in a positive light and not seeing others over there. Equanimity is exactly impartial. It sees and feels in a whole way, not partially. Seeing and feeling parts is fragmented. It’s isolating. It’s painful. Ultimately painful. It may not feel painful at the time, but ultimately it’s painful. Seeing and feeling whole is calm and peaceful and balanced. So equanimity has that flavor; it has that feeling tone. It’s non-agitated. It’s calm, but it is not a calm based on ignoring something or avoiding something. It will include love or sorrow or pain, but with a feeling of calmness and understanding, that holds these feelings in a balanced way. So there is always some happiness in accepting conditions patiently.

Another Pali word often translated as equanimity is tatramajjhattata, a little more obscure word, but also one that translates as equanimity. The word tatra means “there.” And maja means “middle,” as in the Majjhima Nikaya, The Middle Length Sayings. Tata is the same as Tathagata. In Pali it means “to stand.” In Mahayana Buddhism it means “to exist or to be in a pure or ultimate sense.” To appear with full integrity. So equanimity would mean “to be fully present, fully alive, right in the middle of things.” To take one’s stand in life right in the middle of things, so that one is not subject to being pushed or pulled to either side.

Equanimity, then, is inherently generous and trustworthy and supportive of all of reality, without taking sides. It’s in the middle. It stands in the middle of things – not to either side. Again, this doesn’t mean stupid neutrality, because actually standing in the middle of reality, in the middle of our lives, is the only place you could stand and maintain full integrity. Otherwise, you would be biased; you would be unbalanced; and therefore, you would be vulnerable. You would eventually suffer and cause others to suffer.

Now let me step back and say something that goes to everything we have been saying this month. The teachings of the Four Unlimiteds are given in two different contexts, in Theravada Buddhism and also in Mahayana Buddhism. I know in my own case – and I think this is true for most of us – we think of them as being Theravada Buddhist teachings, because mostly we hear of them from the American Vipassana movement or from Theravada monks and teachers. But it is also the same teaching and has a Mahayana perspective.

In Theravada Buddhism there is a fairly detailed discussion of the Four Unlimiteds, and here the focus is the Four Unlimiteds as a basis for a concentration practice. The main point of Theravada Buddhism is reaching the goal of freedom or nirvana. In order to achieve freedom or nirvana, we have to let go of our afflictive emotions and our afflicted views, not only consciously, but also unconsciously. To give up them up consciously may be fairly easy to do; but compared to giving them up unconsciously, in places where we don’t even know we have them – you have to develop the Four Unlimiteds as a concentration practice. To have freedom, we would have to purify ourselves at unconscious levels, and concentration is the only thing that would go deep enough to the unconscious levels of the heart.

So that is the reason why, when we were practicing these things over the last couple weeks, we would start first with phrases and intentions that we would say over and over again. Then I said to forget the words and just practice with this nameless feeling as a physical feeling in the breath. I said forget about wishing people loving-kindness and just feel the love in the breath. Feeling love in the breath is at the level where you develop concentration. Concentration is not developed through intentional language; it is developed through an immediate, somatic practice.

The point is that through deep concentration, through the Four Unlimiteds, eventually we would purify ourselves of all of the emotions that come from self-clinging. Then we would have an unlimited, positive feeling for all beings. Then – and this is why I am mentioning all of this – the last stage of this development would be that we develop equanimity. There is usually some shadow of partiality in loving-kindness, compassion, and sympathetic joy. It is sort of built into all those practices, until you come to the end in which there is impartiality. So equanimity is the last broom that sweeps away the last vestiges of attachment or affection, in the negative sense of affection as clinging or grasping. So we would develop these concentrations as a way of sweeping out our hearts.

I was studying this today in the Visuddhimagga, the great textbook of Theravada Buddhist practice. The Four Unlimiteds are considered as a hierarchy of concentration stages. Each one is more refined and subtle than the previous one. Each one takes you, step-by-step, into what is called the Four Formless Concentrations, the deepest concentration states – the ultimate meditation practices. So when you really achieve concentration on loving-kindness, this brings forth the concentration called beauty. You see the loveliness of the world. The way it works is that, after the initial elation, you then begin to notice the faults of that concentration state, and so you go on to the next state that purifies those faults. The next state, in this system, is compassion. When you concentrate on compassion, it brings forth the concentration of boundless space, because that which is boundless goes beyond beauty to awesomeness. But then you notice, after the initial thrill of feeling that, the limitations in boundlessness. There is some basis for attachment, so you move to sympathetic joy, which brings forth the concentration of boundless consciousness. This is deeper and more subtle than the state of boundlessness, because space has inside and outside, has here and there, but pure consciousness collapses these distinctions. So this implies that somehow joy in others’ joy is a more potentially pure emotion than either of the previous two. Then you finally advance to equanimity, which brings forth the concentration on nothingness or nothing, which is beyond consciousness. With nothingness there is no self, there is no other, there is no consciousness, there is no suffering, and there is no alleviation of suffering. Just as the Heart Sutra says, everything is empty, and so there are no fears, there are no troubles. So these are stages of development of concentration in Theravada Buddhism, and how they align with the Four Unlimiteds.

In Mahayana Buddhism the goal is not freedom or nirvana. The goal is – and some might debate this – bodhicitta, this vow to practice endlessly for the benefit of others. That’s actually the heart of the commitment in Mahayana practice. So we are not actually seeking freedom and liberation for ourselves. We really think that that is a limited goal. Instead, we are seeking to have the passionate feeling of wanting to practice. This would include all sorts of benefits for ourselves, of course, but the point of these benefits would be that we could be of benefit to others.

In a sense, in Mahayana Buddhism, the Four Unlimiteds are seen not as means to an end, but as ends in themselves. So in Mahayana Buddhism the discussion of the Four Unlimiteds doesn’t center on concentration practice too much. Instead, it centers on the vow to love others equally and unconditionally, with the recognition – this is always repeated – that the only way that this would be possible is to embrace and understand the nature of self and other as being empty; that is, empty in the sense of radical interconnectedness. So in reality there is no self or other. No things, even. No suffering. There is only love. You would realize that the thing this world actually is and ever was is love. So compassion, kindness, and insight become the same thing.

Zen is very much inclusive of both of these points of view. In our discussion this month, I have been mixing and matching, putting this together in one kind of Zen synthesis. Of course, typical Zen literature does not do that, because it classically does not give very many direct teachings about these things. The idea was that when Zen practice began, it was assumed that people knew and practiced all these teachings.

So equanimity teachings are implicit always in Zen, but you almost never hear that in classical Zen. These teachings in Zen have the addition of a cautionary element that has to do with questioning language, so as not to be caught in conceptual snares. Because even good teachings like the Four Unlimiteds can become traps as soon as we conventionalize them, and we lose our beginner’s mind and make them into another thing that we are supposed to be doing. Right? We all know how we can do that. We do that all the time. You can take anything and make it into an oppressive something that we are doing to ourselves. So Zen is always cautioning against this. In Zen the idea is that you see the point of the teachings, and you don’t get stuck on the concepts and words. You get the point that the concepts and words are pointing to.

Let’s end with equanimity practice. It is a little bit involved, but I think we’re ready for this. So we will do what we have done before. I’ll ring the bell once, and we’ll start with the body and breath, and then I’ll ring the bell once at the end of each step, and twice at the very end.

[Bell]

Return to the feeling of your body and your breathing. [Pause] Feel the awareness. [Pause] If there are thoughts coming into the mind or the mind is dull, notice the space around the thoughts, around the dullness. Be with the awareness itself, and use the body and the breathing as a way of staying with the awareness itself. [Pause] The first step is to practice with the word “inseparable” – just drop that word into the awareness. And breathe with that word: inseparable. And then you can let go of that word and just breathe with that feeling.

[Bell]

Next, let’s breathe while contemplating this thought, “Whatever arises – every thought, every word, every deed, every appearance – arises from causes and conditions. There are only causes and conditions. [Pause] Whatever arises – every thought, every word, every deed, every appearance – arises from causes and conditions. There are only causes and conditions.”

[Bell]

Now we will continue to sit, contemplating this thought, “All beings are just like me. They want to be happy. They don’t want to suffer.” [Pause] All beings are just like me. They want to be happy. They don’t want to suffer.

[Bell]

Next steps are a kind of discursive, analytical meditation. I am going to speak to you and ask you to follow along with these thoughts as best you can. In this step we begin by bringing to mind someone that we really love – an uncomplicated love and positive regard. Let ourselves really feel the warmth of that love and attachment we feel to this person. [Pause] So where does that positive, wonderful feeling come from? It comes from your interactions with that person, which have been mostly positive and beneficial for you. It comes from the feelings that you have inside, based on those reactions and experiences. But where did all that come from? It came from causes and conditions. If causes and conditions did not bring you and this person together at the same time and the same place, if these causes and conditions didn’t apply, you wouldn’t feel this way. It could have been other causes and conditions, and the person that you now feel so affectionate toward would have been another person. This is not to take away the positive feeling. Just reflect on the true root of these positive feelings. It’s not really the person, it’s love itself – the endless play of causes and conditions that make up the world. That’s the actual cause of your positive feeling, not the person. The cause is the love that is the world, that is in you, and that is reality itself. This is equanimity.

[Bell]

Now let’s take a neutral person that could be a sangha friend, someone you know and appreciate, but are not particularly close to. It could be the clerk at the post office or the grocery store. Somebody you work with. In other words, somebody you have a general good feeling about, but no extra or special affection. So why isn’t there an extra or special affection for this person? It’s because of causes and conditions. Maybe some years from now the causes and conditions will be different, and this person could become one of your dearest friends. It happens. But if something really drastic happened, like something that might happen on a TV show, and you found yourself trapped somewhere with this person, and there was just the two of you there, and you only had each other for company, and you only had each other to depend on, and you could only escape to safety based on each other’s cooperation, you would become very close to this person. You would have a deep, human bond with this very person who is now just a casual person in your life. You would never forget this person as long as you lived. And you could have chosen any one of a number of people. It could have been anyone. Because causes and conditions create a bond of love between us. This is equanimity.

[Bell]

Now think of a hostile person. Somebody you really don’t appreciate. Maybe someone you know now; maybe somebody in your past; maybe somebody from years ago. Really let yourself feel your enmity for this person. Your disgust, your dislike. Don’t hold back. Just feel what you feel. If you are avoiding this one, don’t avoid it. Take a breath and plunge in, even though we don’t like feeling close to this nasty person. So what is the cause of this icky feeling? It isn’t some essence in this person. It’s things he or she did. Things he or she said. It’s deeds, words, thoughts. And where did they come from? How did they appear? They are the result of causes and conditions. They are the natural fruits of causes and conditions. Things happened in that person’s life that led them to say and do the kinds of things they say and do. Disliking the person for these behaviors is like getting mad at the stick for beating you, instead of being mad at the person who is wielding the stick. Your being mad at the stick makes no sense. You should be mad at the person who is wielding the stick. So in the case of this person that you don’t like very much, maybe who hurt you, the real object of your dislike or antipathy is not the person, who in the analogy is like the stick; it’s the bad causes and conditions that have given rise to these behaviors. That’s the problem. If there had been other causes and conditions, this same person might be your good friend, like the first person that you thought of, who you are so dear with. But if this person had those causes and conditions in your life and his or her life, it might have been a good thing for you. So transfer whatever enmity or dislike or fear you have from the person to the causes and conditions. Vow to yourself to use the energy of that dislike, that enmity, that fear, to overcome such causes and conditions, first in yourself, and then in all others you meet. Use the very energy of your hurt and your dislike to overcome these bad causes and conditions in you and everybody else that you meet. May all beings be happy. May all beings be free of suffering and the causes of suffering. May all beings, without exception, and all beings equally, enjoy loving-kindness, joy, and compassion. May I personally dedicate the rest of my life and beyond to see to it that this wish comes about. That it becomes real. Even though I can’t hope to accomplish this now, this week, this month, this decade, or even the rest of my life, I am determined. Even after my life is over, my life energy will go on to continue to contribute to this goodness, as long as time will last. Until the job is done. Make that vow to yourself, if you can. This is bodhicitta, the ultimate equanimity.

[Bell]

Finally, come back to breathing and posture. Let all of that go. You can feel how just in sitting here with your own awesome presence, it’s all still there, and it was there before. It doesn’t really need any of the words, any of the ideas. It’s there anyway. Just feel it. Breathe it. Enjoy it for a moment or two.

[Bell]

Thank you very much. Equanimity is the best!

edz

Four Immeasurables – Compassion – Talk 3 – 2010 Series

Norman speaks on Compassion, the third of the Four Immeasurables.

Compassion – Third of Four Immeasurables

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer | May 20, 2010

Transcribed and edited by Ryusen Barbara Byrum

Editor’s note: This talk contains guided meditations on compassion. You might consider pausing during the reading of the talk to do this practice. The pauses and bells that end certain stages are indicated in the text.

Compassion. This is the other side of mudita. Mudita is to feel other people’s joy. Compassion is to feel other people’s pain, other people’s suffering. After all the wonderful discussion of mudita, this might sound like a downer. Who wants to go out of their way to feel other people’s pain and suffering? Yuck! Nobody wants to feel pain. It’s so much nicer to feel pleasure, and then to increase our feelings of pleasure by feeling other people’s pleasure. That seems to be the natural thing in life, right? To seek some happiness and some pleasure and to avoid some unhappiness, some pain.

So compassion, in a way, at first glance, seems like a bad idea. Evolution is the seeking of thriving, well-being, positive states. Creatures seem to be programmed for that, including us. To seek for something that is unpleasant, like suffering, seems really twisted and strange. Who would want to do that? Is it a good idea? It seems unnatural in a way. And yet, when you say, “Is compassion a good idea?” most people would say, “Compassion is so wonderful. It touches my heart. It is so beautiful.” So we like compassion, even though we all understand that compassion is opening ourselves to other peoples’ pain.

So why would that be? I think the reason for it is because the feeling of compassion is so close to the feeling of love. I think we understand that these two things completely depend on each other. The idea that we could love somebody, but then if something went wrong with them, and we had a bad feeling and ignored them and wanted to get away from them – I think we are all smart enough to know that there isn’t going to be any love if that happens.

We all get it that love is something very powerful. We all want love, so we all get it that compassion is very close to love. In fact, love depends on compassion, because you can’t love someone if you’re not willing to be there with them in their suffering. Even that in itself, just being willing to feel someone’s suffering, if you care about them – that is already love, right? Compassion, in a way, even though it is associated with suffering, feels good, because it already is love.

So it’s strange. The whole way that we set things up in our mind seems not to be exactly the case because, although you know that suffering is negative, the feeling of love that you have when feeling the suffering of someone you care about is – in a different way, and a more important way – pleasant. So, oddly, love and compassion, and what’s pleasant and what’s painful, seem to be really closely associated, to the point of almost being the same thing. It’s kind of odd, when you think about it.

We have all these different words and ideas: pain, pleasure, compassion, love. We make these distinctions because we believe that thinking and feeling are characterized by opposition. Distinction and opposition are how we experience things. But the closer we look at our actual experiences, the less distinct and the less firm these different distinctions are. If we are caught by them before feeling them deeply enough and experiencing them deeply enough – by being attached to what is pleasant and being averse to or afraid of what is painful – we could really mess ourselves up. Once you get the hang of the real complexity and richness of your human experience, you realize that things are just not that simple. Self-protection and grasping pleasant feelings turn out to be bad strategies for happiness; whereas, opening up the self to all feelings – whether one’s own or those of others, pleasant as well as unpleasant – turns out to be a much richer and truer way to live. So generating compassion, which allows us to feel suffering, is a necessary practice for opening ourselves to real love and genuine happiness.

In studying the Four Unlimited Abodes, we keep coming back, over and over, to Buddha’s central insight that the difference between self and other is more a conceptual habit than an ultimate reality. It turns out, quite strangely and paradoxically, that the most selfish thing is the most altruistic thing. If you really want to be selfish about your own happiness, love everybody. That’s the way to be happy. It’s a strange thing, but that is really what it comes down to in actual experience.

Avalokiteshwara, as you all know, the speaker in the Heart Sutra, is the bodhisattva of compassion, and yet it is Avalokiteshwara who teaches us that all dharmas are marked with emptiness. They do not appear and do not disappear. Suffering and the end of suffering are empty. This is the great secret of compassion and what makes a wide and deep feeling for the suffering of other people – and for all of us collectively – sustainable. Avalokiteshwara sees the pain of the world and hears the cries of the world, and yet she remains serene, because her hearing and her vision are unimpeded by limited objects. She knows that there are no eyes, no ears, no nose, no object of sight, no object of sound – nothing to impede the free flow of love. Even suffering does not impede it. Her heart is wide open. She feels all of the suffering. But she understands that that’s okay. Everything is lightened by and sustained by emptiness. The unbearable is bearable. The pain is the love. All things are suffering, even the things that don’t look like they are. And all suffering is peace.

You could see that the near enemy of compassion is despair. You open your heart to suffering. You start looking around, and pass this person in front of you, who is suffering, and the next person and the next person and the next person, and when you look far enough, you could see a lot of suffering. And this could result in despair. But despair is not the same as compassion. I think this is what blocks our compassion: we’re afraid that if we were really to open ourselves to suffering, even the suffering of one person, even the suffering of ourselves – maybe especially the suffering of ourselves – we wouldn’t be able to stand it. We would start feeling that things are completely hopeless, and then we would be plunged into despair, depression, hopelessness, and our heads would explode. So we feel we should protect ourselves from this eventuality. Better not to think too much about people suffering. Better not to think about people being killed in Afghanistan, or the unbelievable, horrible things that go on as a matter of course, every day, in almost every country of Africa. Better not to think about that. Who knows how many ocean creatures – fish and mammals – have been harmed in this oil spill in the Gulf, that nobody seems to want to say how extensive it is? Let’s not think about it. Too much! Too much! Too much! The virtual impossibility of our ever slowing down, let alone reversing, the pace of climate change: let’s not think about it too much. Even our one friend or two friends or three friends, who are dying of cancer right now – too much. We could fall into despair easily. It could be too much for us.

So, as I always like to point out, meditation practice is extremely humbling. That’s its great virtue, I think. It is very humbling to sit there on our cushions. If we are honest about it, and if we open to what’s going on, we can’t help but notice all of our fear, all of our confusion, all of our anguish, and all of our jealousy and rage and cynicism. Everything. It’s all there. Just sit down long enough, and you see it all. At first we feel humiliated or wonder what’s wrong with us. “My practice is not going well. I should be better. I thought I was a pretty nice person before, but now I am really wondering about myself! How come I’m not any better than this?” But then it dawns on us, “Oh, this is just everybody’s ordinary, everyday stuff. This is just being human – whatever is there, good or bad.” It’s just being human. There is suffering built right into the middle of it. We’ll see that on our cushions.

This is exactly the root of compassion. As I suffer, so do all beings suffer. As all beings suffer, so do I. We all have bodies and minds. Because we have a body, we all want to be healthy and attractive and young forever, but that is not going to happen. Because we have minds and feelings, we want to be joyful and satisfied and ebullient all the time, and it’s not going to be like that. In other words, because we have bodies and minds, we have expectations and needs, and they are sometimes dashed. And sometimes unpleasant feelings will arise, and then we’re going to suffer. Of course, bad social conditions, bad physical conditions will bring on suffering; but even if there weren’t any bad social conditions, even if there weren’t any bad physical conditions, even if there wasn’t any poverty, even if everybody was really nice, there would still be suffering.

When I am willing to recognize my own suffering and understand its root causes, the natural consequence of this is compassion. I stop condemning myself, I feel compassionate for myself, and I feel compassionate for others. I see the difference between having compassion for myself and for others. It is very slight. There is really no difference at all. Compassion is the way that we connect with our own lives. It’s the way that we connect with each other. Far from being something to fear, suffering turns out to be our great human treasure. We may not like it all the time, but we know that it is necessary for us, and that it’s good for us, because it brings us closest to reality. It brings us closest to love. So it is a very good idea to generate compassion. It’s very gritty and rough, but it is very good.

Buddhadharma magazine just came in the mail. There is a whole section called “Loving Deeply, Loving More.” So I thought that for the rest of my talk, we could do some practices, and I wanted to read some things that are written here in Buddhadharma magazine. The great contemporary master of the compassion teachings in Buddhism is Pema Chodron, whose books we all know, I’m sure. So let me read you what she says about compassion. Here she’s talking about Tonglen practice, and then we will do some Tonglen practices, and a few other practices, all for the purpose of generating and understanding compassion a little better.

So here is what she says in this current issue of the Buddhadharma magazine:

In order to have compassion for others, we have to have compassion for ourselves. In particular, to care about other people who are angry, fearful, jealous, overcome by addictions of all kinds, arrogant, proud, miserly, selfish, mean – you name it. To have compassion and care for these people means not to run from the pain of finding these things in ourselves. In fact, one’s whole attitude toward pain can change. Instead of fending it off and hiding from it, one can open one’s heart and allow oneself to feel that pain, feel it as something that will soften and purify us, and make us far more loving and kind.

Tonglen practice is a method for connecting with suffering – ours and that which is all around us, everywhere we go. It is a method for overcoming fear of suffering and for dissolving the tightness of our heart. Primarily it is a method for awakening the compassion that is inherent in all of us, no matter how cruel or cold we might seem to be.

We begin the practice by taking on the suffering of a person whom we know to be hurting and whom we wish to help. For instance, if you know of a child who is being hurt, you breathe in the wish to take away all the pain and fear of that child. And then as you breathe out, you send out happiness, joy, or whatever would relieve their pain. This is the core of the practice: breathing in others’ pain, so that they can have more space to relax and open, and breathing out, sending them relaxation or whatever you feel would bring them relief and happiness.

However, we often cannot do this, because we come face to face with our own fear, our own resistance, our own anger, or whatever our personal pain, or our personal stuckness happens to be at that moment. So at that point in the practice, you should change the focus and begin to do Tonglen for what you are feeling – your resistance to your practice of Tonglen. Do Tonglen with that resistance! And also for yourself, and the millions of others who – just like you – are feeling the same stuckness and the same misery.

So, in other words, “I can’t do this; this is too hard,” doesn’t make any sense. If you can’t do this because it is too hard, you breathe in, “I can’t do this; this is too hard,” with compassion, and you remember at that moment that many others are also feeling that way. You breathe in for yourself and them, and then you breathe out relief.

So you breathe it in for all the people caught with that emotion, and you send out relief for whatever opens up the space for yourself and all these countless others. Maybe you can’t name what you are feeling, but you can feel it. A tightness in the stomach, a heavy darkness – whatever. Just contact what you are feeling and breathe in, take it in for all of us, and send out relief for all of us.

So let’s practice this for a bit, if you will. We’ve done this before, but I don’t think we have exhausted it so far. So let’s begin with someone we know who is sick. Many of our sangha members are ill right now. I can think of several that I want to practice with. Think of someone who is really in need of compassion, in need of support. Whether physically ill, or some pain or anguish. Imagine the person. The next time you breathe in, physically breathe in their suffering – their anguish, their pain, their disease, even – as a dark, smoky substance that comes in through your nostrils and all the pores of your body. Bring it in through your breath, and through the power of the Buddha-nature that pervades your body, transform it, so that when you breathe out, you are able to breathe out light and ease and relief and relaxation and acceptance. It just flows out of you toward the person. Let’s keep practicing with that person, breathing in darkness, and breathing out light.

[Pause]

If there is more than one, you can go from one person to another. And, as Pema says, if you feel some resistance when you do this, some fear, then breathe that in. Breathe in not only your own fear and resistance, but the fear and resistance that beings all over the world are feeling in this very moment, just as you’re feeling. Breathe in the dark smoke and feel this light, easeful acceptance, flowing out in all directions. All around.

[Bell]

Now let us practice with all of us sitting in the room, breathing in the suffering of each other, breathing out ease and relief. Whatever unfulfilled hopes, whatever wounds, whatever fears, breathe it all in, breathing out healing and relief.

[Pause]

And then let’s extend that through the walls of the building, the ceiling, the floor, so that our awareness takes in all the beings everywhere – in all directions, above, below, and all around, without limit. Whatever anguish, whatever pain, whatever illness – breathing in all the suffering as a dark substance, transforming it into light and ease and compassion. Sending the exhale into limitless space, in all directions, coming out of every pore of our bodies. If this seems too hard to do, and we feel frightened and just can’t do it, then breathe in that limitation for ourselves and for everyone else who feels it. Breathing out healing and acceptance of it.

[Bell]

Now following the sequence that we have been doing, think of someone who is difficult for you, someone with whom your human relations are stuck or fractured or not happy. Maybe someone who has hurt you. It could be someone now, or it could be someone long ago. Recognize that whatever this person’s actions or character, it all comes as a result of suffering. So allow yourself to breathe in that person’s suffering, a dark suffering, and breathe out ease and relief. If there is limitation or resistance, breathe that in. Just continue to practice.

[Bell]

Now let’s practice with ourselves. Breathe in your own pain – your physical pain, your emotional pain, your longing, your anguish, your wounds. Can you actually breathe them in and say, “Yes, I will actually take this in”? Transform it in your body and breathe out ease and lightness and relief and healing for yourself.

[Bell]

One more practice. This one is elaborate and hard to do, maybe. It’s a Tibetan Buddhist practice of generating compassion, and it involves a lot of visualization, which I find very hard to do. Maybe some of you are used to it. So what I will do is I will slowly read to you the steps that you are supposed to be visualizing. If you can do that, then do it. If not, then just listen, and do the best you can. It is very beautiful. This is from Alan Wallace’s book, The Four Unlimiteds, in his compassion chapter:

Begin with your motivation that you would really like to alleviate the suffering of others. That is really the effort you are making in your practice, to practice in such a way that you find happiness yourself and do that by alleviating the suffering of others. That’s your motivation for your practice in general and this practice in particular.

Imagine, now, that you are seeing in front of you, in your mind’s eye, Avalokiteshwara full of light and joyful. Imagine Avalokiteshwara in front of you, and she is looking at you with warmth and affection and love. She is the embodiment of the compassion that you would like to feel. The mantra associated with Avalokiteshwara is Om Mani Padme Hum, which means the jewel of awakening is right there, the lotus that grows out of the mud of suffering. Om Mani Padme Hum. Om Mani Padme Hum.

As you repeat that mantra – maybe you are seeing it somehow inside – you imagine a cascade of light coming out of Avalokiteshwara’s head. It flows and arcs over and goes inside your head. It flows down your body, and your whole body is saturated, every cell of your body, Now, very politely, you ask Avalokiteshwara if she wouldn’t mind shrinking down to around one inch in size, and in that size would she mind sitting on the top of your head, facing the same direction that your face is facing. You can imagine tiny, light-infused Avalokiteshwara sitting on top of your head.

Now imagine that your heart is a soft, glowing, white lotus. Invite Avalokiteshwara on top of your head to come down there inside your heart and sit inside that lotus. And she does. She sits there. Imagine a tiny, pure, radiant point of white light in Avalokiteshwara’s heart, sitting on that lotus inside of your heart. This is the light of your own Buddha-nature. And now it begins to radiate out in all directions and fills your whole body and flows out of your body through every pore, reaching out without limit throughout all of space and to all the beings living there. As soon as it touches every being, it removes their suffering and the source of their suffering. It touches every human being, every animal. It just keeps going around the globe, beyond this world even. The whole universe is infused with this light.

Imagine the light coming back now to your body, where Avalokiteshwara sits in your heart. Let your body dissolve into the body of Avalokiteshwara. Let the body of Avalokiteshwara dissolve into that point of light in the middle of her heart. Let this point of light dissolve into empty space. Now let the empty space resolve itself into your body again – softly glowing light, serene, and strong. Within this body, feel the movements of energy as you breathe. Then rejoin the practice just to feel your breath.

Could you do that? It’s nice, isn’t it?

edz

Sex, Lies, and Buddhism

A forum with Zoketsu Norman Fischer, Lama Palden Drolma and Andrew Olendzki, published in Buddhadharma Magazine, Summer, 2010

"The enlightened person finds freedom in embracing causality rather than feeling causality as a restriction. If there's a bad action and there are strong consequences, can we accept and embrace those consequences rather than try to deny them or resist them–and delight in the facct that the world works that way?"

– Norman Fischer, in "Sex, Lies and Buddhism: Exploring the spirit, subtleties, and relevance of Buddhist ethics." Published in Buddhadharma Magazine, Summer, 2010

edz

Loving Kindness (Metta) – Four Immeasurables – Moutain Rain Zen

Norman speaks on Loving Kindness (Metta) – the first of the Four Immeasurables. Norman refers to the book “The Four Immeasurables: Cultivating a Boundless Heart by Alan Wallace. This talk was given at the Moutain Rain Zen Center in Vancouver and is the same talk as that was given at the Dharma Seminar May 6 (a poor recording).

Loving-Kindness (Metta) – Four Immeasurables

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer | May 15, 2010
Location: Mountain Rain Zendo / Vancouver

Transcribed and edited by Ryusen Barbara Byrum.

Editor's note: This talk contains guided meditations on loving-kindness. You might consider pausing during the reading of the talk to do this practice. The pauses and bells that end certain stages are indicated in the text.

 

May all beings be happy.

May they be joyous and live in safety.

All living beings, whether weak or strong,

In high or middle or low realms of existence,

May all beings be happy.

It's always inspiring to chant these words of the Metta Sutta. This wish for happiness for all beings – which includes oneself, one's own happiness – is basic to the nature of our human mind. It's basic to how reality is, this wish.

Now with all the greed and violence and confusion in the world, and one can sometimes even notice these things in oneself, it's hard to believe that this is true. It's hard to believe. And yet, it really, really is true. I think we are all in the process of discovering for ourselves how true this is. You could say that that is what practice is. Practice is the process of discovering for ourselves, little by little, over our lifetime, how true this is. At the center of our minds, at the center of our hearts, is this wish to be happy, and the understanding that this wish for oneself to be happy is the same as the wish for everyone to be happy. When you think about Dogen's understanding of zazen, this is what he's talking about when he talks about resuming your original nature, resuming your buddha-nature. This wish to be happy and the wish for everyone to be happy are the contents of buddha-nature. They're what buddha-nature actually means.

Selfishness is painful. It actually hurts to be selfish. To do violence, to be mean-spirited, is literally painful. We know that it harms others and – little by little, by observing our own hearts – we come to realize that it hurts us as well when we behave in that way. We feel how the pain of those negative states and behaviors comes back to ourselves. And this is true for everyone, even if that pain is sometimes experienced only as closed-heartedness or narrowness of heart.

That's really the truth. We observe that. And yet, isn't it an incredible thing how much those behaviors still go on, and how common they are in this world? Why is that so? We all understand how painful these things are. Why is there so much confusion and injustice and violence in this world? I think the root of it is that we all share this wish to be happy, to be safe, to be protected, but sometimes we think that in order to be happy, we've got to be more powerful than everybody else, so we can frighten them into giving us what we need. Or we think that to be happy, we have to be safe and secure, and so we need a lot of money and property to make sure we are safe and secure, and if we have to grab that money and property at somebody else's expense – well, that's what it takes to be happy. We think like that.

In other words, when you analyze it in the end, the reason why there is so much negative emotion and so much negative action in the world is because of our wish to be happy. But then we begin to see this wish and this need to be happy in too narrow a scope, and then the essentially wholesome desire to be happy gets mixed in with a lot of fear, and it becomes distorted. That's what causes all this bad behavior. We begin to think and act in a fear-based, distorted way. We then begin to become twisted by our own habit of stupid thinking and stupid action, and that becomes our fixed position and our fixed way of living in the world. And then when you multiply that by billions of people, you have the world that we live in.

It's astonishing to think that the real root of all of this confusion is our own very natural, innocent wish to be happy, to be safe, to preserve our life. Everybody wants this – even the worst crook; even the biggest rip-off financier; even the most corrupt politician. In their heart of hearts, everyone simply wants to be happy, wants to be safe, and wants to preserve his or her life. So it is no wonder that when we sit down on our cushions for awhile, sometimes we experience a lot of this fear and a lot of this narrowness and a lot of this suffering, negativity, and trouble. Since it is there all around us, in our world, and in our own hearts, it's the most natural thing that when we stop and look within, a certain amount of it will well up. We might think that it is us – that there is something wrong with us, or we have these things in us. But really these things are not our fault, and whatever negativity and pain and suffering that we feel inside are not really our true characteristics.

Since most of the discussion that we have about loving-kindness is from the Pali tradition, we commonly use the word metta. In Sanskrit the word is maitri, which could be translated as loving-kindness, but it could also be translated as friendliness – to be friendly with oneself and to be friendly with everyone.

In the era in which we're living, this eon of time in Buddhist cosmology, the buddha is Shakyamuni Buddha. He is muni, the sage, of the Shakya tribe. So, in this era a person emerges from a particular group of people as a sage and teaches for this aeon. In the next aeon, the Buddha is going to be called Maitreya Buddha. Not a buddha who emerges from a particular people and takes the name of that people, but a buddha whose name means "friendliness". The buddha of the next eon is the buddha of universal friendliness. I think this is a wise insight of our Buddhist ancestors, because I think it really is true that friendliness is an evolutionary trend for humanity.

So, let's practice loving-kindness meditation together. If you would be so kind as to come back to your body, to your breath, let's just practice for about ten minutes, in a more direct way, these things that I have been speaking about.

So begin with your breathing and your body, returning to your heart, to your life in the present moment – to buddha-nature, the peaceful, empty, boundless nature of mind. I'll go through various stages of this practice. I'll ring one bell at the end of each stage, and at the very end, I will ring two bells.

Traditionally the practice of maitri begins with oneself. Think of yourself as a friend to yourself. As you exhale, repeat these phrases: "May I be happy. May I be safe and content. May my heart be open." If you find it difficult, or if there is resistance in your heart to practicing like that, just notice that. It's not necessary to make it go away, or to reject the practice if you feel that way. Just be patient with it and continue.

[Pause]

Now, letting go of the words, just feel, as you breathe, as if the breath itself were the love and the friendliness. Breathe in this friendly, loving feeling, and breathe out this friendly, loving feeling. Feel it circulating in your body as you breathe.

[Bell]

Now, think of someone dear to you. Someone whom you love and who loves you in an uncomplicated way. Maybe it is a family member, or a close friend, or a teacher, or a benefactor of some sort. Again, as we breathe out, we will practice these phrases. Imagining this person, may he or she be happy. May he or she be content and safe. May his or her heart be open.

[Pause]

Now, letting go of the words, just feel the friendliness and the love in your breathing. Feel it flowing out from you toward the person. Feel it flowing back from the person toward you. Feel it in the very breath as a direct experience without words.

[Bell]

Now we'll think of a more neutral person, maybe someone we know – or a group of people we know – at work, or we do business with somehow. Or, it might be better right now to think of everyone here in the room. People that we know to some degree, but maybe not as well as someone very close to us. Feel the presence of all of us in the room. "May all of us be happy. May all of us be safe and content. May our hearts be open."

[Pause]

Now, letting go of those words, without any words, as you breathe in, as you breathe out, feel the love and friendliness flowing out of you and back into you, as love and friendliness circulate throughout this room. Feel it right there in the breath. And that is what the breath is, after all.

[Bell]

Now let's imagine the walls of this room fall away; the outside walls of the building fall away; and the ceiling and the floor. We are open to the space around without limit – as far as the consciousness could reach, in all directions, above, below, and all around. May all the beings in this limitless realm – high and low, human and non-human alike – be happy. May all beings be safe and content. May all hearts be open.

[Pause]

And letting go of the words, feel this. As you breathe out, feel the love pouring out of you – filling space in infinite directions. Feel the love circulating through you as you breathe in, from limitless space, all around.

[Bell]

The next one is more difficult, and we'll all do the best we can, and study our resistance if it arises. Think of someone who is a pretty difficult person. Someone you know in your life now, or maybe someone long ago, who was mean to you, or hurt you, or someone toward whom you have strong antipathy. Bring that person to mind. May he or she be happy. May he or she be content and safe. May his heart, may her heart, be open.

[Bell]

Now, letting go of that, for the last moment, let's just return to sitting with the breath, with the body, with awareness. Empty, open awareness in the present.

[Bell]

Thank you very much for being willing to practice together like that. I hope that it was enjoyable. That's partly the point. It's so nice, isn't it? To feel love, loving-kindness – this is not an unpleasant experience. It's actually a wonderful experience. But perhaps also you could see that's it's not necessarily always so easy to generate a feeling of love, especially for someone who is not so lovable. When on our cushions, maybe, in this special environment, we could do it. It's not so hard to have that feeling when you are sitting on your cushion, as opposed to daily life when people, in general, seem not to be so lovable.

In the classical texts on metta or maitri, they talk about, "What is the proximate cause of this emotion?" The proximate cause of love is lovability – an object that is inherently lovable. So, for instance, it's not that hard to love a cute child or baby. Babies are designed to be loveable. It's a very pragmatic thing. It takes so much to take care of a baby. Imagine if babies were ugly and nasty creatures. The species would have long ago died out! So it's very practical that babies be loveable, so that we love them and want to take care of them.

So loveable creatures easily inspire love, but there are others who are not as loveable, right? Much more difficult to love the less loveable, and almost impossible to love the absolutely unlovable. You usually have to be very good at this, to love the unlovable one. Therefore, the practice of loving-kindness cannot be practiced without an honest encounter with the barriers to loving-kindness within ourselves. Just to think about generating loving-kindness, and not to consider the barriers – the natural barriers – to loving-kindness within ourselves, is not really going far enough.

So considering those barriers is a necessary part of the practice of loving-kindness, and that is a whole other conversation. But for today, I would just say one word, and that word is "patience." When you were sitting and practicing a moment ago, maybe you found it difficult at times to generate a feeling of loving-kindness. Maybe you thought, "This is stupid," or, "I can't do this," or, "I don't want to do it," or, "I don't feel anything." When that happens, you practice patience. You just turn toward that feeling, whatever it is, and know it's there; and you just breathe with it there and continue making the effort – but honestly noticing what is really happening. That is called the practice of patience.

Patience means at least two things. First of all, no matter how angry or upset or neutral or negative we may be feeling, no matter how impossible it may be at this moment to generate a feeling of love or friendliness, we have to be clear in our minds that that is what we would like to do. Because I think what happens if sometimes we don't feel love or friendliness, we think, "Well, that guy doesn't deserve it anyway. Why would I want to have any kind of love for that person? He doesn't deserve it." And then we start justifying our feelings. So the idea here is that even though we can't feel that right now, we know that we want to some time be able to feel it. That's our goal.

And secondly, patience means that we recognize that there is a great virtue and a great strength and a great dignity in simply being able to bear what we have to bear. To be able to bear our anger, our frustration, our rage, our pain, our hurt – all that stands in the way of our love. Just to be able to bear that is a strong and dignified practice.

In this great effort to practice the Way, patience may be the most important of all virtues. When we think about it, it's very obvious. Even though I would like to, at this moment I might not be able to prevent the feelings of frustration or rage – "I am angry, I am frustrated!" I understand that I can't prevent these feelings. And I also know that these feelings are not helping me. "This is not what I want, and this is not beneficial. If I indulge these feelings and make them into a theme for my life, what's going to happen to me? I'm going to become a very bitter person. I'm going to become a despairing person. I'm going to be a person who sees no goodness in humanity, and, therefore, in myself. And if I act on those emotions and those habits of mind, I'm not going to make the world better for myself or others. I'm going to make it worse."

In some ways you could say that rage is good. Maybe it is better than passivity. Passivity is also a kind of affliction – perhaps a worse affliction than rage. Sometimes rage can rouse our compassion and our action to do something good. So that could be a positive thing. But if we are just enraged, and we act and lash out, this is not good. We have to take the energy of the rage and transmute it with patience, and – as much as possible – temper it with kind thoughts, before we are able to act with this energy in some effective way.

The classical teachings say there are three aspects to the practice of patience: First, a kind of warrior spirit. Patience is not passivity. Patience is a warrior spirit that says, "Okay, something tough is coming, inside or outside. All right, I am ready. I like tough things. I am ready for it. I want that to happen. I'm okay with it. I'm eating difficulty for breakfast. That's what gives me strength for the day."

Resignation is not patience. When we feel resigned – "Oh, no, this is terrible. There is nothing I can do about it," – we can feel ourselves losing energy and losing strength. Patience is the opposite of that. Patience arouses our strength and our energy. It's a strong, positive step in overcoming adversity and generating loving-kindness when the time for that opens up. Patience is enduring with honesty and strength what's actually present, inside or outside, even if it's not good.

The second aspect of patience is something that we don't really like in our culture, because we always think – this so naí»ve to me – that something truly can be done. "Let's do something! Something can be done!" But sometimes nothing can be done. Nothing, sometimes, can be done, and that makes us feel impotent and confused. But, actually, we should have patience. "Yes, that is exactly what I am going to do right now: Nothing." That's a strong thing. This seems ridiculous, but it's not so ridiculous. When I work with caregivers for the dying, we learn that there are times in the dying process when there is absolutely nothing that can be done. Absolutely nothing. If, when absolutely nothing can be done, if you are freaking out, running around, trying to figure out what to do, this is not a good thing. But if you can come forth and say, "That is what I am going to do right now – absolutely nothing," that is a huge strength and a huge advantage. And that is a strong thing to do. I think that mostly we don't understand this.

That is the second aspect of patience. The third one is the one we are all familiar with, because we all have been kids going on long car trips – across the Canadian prairies, going to Calgary, or something like that. Mile after mile after mile, we are sitting in the back seat, saying, "Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" And our parents said, "Be patient! Be patient!" What they really meant was, "Shut up, and leave me alone."

So when we hear the word "patience", that's what we think: "Shut up, and leave me alone." Waiting is not that. The capacity to wait – "Now is not the time; I'm waiting for the right time," – is a huge skill that we don't even know is a skill, let alone are we interested in developing it. I wrote about this a lot in Sailing Home. There is a whole part in there about just waiting. The path requires waiting. Sometimes you just suffer for a long time, and you wait for the right time.

The point here is that we cultivate loving-kindness as an intentional practice on our cushions, and also in our hearts. As we go through our day, we cultivate loving-kindness in our actions, words, and thoughts. And when we find that – because of strong afflictive emotions, created often by bad external circumstances – we can't do that, we practice patience. The practice of patience is the gateway to the practice of loving-kindness.

The traditional teachings also say that each of these four brahmaviharas – loving-kindness, maitri, being the first – each one has a near enemy and a far enemy. The far enemy, of course, is the opposite. So the opposite of loving-kindness is hatred or antipathy. So now when we are practicing and have an intentional practice of maitri, when we see antipathy or hatred arising in us, we know, "This is the far enemy of loving-kindness, and I have to be careful now. This reminds me of my commitment to be kind." And then we practice patience.

The near enemy is sneaky, because it looks like the thing itself, the quality we are trying to develop, but it's not. It's obvious that when we hate somebody, that this is not loving-kindness. We know that. Everybody knows that. But the near enemy might look like loving-kindness and feel like loving-kindness. We might wish the person well, and so on, but it's not loving-kindness. It's not love. The near enemy of maitri is attachment, which can sometimes look a lot like love. Almost all human love has within it – appropriately and necessarily – a degree of attachment; but when it is more attachment than love, it's actually about us. Love has to do with other people. We love ourselves so that we can love other people. But when our emotion is all about ourselves, it is called attachment. When I want someone to be well and to be happy and content so that they can be there for me, when that's actually what I am after, this is not called love; this is called attachment. Even if I want them to be happy and I want them to be well so that I can make a big fuss over them, and I could buy them presents, and I could do things for them, and I could send them flowers on their birthday – even so, that is for me, because I like doing those things for her or for him.

We have to be able to see within our hearts the near enemy of love and true love. The trouble with attachment, of course, is that it is one small step away from hatred and antipathy. Love with a lot of attachment is very shaky, and it easily turns into hatred. I know this because among the people I work with in conflict resolution, many of them are divorce lawyers. They are very familiar with love that in a twenty-four-hour period turns into raging hatred that persists, sometimes, for the rest of one's life.

So, please, in our time together in the next couple days, if you want to, please do practice these loving-kindness meditations on your cushions. But, also, remember that simply doing zazen is the practice of returning to kindness – the kindness that is already present in the nature of each moment of time. That is the fundamental meditation that Dogen teaches. When he says in Fukanzazengi that we should let go of everything, of every wish to become a buddha, or anything else, that we should take the backward step, that we should practice non-thinking, and that we should illuminate the self, he is saying that just to do zazen is to re-enter the house of being. That house of being is inherently, by its nature – whether we say these words or not – a house of kindness and love. That's its nature. That's what Dogen is teaching us, even if he doesn't use the word "love."

So, with that spirit of love and support and friendship, let's continue to practice in this weekend. Thanks for your attention.

edz

Sympathetic Joy (Mudita) – Second of the Four Immeasurables

Norman leads the seminar on a talk on Sympathetic Joy or Mudita – the second of the Four Immeasurables. Norman refers to the book “The Four Immeasurables: Cultivating a Boundless Heart by Alan Wallace.

Sympathetic Joy (Mudita) – Second of the Four Immeasurables

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer | May 13, 2010

Edited and abridged by Ryusen Barbara Byrum

Editor's note: This talk contains guided meditations on sympathetic joy. You might consider pausing during the reading of the talk to do this practice. The pauses and bells that end certain stages are indicated in the text.

 

So continuing with our study of the four Brahmaviharas tonight, we'll talk about mudita, sympathetic joy – taking delight in others' happiness. But let me back up a little bit and speak in general about the four Brahmaviharas. They may seem like a goal; they may seem a little unrealistic or sentimental. Do we really think that we are going to train ourselves to love and be sympathetic to everyone, even people that we don't like? People who hurt us, or when we are completely opposed to what they stand for? Do we really think that we are going to do that? Is that what we are trying to do? It sounds good, but when you think about it a little bit, you might be doubtful. But I think that the practice of the Brahmaviharas, when you understand them in their context, are actually pretty practical and down-to-earth. Somebody could easily object to the idea of loving everyone. Somebody could argue, "Is it necessarily a good idea to love your enemy or to love somebody who does really bad things? Just the whole idea of loving everyone, wouldn't that be exhausting? Overwhelming, if you could actually do that?" So before we go ahead, I want to raise these very reasonable objections and speak to them for a minute.

First of all, I think, you have to understand the practice of the four Brahmaviharas in the context of the big picture and the main goal of Buddhist practice. And then we have to think not only of the goal of Buddhist practice, but we also have to think about our actual lives, and to what extent the very large goals of Buddhist practice are actually applicable to our real lives, and what's possible for our lives the way they really are, which has always been my point of view and the point of view that we share here at Everyday Zen.

So we are dedicated to the idea of not being excessively idealistic, although religion, I think, is inherently idealistic. Our idea is to see if we can be a little less idealistic and a little more realistic, and to do the do-able instead of yearning for the un-doable. Given all of that, I would say that our goal is fairly modest, although at the same time pretty ambitious: to overcome confusion and our jealousy and our envy – those kinds of afflictive emotions that we all have, that work against ourselves. Our goal is to try to reduce all that and see if we can simply find a little happiness. Why not? Why couldn't we find a little happiness in our human life? Not just for ourselves, because I think that happiness doesn't work that way, but also so we could be decent people and share our lives with other people that we come in contact with. So we could be of some benefit to others close by and to the world in general.

That is how I see our goal, and I think that is also the goal of Buddhist practice, however idealistically it is sometimes depicted. If that's our goal, then definitely this requires that we have a good and loving relationship with ourselves and with other people. In fact, when you think about it, one of the main causes for our unhappiness is our isolation – our really limited sense of who we think we are and how we see our lives. If we are suffering or unhappy, that's why. So we all need to open up and expand our sense of self, so that it includes rather than excludes others. The Buddha regarded this self-expansion not as something willful or manipulative, or as some kind of emotional trick, but as a return to our most fundamental human nature.

So when you first practice some of the things in Buddhism, like the Brahmaviharas, they seem to go against the grain; but in the end, they are natural and easy for us, once we get used to them. This idea that we are naturally, fundamentally good is repeated over and over again in Mahayana Buddhism. After all, what is Buddha nature if not this idea that we are inherently awakened, good-hearted people?

I don't think you can prove that people are inherently good, as opposed to being inherently bad. But I think that you can know from your own experience that when you relax and have some easy, happy feeling inside yourself and a good feeling for others, it does feel quite easeful and natural. When the opposite is the case, and you feel cynical and mistrustful, and when you believe that people – and therefore you yourself – are basically not trustworthy, you're stressed out. You're not feeling natural and easeful. You feel somehow bent out of shape – sometimes physically, literally, bent out of shape. So whether or not anybody could prove to anyone else's satisfaction that people are basically wonderful and worthwhile or not, it seems to be, practically speaking, a better idea to hold to the belief that you yourself and others are basically good inside, rather than the opposite. It's just a better deal to believe that.

The Brahmaviharas are part of this big picture – of liberation and expansion of self. They are a way of working on and softening our underlying attitudes and psychological prejudices in relation to others. This is really an important aspect of the path, because if we think of awakening and happiness as just about us, just about me and my mind and my heart, then it's not going to work. For sure we are going to go off track.

When I was studying the traditional teachings on the Brahmaviharas this week, I could really see that there is a big gap in psychology and culture between those teachings and the way we live now. This is true, I think, of Buddhist teachings in general. The original teachings and the whole tradition of commentaries speaks to an audience of ancient, Asian practitioners, who were living in more or less feudalistic societies, and whose basic sense of self, basic expectations, and pre-existing attitudes were probably really different from ours. So that is why it's our job now – and will be for quite awhile, without losing the main points that the teachings are making, and sometimes the main points are deeper than we think they are – to adapt the teachings to our own situation.

As we all know, one of the main themes in Buddhist practice – one of the things the Buddha was most concerned about – was this question of the self: the conditioned self, the suffering self, the non-self, the true self, the Buddha-nature self, and so on. The Buddha, and the Buddhist pundits through the generations, had been thinking about the trap of self and the liberation of self, the emptiness of the self, the letting go of the self. In the famous phrase that we are always quoting, Dogen says, "To study Buddhism is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be actualized by the myriad things." This famous passage in Genjokoan, think about this.: You could take this saying of Dogen as a profound practice of mudita.

We come to practice, and we start out, at first, with a very limited sense of ourselves. We come, as we are all brought up to be, as very small and very scared people. We have lots of wounds and lots of wants and needs for love, for feeling worthy. And these needs have not been met. So maybe we come and study Buddhism, and we try to go beyond these needs by studying Buddhism. We practice zazen. What happens when you give yourself to the process of zazen is that you begin to open yourself to a much wider sense of what you are. This is not a concept or some kind of mystical experience. It's just the grit of sitting on that cushion, year after year. Somehow, in your living, it just becomes clear to you – even if you don't have a concept of it – that the self is much more porous than you thought. It becomes clear to you that, in fact, most of what you thought of as your self is a whole bunch of habits of thought and attitudes. The whole idea of,"I'm me over here, and you are over there" is mostly a habitual thought and attitude, much more than any substantial reality. Of course this distinction is practical, and it is real, in its way. I'm not saying it is delusional. But I think that if you sit on your cushion long enough, year after year, it becomes clear to you that although it may be real and it may be true, it's real and true in a way that is not so ultimate. It's not entirely true. There are a lot of gaps in that. Dogen calls this "forgetting the self." We become less stuck on ourselves. Our previous rather crude egotism becomes a much more subtle and porous egotism! It's just more complicated now, and more porous and more various. We're less stuck on ourselves than we were before, I think, and much more open on all sides to the world and to others. We become capable of feeling others' pain – compassion, karuna. And we become equally capable of feeling others' joy as our own joy – mudita.

So now we have increased the possible conditions for our own joy by a fraction of five or six billion. Nothing special or excellent has to happen to me in order for me to feel joy. All of you could be happy, and it would make me happy. So I have many more chances for happiness, right? What a deal!

The point here is that we can connect to our own happiness and delight in simply being alive, and we can recognize the obvious fact that that delight and happiness are not bound by this skin bag. What is a feeling, anyway? A feeling is not a thing. It's weightless; it's shapeless; it's not located anywhere. How could it be housed in a particular body? Joy is actually shared. It actually is contagious, if you will let yourself be overcome by it. Once in a while, in special moments, you feel the contagion of joy.

So the practice of sympathetic joy is really wonderful, and it's pretty simple. I forgot last week to give you a homework assignment for loving-kindness, so maybe everybody was crabby all week. But this week I am going to suggest that we make an intentional effort to practice mudita – sympathetic joy. Somehow or other you can make a reminder for yourself – like on your refrigerator or on your computer screen – a reminder, "This week I am practicing sympathetic joy." You can write the word "mudita" on your desk or something. Maybe even every morning when you sit, you can remind yourself, "This week I want to sit with the intention of sympathetic joy, and cultivate it in my sitting, and see if I can spy some instances of grabbing hold of sympathetic joy and extending it during the day." So you are on the lookout all the time. "Where is there some happiness out there? I see a little happiness." It doesn't have to be a big happiness. It's little pieces of happiness here or there. Maybe you are walking down the street and some lovely, young couple passes by, who seem completely thrilled to be with each other. You can focus on that moment, those people, and you can say to yourself, "That happiness is also my happiness. That joy is also my joy." And this will cheer you up. It will decrease your self-absorption. It will open up your mind and heart a little bit. It will definitely lighten your point of view.

So try it this week. Probably you should also cultivate what we did last week, and in a moment we'll practice for just a few minutes, a way of cultivating mudita on your meditation cushion. It's similar to the way you could cultivate metta or maitri. You always begin with returning to basic zazen, to the peacefulness and stability in the breath and body. And then, in this case, you try to think of someone you know who is a joyful, happy, positive person. Truly we all know someone who is an ebullient person. You imagine that person sitting in front of you, and you feel their happiness coming toward you. You feel it suffusing your own body. The idea here is not that you are stealing their happiness, so that now you're happy and they're not. It doesn't go like that. You are just appreciating them for their happiness, and in that you are becoming happy yourself. And you can also follow the sequence that we did last week: Starting with a happy person, someone you appreciate, you admire or are close to, and then you can go from there to a neutral person, and then you can go from there to a general feeling of happiness for everyone, everywhere – above, below, and all around, without limit. Then, you can bring up someone who has hurt you, someone you are having trouble with – somebody you don't like, you don't admire at all. And you can try to imagine that person happy and take delight in that person's happiness. And then, as we were saying last time, when you have resistance to that, as we will, you study the resistance, and you try to face it head-on, and as much as possible feel that person's happiness.

So, let's take a few minutes and actually try to practice that. Just maybe five or six minutes we'll sit. I'll ring one bell in between each section.

[Bell]

We will start with an ebullient, happy person. And you imagine that person as somehow present, and feel yourself taking delight in their happiness. And then again, if there is resistance to this, you just notice that and you continue with the effort. Sometimes just surfacing the resistance is enough.

[Bell]

And now let's practice with what they call a neutral person. But in this case, let's practice with all of us here in our group. You can also do this at home, and imagine yourself surrounded by sangha members, and imagine that all of us in the room have happy hearts. Let yourself feel happy for all the people in the room who are feeling happy. Isn't it wonderful that they are at ease and happy, and that makes me happy.

[Bell]

Now let's imagine the walls of the building disappearing, and the ceiling and the floor disappearing, and feeling space all around – above, below, in all directions, without limit,- and all the beings, everywhere, feeling happy. We can feel the happiness and the joy like a force of nature, swirling all around, and it makes us glad too, even though we might not have any other reason to be happy. We can be happy because others are happy everywhere.

[Bell]

Now think of somebody you are having trouble with, somebody you really don't like, or somebody you think is just not a very nice person. Maybe somebody who has hurt you in some way. Now imagine that person being happy, and see if you can take delight in that person's happiness. And, again, if there is resistance to that, it is enough just to be aware of the resistance. You don't need to make it go away. Simply to surface the resistance and feel what it's like is the first step in cultivating mudita.

[Bell]

Now just return to the moment. Letting all of that go. Just being with the body and the breath, resting in the empty, open nature of being itself.

[Bell]

Thank you. So I invite you to practice like that in zazen, and otherwise see if you can grab a hold of and extend this practice of mudita.

Like all the other four Brahmaviharas, mudita has a near enemy and a far enemy. The near enemy of mudita is frivolity. Superficiality. In other words, you would become a joy junkie, and you would all the time be looking for joy and happiness, so as to avoid life's other profound realities, which one cannot avoid, if you are going to practice the Way and actually be happy. In other words, being happy by covering over life's sorrows – impermanence and loss – is not a good way to be happy, because those things have a way of catching up to you. Frivolity and dunking yourself in joy every minute is not going to work out. It will catch up to you. So frivolity is the near enemy of mudita. It could look like you are doing sympathetic joy, but what you are really doing is avoidance.

The far enemy of mudita is something that we are quite aware of: envy, jealousy, and resentment. When we are envious and jealous of others, we resent them. Because we are all so convinced of our own personal insufficiency, it's very easy for us to feel envious and jealous of others. Since I am clear on the fact that I am not good enough, or smart enough, or virtuous enough, or likeable enough, or successful enough, well, I don't like you if you turn out to be more likeable and smarter and more successful! I'm jealous and I resent you, but I don't think that I am jealous. I just know that I resent you. In fact, I find it very hard to accept that you are smart or friendly or good or virtuous or successful, because it makes me feel that much worse about myself. So I don't accept it.

I am saying all this because, in order to really practice mudita, we have to be honest about all of this stuff. We have to be very honest about our envy and our jealousy and our resentment. That's why I said that when the resistance is there, and we notice the envy and jealousy when we're trying to develop mudita, just notice it and get used to it and see how it feels. Just noticing when that feeling is there is the practice of mudita. We have to patient with it. We have to forgive ourselves for it. It's not really our fault. It's normal. It's natural. We don't have to expect that it's going to go away immediately, but steadily and realistically just continue with the intentional practice of mudita.

If it should be the case that resentment, envy, and jealousy persist, here are a few ways, based on traditional teachings, that you can think about it. Now this is interesting in and of itself. The cultivation of particular ways of thinking – contemplation – is a commonplace practice in Buddhist teaching. In our culture we have the idea that what we're thinking is what we naturally think. It is our own thinking. It's our prerogative. It's a free country, we are free individuals. We aren't going to be told what to think, and, by God, we're not going to believe what somebody else thinks, because it's not what we think. I think what I think. But this is a pretty unsophisticated idea, as if, somehow, we independently think our thoughts. "These are my thoughts. I independently invented these thoughts. Nobody else has these thoughts." But that's not true at all. The thoughts that I am thinking are conditioned thoughts. They are conditioned by my situation. If I think about it and realize that the ways I am thinking create a lousy attitude for myself, and a lot of unhappiness, and bad self-image, and cynicism, then I am stupid if I don't think about cultivating other ways of thinking. So it's a good idea, actually, to rehearse better thoughts, if our thoughts are lousy. Let's see if we can get better ones! Makes sense.

Here are some ways to think about resentment, in case you have a lot of resentment or jealousy or envy. Even if someone really is a rotten person, the resentment that you are feeling is not theirs. It's yours. It has nothing to do with them. Your not feeling resentful anymore is not going to make them happier, in case you don't like the idea of making bad people happy. Don't worry. If you stop resenting them, it's not going to make them happy. They don't care, one way or the other. You are the one who is being harmed by the resentment. Resentment hurts you; it doesn't do anything to them. So think like that.

Secondly, if you can't think of anything at all positive about a person, and they really are rotten in every way, then remember karma. Karma means "bad actions bring bad fruit and good actions bring good fruit." So if somebody really is rotten – well, that's their problem, not yours. You don't need to resent them for it. They will receive what they will receive from it.

The third way to think about it is if you have a lot of envy, jealousy, and resentment, think of all the effort you have made over the years in your practice. All those hours of zazen. Maybe you took the precepts and sewed a rakusu. All those hours of sewing, and everything that you have done to cultivate the good in your life – resentment, envy and jealousy are only reducing the benefit of that. Why would you want to do that? It's like painting your house and then throwing dirt on it. Why would you want to do that?

If that doesn't work, you can think about this: Everything is impermanent. If somebody hurt you, or they are going around making a big deal out of their accomplishments, and that bothers you, that happened before. It's not happening right now. So why would you want to perpetuate something unpleasant – which is past – with your envy, your resentment, and your jealousy?

If that doesn't work, think about this: You think that you are jealous of somebody else. You think that you're envious of somebody else. But look more closely. What are you really jealous of? What are you really resenting? What are you really envious of? You have a picture in your mind of this person. You have no idea what this person is like. But you made a picture in your mind of this person, and now you are envious, and jealous, and resentful of this picture in your mind! You've created a fictitious person that you could be jealous of. It has nothing to do with any reality.

If that doesn't work, think about this: Everybody here in this room knows his or herself pretty well. You know your own intentions. You know your strengths, you know your weaknesses, you know your hopes and your fears – all this stuff swirling around behind your words and deeds that nobody else ever sees. Now you are jealous and resentful of this other person. You have no idea what hopes and fears are swirling around within that person. All you can see is their outward actions – their words, their deeds. So, no doubt, whatever envy, jealousy, or resentment you have is misguided.

If that doesn't work, think like this: Think about the person you want to be. Think about how you want to develop your life. Or alternatively, or simultaneously, think about someone you really admire. That person, and you yourself – the person that you would like to be in the future – are not people who harbor resentment, envy, and jealousy. These are very small-minded qualities. These people you admire are generous and compassionate and have delight in others. Since people you admire are like that, and you yourself aspire to be like that tomorrow, why pursue a path in the opposite direction? Why not start now? And let go of that.

Think of all the money and trouble you could save if you put less attention into trying to get the conditions for your own happiness, and just started getting happy because other people were happy. Very efficient. So let's try to practice that this week and see how we can do.

Thank you.

edz

Jukai

Norman speaks on the Precepts and Jukai (lay ordination) ceremony at the Mar de Jade, Mexico, Sesshin

 

Jukai

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer | April 15, 2010
Norman speaks on the Precepts and Jukai ceremony (lay
ordination) at the Mar de Jade, Mexico, Sesshin

Abridged and edited by Ryūsen
Barbara Byrum

 

Buenos dias a todos. Tonight we conclude our retreat with a
ceremony for taking precepts. Roccio,
Chelo, and Luis are going to get new names and rakusus and lineage papers, and they are going to commit themselves
to the sixteen Bodhisattva precepts.

So I thought this morning I
would talk a little bit about this ceremony and the precepts. Although when we're in retreat we think
a lot about meditation practice, and that's our focus, in Zen the practice is fundamentally
not about meditation. It is really
about how we live our lives every single day. We read about this the other day in Dogen, in his great text
all about zazen. He says,
"Practice is a matter of everydayness."
This is why the name of the group that we practice in is called Everyday
Zen. It's not called "Peaceful
Ocean Zen," or "Dharma Eye Zen," or "Dragon Gate," or something like that,
although there are groups that have that kind of name. Our group is called Everyday Zen,
because I really believe that practice is a matter of every day. Of course, we value zazen very highly,
because zazen shows us the way to live every day – with kindness, with courage;
with clarity, with respect for the unknown, with whole-heartedness, and with a
dignified patience when things are tough.
If we practice zazen, we will learn all these things, all these qualities. But we'll just do zazen when it's time
to do zazen, and the rest of the time we'll forget about it, and we'll just go
forth in our lives in this way.

So that is where the precepts
come into it. Dogen says, "Zazen is the sixteen Bodhisattva precepts." I think that Rick was saying in his
talk that the precepts are not rules.
Like rules in school. Or sometimes
like training rules in a monastery or a retreat. Things we should not do. Things we should do.
The sixteen Bodhisattva precepts are just the description of the
spontaneous conduct of a Buddha.
The precepts are a way of trying to express, "This is how we live when
our hearts are full of kindness and joy."

When you consider our human
life, you could say that we actually have two lives going on at the same time:
the life of the body and the life of the vow. The body comes from our parents, it comes from the earth,
and it comes from God. So the body
is a miraculous thing. It is the
most amazing creation that we could ever imagine. And it is beyond what we could imagine. It's a shame that we take it so much
for granted.

But the body would have no
life without the vow, because the vow illuminates the body and moves the body
and motivates the body in its living.
Our vow is our sense of purpose and meaning in life. It is the basic spirit behind
everything we think, everything we choose, and everything we accomplish with
this body in this lifetime.

We actually all have a
vow. We wouldn't be in this life
if we didn't have a vow. It's a
little startling to think about that. "Oh, I didn't know I had a vow, that I was living by a vow." Most of us think, "I'm just living. I'm just trying to get along. I don't really have a vow. I am just an ordinary person." But, actually, nobody can get out of
bed in the morning and go through a day without some vow. You can tell that this is true, because
there are times in life – maybe it has never happened to you – when people lose
their vow. They lose it
completely. And then they cannot get out of bed. They're depressed. They're in despair. They actually can't figure out how to
go on living. And sometimes they
don't go on living. Or sometimes
they somehow manage to go through the motions of living, but really, inside,
there is no meaning.

So most of us do have our
vow. It keeps us going, and
somehow we are living based on our vow.
Even if we don't know we have a vow or don't know what that vow is,
somehow or other, we believe that our life makes sense. Our vow is formed in us in childhood,
and it develops as we grow older.
It comes from our parents and our family. It comes from our culture and our values. And it is there in us, even though we
don't know it. Usually we have not
really contemplated our vows, and we don't quite understand our vows. Most of the time our vows are very
mixed up with our wounds and our confusion, and so they actually need to be
clarified.

I think that any serious
spiritual practice involves clarifying our vows and our commitments, and it
involves having a strong sense of commitment beyond self-interest. If we don't have a vow to search for
the truth, if we don't have a vow to be of benefit to others, if we do not
commit ourselves to a path with some degree of discipline and support, probably
we will drift in our lives. Even
though we have the vow, it won't be clear, and we'll drift. And eventually we will feel – deep
inside – loneliness. And the
strength of our lives will eventually wear out. When you are young, this is not so much a problem, because
life is so exciting, and it remains interesting all the time – all kinds of
problems and passions and needs and desires. That can keep you going for quite a while. But after a while only a vow is enough
to sustain your life. Excitement
is simply not enough.

Of course, don't get me
wrong. I'm not making a pitch here
that everyone should take the Zen precepts. In fact, it's a lot of work for a poor priest when a lot of
people take precepts, so I am not trying to get more customers! That's not what I am talking
about. An official, organized,
church-sanctioned vow is not necessary.
An inner vow, if it is clear, can be very strong. If it is strong enough, it sometimes
can be stronger than an official vow taken in a ritual. A deep and serious inner vow can be
stronger than an official vow or a vow that we have taken because it is
expected of us, or we do it because everybody else is doing it and we don't
want to get left behind.

If we take this vow because
of our own experience – because our own suffering shows us that it is
absolutely necessary that we take it – and if we make this vow seriously and
from the heart, then we can find the support of the ritual and of the tradition
and of the community to be a big help.

Our ceremony tonight is a ceremony
of profound vowing. A vowing to
benefit others, to clarify our hearts, to go beyond old karma, and to act in
accord with kindness. We do the
ceremony as a member of Buddha's family.
We promise to do this not only in this life, but lifetime after lifetime,
and world after world.

So now, briefly, I will tell
you what the sixteen Bodhisattva precepts are. The first three are called the Triple

Refuges, or Refuge in the
Three Treasures. We have been
chanting this together every night – taking refuge in Buddha, which means the
awakened nature of our own heart.
Taking refuge in dharma, which means the way of life that comes from our
awakened heart. And taking refuge
in the sangha, which is the community of beings that makes life possible, and
with whom we share life.

That is the widest
explanation of the triple treasure.
The narrowest explanation is that we take refuge in Buddha as our
teacher. We take refuge in the
teachings of Buddha as they have been handed down to us. And we take refuge in the community of
people that are practicing these teachings, under the direction from Buddha, as
their teacher. So when we take the
Triple Refuge, the idea is that we are vowing to return to the kindness that is
the essence of the human heart and mind. In other words, to return to a basic sanity in this crazy
world, and to do this in concert with everyone, with the feeling that we will
receive support from everyone in this process.

Those are the first three
precepts. The next three are
called the Three Pure Precepts.
There have been various translations of these and ways of understanding
them through the generations. But
basically it is like this: The first one is not to do harmful things. To be committed to trying our best to
avoid harming – harming ourselves, harming others – not only with our body and
our speech, but also with our thoughts.
This is a precept of restraint.
It means we will hold ourselves in check when afflictions overcome our
minds. That we will refrain from
acting out of these afflictions, and we'll refrain even from validating these
afflictions in our minds.

The second Pure Precept is to
do everything good. Instead of a
precept that restrains, this is a precept of great expansiveness. We'll be extravagant in all of our efforts
of thought, speech, and mind, when those efforts are beneficial for self and
others.

The third precept is to vow
to benefit all beings. This is
understood in Zen very clearly as all
beings, not just the nice ones.
Not even just the human ones. Not even the living ones only. But even beings like rocks and tables and chairs. So we don't smash things up. We take care of things. We polish the furniture. We recognize that even material things
that are not living are sacred.

These precepts mean that we
practice restraint from bad conduct, and we practice expansive, joyful effort
of good conduct. And we do all of
this with the spirit of benefit and loving-kindness to others.

So we have six precepts so
far. Ten more. These are called the Ten Grave
Precepts. These are usually given
in a negative form, such as, "A disciple of Buddha does not kill. A disciple of Buddha does not steal." So it is a list of ten things that the
disciple of Buddha does not do.
But also we understand them – and practice them also – as positive. In other words, "A disciple of Buddha
does not kill. She nurtures and
nourishes life. A disciple of
Buddha does not steal. She
receives and offers gifts."

So I will tell you what the
Ten Grave Precepts are. You will
hear them again tonight in the ceremony.
First, the disciple of Buddha does not kill or take life. Second, a disciple of Buddha does not
take what is not freely given, and doesn't steal. Third, a disciple of Buddha does not misuse sexuality, which
means being unselfish and honorable, and appropriate in practicing restraint in
sexual matters. Number four, a
disciple of Buddha doesn't lie.
The fifth precept is a disciple of Buddha does not intoxicate, which
means not to become intoxicated with drugs or alcohol. But, also, it is explicitly understood
not to become intoxicated with teachers or teachings. Or with meditation.
Sixth, the disciple of Buddha does not slander. Seventh, a disciple of Buddha does not
praise self at the expense of others.

The seventh precept, like the
previous one and the fourth precept, is a speech precept, about how we
speak. Speech is a special,
magical power reserved for human beings.
We throw around our words as if they were cheap and didn't matter. We are more careful with our money than
we are with our words. But,
actually, we can do a lot of good and a lot of harm with our words. So it is part of our practice to
recognize that and to be careful with our speech. To speak always with honesty and truth, but also with
generosity and kindness, about ourselves and others. To be especially careful in our speech to and about
others. If sometimes we must be
critical, to be very generous and kind in our criticism, and as much as
possible, not to be critical of
others. We try to speak always
with a great humility, knowing, "This is the way I see it. It looks like this to me. But I know that others will see it very
differently." And also, never
promoting ourselves in our speech – even in subtle ways.

The eighth precept is that
the disciple of the Buddha is not possessive. This involves a deep understanding that we never can possess
anything anyway. It always amuses
me that in the United States people buy houses, and they think they own
houses. It looks to me like the
houses own them! The house says,
"Give me more money, and I want more money right now." And the person says, "But I don't have
any money." And the house says, "I
don't care. I gotta have money
now. You get money somehow." And the government, which is in
collusion with the house, comes and says, "Now you have to pay taxes. Lots of taxes." And then you're paying the taxes. And then you die. The house doesn't jump in the grave
with you. The house is still
there, laughing at you. [Laughter] "You thought you owned me, but now I am welcoming in the
next poor soul."

So in the case of houses,
this is all very obvious; but it is exactly the same with everything else. We don't own anything. We are the servants of all these
things. We are taking care of
these things for someone else, so we are not possessive. We are always generous, but not with
the feeling, "I have something now.
Look how generous I am. I'm
giving it to someone else." But
rather, "This thing that is temporarily in my keeping, whether it is money or
not, I now give back. It was never
mine." So that is the eighth
precept. It is very liberating to practice
this precept.

The ninth precept is the
disciple of the Buddha does not harbor ill will. This does not mean that we never get angry. It means that when we do get angry, we
don't justify the anger. We don't
say, "It's your fault. You made me
mad." We might feel like doing
that, but we notice that that is really stupid. And, certainly, we don't act in anger. Instead, we commit to the practice of
patience.

The tenth precept is that a
disciple of Buddha does not abuse or denigrate the Three Treasures, which means
that we respect and honor the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha.

Usually in our tradition, by
the time we take the sixteen Bodhisattva precepts in the ceremony, we have
practiced for awhile with our teacher, so we already have the feeling that the
precepts are not something outside of us, imposed on our lives. We sincerely feel that the precepts are
our own mind and our own heart – our own best mind, our own best heart. So it is not so hard to practice with
the precepts, because naturally we find that this is the way we want to live,
and we feel from our experience that living this way makes us happier. It strengthens our love. When we find ourselves violating the
precepts, and that happens, then – right away – we feel regret.

So there is no resistance to
practicing with these precepts.
But I use the word on purpose: "Practice" with the precepts. Not keeping the precepts, or violating
the precepts, but practicing with the
precepts. From one point of view,
you could say that there is no way to keep these precepts. Since we are human beings, it means
that we are going to violate the precepts sometimes, and that is part of the
practice. We try not to do that,
but probably it happens sometimes.
And then we forgive ourselves and go on.

Another way to say this is
that it is absolutely impossible to
break the precepts. No matter what
our conduct is, it is included within the wide circle of Buddha's way. So the spirit of precept practice is
always one of gentleness and forgiveness.
As some of us have found out, perhaps, in our own lives, sometimes the
way to go right is to go wrong, for a long time, maybe, and to suffer the
bitter consequences of this.

So the ceremony that we will
do tonight is actually not a performance; it is a practice in itself. It is an empowered ritual that somehow
brings a turning of the heart. I
don't know how that works, but somehow it does.

Now I will describe very
briefly how the ceremony goes, so we can practice with it. It begins with bows and offerings. And then we will all chant together an
invocation, to summon the buddhas and bodhisattvas to come here and help us
out. It is kind of like what Adine
was saying last night: It is hard to do anything on your own. So you ask for help, and the
bodhisattvas all show up, and then with their help, you can do it. They give you courage, and then you can
do it.

So next we chant the verse of
confession to purify us of our old habits and our ancient karma. Then we will purify the physical space
and the body by sprinkling on some holy water, which is made sacred by certain
mantras and mudras. Just like the
Catholics, isn't it? Holy
water. Next we take the sixteen
Bodhisattva precepts. Then
everyone vows to practice these precepts forever and ever. Even after we become a Buddha, we are
going to keep going.

Next we give people their new
names and their rakusus. The
understanding is that this precept ceremony is like a re-birth. You are reborn into this new vow. So that is why we give a new name. A vow name. Each person receives a name that fits
his or her own character. This
time Rick and I worked together to choose names for Rocco and Luis and
Chemo. Very sweet for me to have
such a good partner to choose names with.
He actually did most of the work and provided the Spanish translation,
so that we could have names in Japanese, English, and Spanish.

The rakusu that we will give
is a sacred garment. We understand
it to be Buddha's own robe. We sew
it by hand, and with each stitch of sewing, we sew in refuge with Buddha. A rakusu is not considered a person's
personal possession. It belongs to
the Buddha and contains the Buddha.
So we always treat it with respect and dignity. Before we put it on, we put it on
top of our heads, and we chant a special verse, as we will do tonight in the
ceremony.

Then we receive a lineage
paper, which is a kind of birth certificate. So receive your name, your clothes, and your birth
certificate. On this paper it
actually has the ninety-two names of succession. Ninety-two priests from the Buddha through the twenty-seven
Indian ancestors, the six early ancestors of China, and all the rest through
China and Japan and America. The
names include Dogen and Suzuki Roshi, and my own teacher, Sojun Mel Weitsman,
and down to me, Zoketsu Rinsho – and you.
Your name is on the lineage paper.
So, ninety-three generations from the Buddha to you.

So that's it. That's the ceremony we will do
tonight. As I say, it is a kind of
birthday party, to celebrate this new vow-birth of these three good disciples
of Buddha. Since the actual life
of the Buddha is the sixteen Bodhisattva precepts, that's the life that flows
through the Buddha's veins – this great vow of awakening and compassion. Wherever you see this vow, you are
seeing the life of the Buddha. So,
since this ceremony celebrates the birthday of the Buddha, and April is the
month of Buddha's birthday, after it is over, we will go on the porch and
celebrate Buddha's birthday. We
will have a little statue of the Buddha inside a flowered pagoda. Starting with the three new baby
Buddhas, they will bathe the statue with sweet tea, like you do with a newborn
baby. Then the rest of us will
have a chance to do that, too. And
when you do it, hopefully you do it with a true spirit of peacefulness, and really
pay attention and do it with a vow in your heart.

So I would ask everybody:
Tonight, when you come to the ceremony, please do not be a spectator. As I say, the ceremony is not a
performance. It is an actual
practice, and we are all participants.
Even though you might have come to this retreat having no idea that this
was going to happen, it is a great blessing to be present at the time of such a
ritual. So when Rocco and Luis and
Chemo take the precepts, imagine also that you are sitting beside them taking
the precepts too. If you have
already taken them, imagine that you are taking them again. If you haven't taken them, receive them
tonight in whichever way you feel that you understand them. I am not saying that, in the narrow
sense, that you have to become a Buddhist or a disciple of Buddha. I am saying, rather, to commit yourself
to compassion and awakening, deeply within your heart. To see if you can say to yourself,
within yourself, "Yes" to compassion and awakening, and through that "Yes" to
find and strengthen your own vow.
If in the ceremony you discover that you cannot say "Yes" to that vow –
because that would be very possible – then just notice that. That will be something important for
you to understand. And that's
okay. Notice it and just go
forward with your life and your practice in whatever way you need to, trusting
that, one way or another, life is going to give you what you require for your
path.

I think that is all I have to
say, except to thank you for your kind attention, for your effort and practice,
for your faith, and for your beautiful hearts. It is always a joy for me, and an inspiration for me, to
come to Mexico and practice with all of you.

 

 

edz

Jukai – Mar de Jade April 15, 2010

Norman speaks on the Precepts and Jukai ceremony (lay ordination) at Mar de Jade Sesshin 2010.

Jukai

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer | April 15, 2010
Norman speaks on the Precepts and Jukai ceremony (lay ordination) at the Mar de Jade, Mexico, Sesshin

Abridged and edited by Ryūsen Barbara Byrum

Buenos dias a todos. Tonight we conclude our retreat with a ceremony for taking precepts. Roccio, Chelo, and Luis are going to get new names and rakusus and lineage papers, and they are going to commit themselves to the sixteen Bodhisattva precepts.

So I thought this morning I would talk a little bit about this ceremony and the precepts. Although when we're in retreat we think a lot about meditation practice, and that's our focus, in Zen the practice is fundamentally not about meditation. It is really about how we live our lives every single day. We read about this the other day in Dogen, in his great text all about zazen. He says, "Practice is a matter of everydayness." This is why the name of the group that we practice in is called Everyday Zen. It's not called "Peaceful Ocean Zen," or "Dharma Eye Zen," or "Dragon Gate," or something like that, although there are groups that have that kind of name. Our group is called Everyday Zen, because I really believe that practice is a matter of every day. Of course, we value zazen very highly, because zazen shows us the way to live every day – with kindness, with courage; with clarity, with respect for the unknown, with whole-heartedness, and with a dignified patience when things are tough. If we practice zazen, we will learn all these things, all these qualities. But we'll just do zazen when it's time to do zazen, and the rest of the time we'll forget about it, and we'll just go forth in our lives in this way.

So that is where the precepts come into it. Dogen says, "Zazen is the sixteen Bodhisattva precepts." I think that Rick was saying in his talk that the precepts are not rules. Like rules in school. Or sometimes like training rules in a monastery or a retreat. Things we should not do. Things we should do. The sixteen Bodhisattva precepts are just the description of the spontaneous conduct of a Buddha. The precepts are a way of trying to express, "This is how we live when our hearts are full of kindness and joy."

When you consider our human life, you could say that we actually have two lives going on at the same time: the life of the body and the life of the vow. The body comes from our parents, it comes from the earth, and it comes from God. So the body is a miraculous thing. It is the most amazing creation that we could ever imagine. And it is beyond what we could imagine. It's a shame that we take it so much for granted.

But the body would have no life without the vow, because the vow illuminates the body and moves the body and motivates the body in its living. Our vow is our sense of purpose and meaning in life. It is the basic spirit behind everything we think, everything we choose, and everything we accomplish with this body in this lifetime.

We actually all have a vow. We wouldn't be in this life if we didn't have a vow. It's a little startling to think about that. "Oh, I didn't know I had a vow, that I was living by a vow." Most of us think, "I'm just living. I'm just trying to get along. I don't really have a vow. I am just an ordinary person." But, actually, nobody can get out of bed in the morning and go through a day without some vow. You can tell that this is true, because there are times in life – maybe it has never happened to you – when people lose their vow. They lose it completely. And then they cannot get out of bed. They're depressed. They're in despair. They actually can't figure out how to go on living. And sometimes they don't go on living. Or sometimes they somehow manage to go through the motions of living, but really, inside, there is no meaning.

So most of us do have our vow. It keeps us going, and somehow we are living based on our vow. Even if we don't know we have a vow or don't know what that vow is, somehow or other, we believe that our life makes sense. Our vow is formed in us in childhood, and it develops as we grow older. It comes from our parents and our family. It comes from our culture and our values. And it is there in us, even though we don't know it. Usually we have not really contemplated our vows, and we don't quite understand our vows. Most of the time our vows are very mixed up with our wounds and our confusion, and so they actually need to be clarified.

I think that any serious spiritual practice involves clarifying our vows and our commitments, and it involves having a strong sense of commitment beyond self-interest. If we don't have a vow to search for the truth, if we don't have a vow to be of benefit to others, if we do not commit ourselves to a path with some degree of discipline and support, probably we will drift in our lives. Even though we have the vow, it won't be clear, and we'll drift. And eventually we will feel – deep inside – loneliness. And the strength of our lives will eventually wear out. When you are young, this is not so much a problem, because life is so exciting, and it remains interesting all the time – all kinds of problems and passions and needs and desires. That can keep you going for quite a while. But after a while only a vow is enough to sustain your life. Excitement is simply not enough.

Of course, don't get me wrong. I'm not making a pitch here that everyone should take the Zen precepts. In fact, it's a lot of work for a poor priest when a lot of people take precepts, so I am not trying to get more customers! That's not what I am talking about. An official, organized, church-sanctioned vow is not necessary. An inner vow, if it is clear, can be very strong. If it is strong enough, it sometimes can be stronger than an official vow taken in a ritual. A deep and serious inner vow can be stronger than an official vow or a vow that we have taken because it is expected of us, or we do it because everybody else is doing it and we don't want to get left behind.

If we take this vow because of our own experience – because our own suffering shows us that it is absolutely necessary that we take it – and if we make this vow seriously and from the heart, then we can find the support of the ritual and of the tradition and of the community to be a big help.

Our ceremony tonight is a ceremony of profound vowing. A vowing to benefit others, to clarify our hearts, to go beyond old karma, and to act in accord with kindness. We do the ceremony as a member of Buddha's family. We promise to do this not only in this life, but lifetime after lifetime, and world after world.

So now, briefly, I will tell you what the sixteen Bodhisattva precepts are. The first three are called the Triple

Refuges, or Refuge in the Three Treasures. We have been chanting this together every night – taking refuge in Buddha, which means the awakened nature of our own heart. Taking refuge in dharma, which means the way of life that comes from our awakened heart. And taking refuge in the sangha, which is the community of beings that makes life possible, and with whom we share life.

That is the widest explanation of the triple treasure. The narrowest explanation is that we take refuge in Buddha as our teacher. We take refuge in the teachings of Buddha as they have been handed down to us. And we take refuge in the community of people that are practicing these teachings, under the direction from Buddha, as their teacher. So when we take the Triple Refuge, the idea is that we are vowing to return to the kindness that is the essence of the human heart and mind. In other words, to return to a basic sanity in this crazy world, and to do this in concert with everyone, with the feeling that we will receive support from everyone in this process.

Those are the first three precepts. The next three are called the Three Pure Precepts. There have been various translations of these and ways of understanding them through the generations. But basically it is like this: The first one is not to do harmful things. To be committed to trying our best to avoid harming – harming ourselves, harming others – not only with our body and our speech, but also with our thoughts. This is a precept of restraint. It means we will hold ourselves in check when afflictions overcome our minds. That we will refrain from acting out of these afflictions, and we'll refrain even from validating these afflictions in our minds.

The second Pure Precept is to do everything good. Instead of a precept that restrains, this is a precept of great expansiveness. We'll be extravagant in all of our efforts of thought, speech, and mind, when those efforts are beneficial for self and others.

The third precept is to vow to benefit all beings. This is understood in Zen very clearly as all beings, not just the nice ones. Not even just the human ones. Not even the living ones only. But even beings like rocks and tables and chairs. So we don't smash things up. We take care of things. We polish the furniture. We recognize that even material things that are not living are sacred.

These precepts mean that we practice restraint from bad conduct, and we practice expansive, joyful effort of good conduct. And we do all of this with the spirit of benefit and loving-kindness to others.

So we have six precepts so far. Ten more. These are called the Ten Grave Precepts. These are usually given in a negative form, such as, "A disciple of Buddha does not kill. A disciple of Buddha does not steal." So it is a list of ten things that the disciple of Buddha does not do. But also we understand them – and practice them also – as positive. In other words, "A disciple of Buddha does not kill. She nurtures and nourishes life. A disciple of Buddha does not steal. She receives and offers gifts."

So I will tell you what the Ten Grave Precepts are. You will hear them again tonight in the ceremony. First, the disciple of Buddha does not kill or take life. Second, a disciple of Buddha does not take what is not freely given, and doesn't steal. Third, a disciple of Buddha does not misuse sexuality, which means being unselfish and honorable, and appropriate in practicing restraint in sexual matters. Number four, a disciple of Buddha doesn't lie. The fifth precept is a disciple of Buddha does not intoxicate, which means not to become intoxicated with drugs or alcohol. But, also, it is explicitly understood not to become intoxicated with teachers or teachings. Or with meditation. Sixth, the disciple of Buddha does not slander. Seventh, a disciple of Buddha does not praise self at the expense of others.

The seventh precept, like the previous one and the fourth precept, is a speech precept, about how we speak. Speech is a special, magical power reserved for human beings. We throw around our words as if they were cheap and didn't matter. We are more careful with our money than we are with our words. But, actually, we can do a lot of good and a lot of harm with our words. So it is part of our practice to recognize that and to be careful with our speech. To speak always with honesty and truth, but also with generosity and kindness, about ourselves and others. To be especially careful in our speech to and about others. If sometimes we must be critical, to be very generous and kind in our criticism, and as much as possible, not to be critical of others. We try to speak always with a great humility, knowing, "This is the way I see it. It looks like this to me. But I know that others will see it very differently." And also, never promoting ourselves in our speech – even in subtle ways.

The eighth precept is that the disciple of the Buddha is not possessive. This involves a deep understanding that we never can possess anything anyway. It always amuses me that in the United States people buy houses, and they think they own houses. It looks to me like the houses own them! The house says, "Give me more money, and I want more money right now." And the person says, "But I don't have any money." And the house says, "I don't care. I gotta have money now. You get money somehow." And the government, which is in collusion with the house, comes and says, "Now you have to pay taxes. Lots of taxes." And then you're paying the taxes. And then you die. The house doesn't jump in the grave with you. The house is still there, laughing at you. [Laughter] "You thought you owned me, but now I am welcoming in the next poor soul."

So in the case of houses, this is all very obvious; but it is exactly the same with everything else. We don't own anything. We are the servants of all these things. We are taking care of these things for someone else, so we are not possessive. We are always generous, but not with the feeling, "I have something now. Look how generous I am. I'm giving it to someone else." But rather, "This thing that is temporarily in my keeping, whether it is money or not, I now give back. It was never mine." So that is the eighth precept. It is very liberating to practice this precept.

The ninth precept is the disciple of the Buddha does not harbor ill will. This does not mean that we never get angry. It means that when we do get angry, we don't justify the anger. We don't say, "It's your fault. You made me mad." We might feel like doing that, but we notice that that is really stupid. And, certainly, we don't act in anger. Instead, we commit to the practice of patience.

The tenth precept is that a disciple of Buddha does not abuse or denigrate the Three Treasures, which means that we respect and honor the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha.

Usually in our tradition, by the time we take the sixteen Bodhisattva precepts in the ceremony, we have practiced for awhile with our teacher, so we already have the feeling that the precepts are not something outside of us, imposed on our lives. We sincerely feel that the precepts are our own mind and our own heart – our own best mind, our own best heart. So it is not so hard to practice with the precepts, because naturally we find that this is the way we want to live, and we feel from our experience that living this way makes us happier. It strengthens our love. When we find ourselves violating the precepts, and that happens, then – right away – we feel regret.

So there is no resistance to practicing with these precepts. But I use the word on purpose: "Practice" with the precepts. Not keeping the precepts, or violating the precepts, but practicing with the precepts. From one point of view, you could say that there is no way to keep these precepts. Since we are human beings, it means that we are going to violate the precepts sometimes, and that is part of the practice. We try not to do that, but probably it happens sometimes. And then we forgive ourselves and go on.

Another way to say this is that it is absolutely impossible to break the precepts. No matter what our conduct is, it is included within the wide circle of Buddha's way. So the spirit of precept practice is always one of gentleness and forgiveness. As some of us have found out, perhaps, in our own lives, sometimes the way to go right is to go wrong, for a long time, maybe, and to suffer the bitter consequences of this.

So the ceremony that we will do tonight is actually not a performance; it is a practice in itself. It is an empowered ritual that somehow brings a turning of the heart. I don't know how that works, but somehow it does.

Now I will describe very briefly how the ceremony goes, so we can practice with it. It begins with bows and offerings. And then we will all chant together an invocation, to summon the buddhas and bodhisattvas to come here and help us out. It is kind of like what Adine was saying last night: It is hard to do anything on your own. So you ask for help, and the bodhisattvas all show up, and then with their help, you can do it. They give you courage, and then you can do it.

So next we chant the verse of confession to purify us of our old habits and our ancient karma. Then we will purify the physical space and the body by sprinkling on some holy water, which is made sacred by certain mantras and mudras. Just like the Catholics, isn't it? Holy water. Next we take the sixteen Bodhisattva precepts. Then everyone vows to practice these precepts forever and ever. Even after we become a Buddha, we are going to keep going.

Next we give people their new names and their rakusus. The understanding is that this precept ceremony is like a re-birth. You are reborn into this new vow. So that is why we give a new name. A vow name. Each person receives a name that fits his or her own character. This time Rick and I worked together to choose names for Rocco and Luis and Chemo. Very sweet for me to have such a good partner to choose names with. He actually did most of the work and provided the Spanish translation, so that we could have names in Japanese, English, and Spanish.

The rakusu that we will give is a sacred garment. We understand it to be Buddha's own robe. We sew it by hand, and with each stitch of sewing, we sew in refuge with Buddha. A rakusu is not considered a person's personal possession. It belongs to the Buddha and contains the Buddha. So we always treat it with respect and dignity. Before we put it on, we put it on top of our heads, and we chant a special verse, as we will do tonight in the ceremony.

Then we receive a lineage paper, which is a kind of birth certificate. So receive your name, your clothes, and your birth certificate. On this paper it actually has the ninety-two names of succession. Ninety-two priests from the Buddha through the twenty-seven Indian ancestors, the six early ancestors of China, and all the rest through China and Japan and America. The names include Dogen and Suzuki Roshi, and my own teacher, Sojun Mel Weitsman, and down to me, Zoketsu Rinsho – and you. Your name is on the lineage paper. So, ninety-three generations from the Buddha to you.

So that's it. That's the ceremony we will do tonight. As I say, it is a kind of birthday party, to celebrate this new vow-birth of these three good disciples of Buddha. Since the actual life of the Buddha is the sixteen Bodhisattva precepts, that's the life that flows through the Buddha's veins – this great vow of awakening and compassion. Wherever you see this vow, you are seeing the life of the Buddha. So, since this ceremony celebrates the birthday of the Buddha, and April is the month of Buddha's birthday, after it is over, we will go on the porch and celebrate Buddha's birthday. We will have a little statue of the Buddha inside a flowered pagoda. Starting with the three new baby Buddhas, they will bathe the statue with sweet tea, like you do with a newborn baby. Then the rest of us will have a chance to do that, too. And when you do it, hopefully you do it with a true spirit of peacefulness, and really pay attention and do it with a vow in your heart.

So I would ask everybody: Tonight, when you come to the ceremony, please do not be a spectator. As I say, the ceremony is not a performance. It is an actual practice, and we are all participants. Even though you might have come to this retreat having no idea that this was going to happen, it is a great blessing to be present at the time of such a ritual. So when Rocco and Luis and Chemo take the precepts, imagine also that you are sitting beside them taking the precepts too. If you have already taken them, imagine that you are taking them again. If you haven't taken them, receive them tonight in whichever way you feel that you understand them. I am not saying that, in the narrow sense, that you have to become a Buddhist or a disciple of Buddha. I am saying, rather, to commit yourself to compassion and awakening, deeply within your heart. To see if you can say to yourself, within yourself, "Yes" to compassion and awakening, and through that "Yes" to find and strengthen your own vow. If in the ceremony you discover that you cannot say "Yes" to that vow – because that would be very possible – then just notice that. That will be something important for you to understand. And that's okay. Notice it and just go forward with your life and your practice in whatever way you need to, trusting that, one way or another, life is going to give you what you require for your path.

I think that is all I have to say, except to thank you for your kind attention, for your effort and practice, for your faith, and for your beautiful hearts. It is always a joy for me, and an inspiration for me, to come to Mexico and practice with all of you.

edz

Going It Alone

An article for Buddhadharma magazine by Norman Fischer, Judy Lief, Barry Magid, Gaylon Ferguson, Sylvia Boorstein, and Lewis Richmond. This article available as a pdf for download only.

edz

Purim/Masking and Unmasking

Norman talks about Purim, Spinoza, and the theme of masking and unmasking.

Purim/Masking and
Unmasking

Our
theme for today is Purim, Masking and Unmasking, and the more I thought about
this theme the deeper and more complicated it got. As I was preparing for this talk I was also reading a
biography of Baruch Spinoza, maybe the greatest of all Jewish philosophers, and
his story became mixed up in my mind with the story of Mordechai and Esther and
Haman. So today I want to try to
put all of this together as I contemplate this theme of masking and unmasking,
and of the essential point of the Purim story.

As
we all know, the custom for Purim, a joyous festival of Jewish triumph (which, as is often the case, involves
the killing of the bad guys at the end) is to wear costumes and to crack
graggors whenever the name of Haman is mentioned in the megillah reading. It is also customary for Purim revelers
to drink alcohol as the reading goes on, getting just drunk enough not to be
able to tell the different between the names of Mordechai and Haman. Children also dress up for the
Purim pageants that most synagogues put on. I grew up with such pageants, and dressed up and acted in
them I guess, though it so long ago now I can only dimly remember. Behind all of this fun there is a deep
truth – as is usually the case with religious observance. In the Purim story there is a lot of
masking and unmasking. Esther
becomes Ahashveros' queen in a masked condition – her identity as a Jew is
hidden. The king grants the evil Haman's request to kill all the Jews, and
Esther, at the risk of her life, unmasks herself – and in doing do saves the
Jews. Also, as Rabbi Lew always
pointed out this time of year, God is also masked in the Purim story. God's name is never mentioned in the
Megillah, and there are no miracles in the story- God never intervenes. So it would appear that the Purim story
is a lot like contemporary life – in which God never dramatically or directly
appears, and is seldom mentioned, and instead is masked within the human terms
of the story.

For
me all of this raises the question of
Jewish identity. The story
of Purim takes place about fifty years after the first destruction of the Great
Temple in Jerusalem- around the 4th century BCE. The Jews are living under Persian
rule. Nowhere in the story do you
get a feeling for the communal Jewish life (though there are fast days declared
to pray for Esther's success with the king); it is as if one way of being
Jewish had been destroyed and the new way is not yet in evidence. The main thing you have is the sense that
Jews are definitely Jews – Jewish
identity exists, and it is imperiled and dangerous – as it has been throughout
history. It is possibly the case
that Jewish identity in 2010 here in San Francisco is less imperiled and less
dangerous than it has ever been in 5,000 years of Jewish history – or however
many years you think Jewish history has lasted. The Purim story turns simply on the fact of Jewish identity
– that because Jews accept and affirm this identity – which in the Purim story
takes the form of Mordechai refusing to bow down to Haman, which is why Haman
becomes obsessed with killing all the Jews – they are subject to annihilation,
to massacre. Yet the central Jew
in the story – Esther – does not
appear to be identified as a Jew, she is masked. And when she unmasks and reveals herself in her true
identity she is able to save the Jews.

What
is Jewish identity and why is it so problematic? Judaism is a strange phenomenon. Is it a religion?
Yes, of course, but also not.
There are plenty of Jews who have no Jewish religion at all, or are even
hostile to Jewish religion, as Rabbi Lew and I often found in our early
workshops. Yet they are still Jews
somehow. There are some Jews who
don't consider themselves to be Jews, or feel uncomfortable about being Jews,
who can't shake it and aren't sure whether or not they want to shake it. And there are other Jews who have
successfully – if that is the word we want to use – shaken their Jewishness and
disappeared into the world as normal neutral people: assimilation, which for
generations was a bad word in Judaism, but now I am not so sure anymore what it
means, or if it carries the same degree of concern that it once did. There are of course many good reasons
for wanting to shake off the yoke of Jewish identity, religion or no. It seems to some extent easier not to
be a Jew. Even if anti-semitism
seems to be of another time and place – well, you can't be entirely sure. And simply being seen as different is
uncomfortable. So you can't blame
anyone who wants to forget about Jewishness, at least I can't. When I was growing up conventional
wisdom was that a Jewish person could never escape being Jewish no matter how
hard he or she tried – that even if you felt as if you had it would never
really be so; non-Jews would always see you as a Jew anyway, so it was pitiful
to try, not to say cowardly and disloyal.
Better to be a proud Jew.
But now, a generation later, I am not so sure this is still so- or
whether it ever was so. I think
there have always been people who have managed to escape cleanly. But maybe not. Here are a few brief sketches on this
point:

I
remember years ago when I was at Green Gulch I had a friend who practiced Zen
with me, a wonderful man, a doctor, who appeared to be a nice and upstanding
Wasp kind of guy. One day he was in my house for some
reason, in my tiny little study room, and he said to me with tears in his eyes
that he was ashamed of himself, and had been ashamed of himself his whole life,
because he had never had the courage to admit to anyone that he was
Jewish. It was very sad, him
telling me this, because it did not feel to me as if it was a soul-bearing
confession that would leave him feeling better afterward. I don't think he felt any better at all
telling me this, he probably felt worse, and he never mentioned it again, and
in fact soon after this disappeared from practice at Green Gulch.

There's
a woman in our Jewish meditation community in Vancouver, who found out later in
life that she was Jewish. Her family
had escaped Europe, come to Canada, and had successfully masqueraded as non
Jewish secular people, until as a middle aged adult the woman discovered the
truth and began to study and practice Judaism. When he heard of this, her aged father became furious with
her, disowned her completely, and would not speak with her for the rest of his
life.

And
there is of course the story of Rabbi Lew, a secular Jew who practiced
Buddhism, but somehow his deep meditation practice put him in touch – quite
unexpectedly – with a kernal of Jewish identity in his heart that he could
never seem to shake, and that led him eventually to become a Jewish leader, our
rabbi and blessed spiritual friend.

So
Judaism is an ethnicity, a deep, inherited sense of self that goes back generations,
all the way to Moses? No, because
people convert to Judaism. People
who are not born Jews, have inherited no Jewish soul, find somehow that they
are Jews or want to be Jews, and become Jews. So- Judaism is not a religion, or not entirely a religion,
and it is not an ethnicity, or not entirely an ethnicity. I have two Zen friends, one born a
Protestant, one a Catholic in Latin America, both of whom converted to Judaism
through a deep sense of connection to the Torah and Judaism's powerful message
– whatever that is! – and as Jews who were formed in their Judaism by
Christianity, both became Zen priests. So – Jewish identity is a profound and problematic and
rather confusing phenomenon.
It seems to be something very strong and powerful within our
interiority, whether we are born with it or not, and yet is it nearly
impossible to say what it is. Of
course Halachically we do have precise definitions of who is a Jew and who not,
but it seems to me that in actual practice Jewish identity is something more
and less than this. I am not sure
what it is at all, and yet it is something I have felt very strongly all my
life, as I am sure many of you have felt as well.

Among
all the many things difficult things associated with Jewish identity – ambivalence,
suffering, a sense of mission and obligation, a taste for certain foods maybe,
a certain kind of humor maybe, a sense of being different maybe better maybe
worse than others – one of the most mysterious is hiddenness. Just as Esther is masked and
hidden in her Jewishness, and just as God is masked and hidden in the Megillah,
so is God hidden in the world, in life, in us, and so are Jews in turn hidden
in the world. According to
Judaism, Jews are at the center of the world, at the center of God's project in
the world, but they are marginalized in the world, exiled and hidden.

Jewish
hiddenness isn't as commonly thought about as other aspects of Jewish identity
because it comes not from Talmud or Torah but from Kaballah, and from history.

Here
is a partial chronology:

1095,
Pope Urban II calls for the first Crusade to liberate the Holy Land from the
Muslims. This unleashes violence
against Jews throughout Europe as the Crusaders are everywhere on the march to
purify the world of all nonbelievers.

1144
-first blood libel takes place in Norwich England.

1190
mass suicide of Jews of York during the Third Crusade.

1268
– King Louis IX of France decrees that all Jews in France be arrested and their
property confiscated in preparation for their expulsion.

1288
– the first mass burning of Jews at the stake in Troyes, France, following a
blood libel.

1290
– Edward I banishes the Jews from England.

1306
Jews expelled from France, permitted to return in 1315, but expelled again in
1394, and do not return until the seventeenth century.

1391
Jews massacred throughout Spain and there is a mass conversion of Jews in
Spain.

1478-
the Inquisition is invited into Spain to root our heretics among the Jews who
have converted to Christianity.

1492
– all Jews are ordered either to convert to Christianity or leave Spain. Many go to Portugal.

1497-
King Manuel of Portugal decrees that all the Jews of Portugal must
convert.

1569-
Rabbi Isaac Luria moves to Sfat.

 

I
am sorry to recite all this, and I do not mean to depress you or make you
paranoid. But these are a few of
the things that happened. Most of
us know about the expulsion of the Jews from Spain, which was at the time the
largest and most impressive Jewish community in the world, but it is less well
known that Jews were expelled elsewhere in Europe. In terms of Jewish identity, what I want to point out is
this: that many Jews in this five hundred year period converted to
Christianity. It is even possible
that more Jews converted than remained Jewish. After all, think of it: to lose all your property, your
wealth, your community, your home, your language, to go to another country that
may nor may not accept you, that may or may not in one or two or ten years
expel you again – to do that or to convert, either sincerely, or perhaps
insincerely- to remain secretly Jewish but outwardly to seem to be like
everyone else… What choice would you
make? It would be no wonder if the
average person decided that it was on the whole better to stay as a true or a
false Christian than to leave. And
many did make this choice. This
was in fact the reason for the Inquisition: there were many Christians who had
been Jews, or whose families had been Jewish in the past. Just as today Catholic doctrine teaches
that there is an essential soul produced at conception, a person, a sacred
being, so in those days the Church felt that the soul was an essential entity
produced at conception – and if the parents were Jewish, the soul was essentially Jewish. So it was impossible to trust a Jewish
convert. It was too likely that
former Jews would be either intentionally or unintentionally heretics – and
might influence other innocent Christians (venality being the essence of the Jewish
soul), and so there had be an effort to root out these intractable people. Consider the horror of this: that you
must leave or convert on pain of death, and that when you do convert you are
forever subject – even a generation or two or three later – to questioning and
persecution for the suspected insincerity of your conversion. This disastrous trauma made the sense
of Jewish identity a deeply hidden and dangerous wound that must have been felt
by millions of people. Conversos
were Jews who had converted.
Marannos were Jews who outwardly converted but inwardly remained
Jews. And what made them Jews,
because most of the time any practice was impossible, not to mention even any
social identity? What made them
Jews was simply that they felt themselves to be Jews and affirmed that
identity. And for this and this
alone they could be murdered if discovered. But of course there was no strict division between Marannos
and Conversos and as time went on the sense of who was a Jew, and what that
might mean, became more and more fuzzy – even as it remained secret and
dangerous and deeply internal.
There are many instances of Spanish or Mexican families, even today, who
report that there has been for generations in their family a dark secret that
they have never understood – why did their parents close all the doors and
blinds on Friday evening to light candles? Why were they taught to say certain incomprehensible words
before eating or washing the hands?
They did not know why – only that they were to do these things, and that
they were to tell no one about them.
History like this will give you a powerful and confusing sense of
personal identity. You will feel,
deep in the recesses of your heart, that there is something there of
unspeakable depth and strangeness, something that is both fascinating and dangerous. You will feel pulled perhaps to a deep
interiority, a profound sense of aloneness, too shameful and perhaps too
difficult to be shared with anyone, yet also glorious and profound – a sense
that there is something within much bigger than your personal self: you will
sense, in other words, the hiddenness of God within you. It is a strange and marvelous fact that
some of the most powerfully interior Catholic mystics – from Theresa of Avila,
to St John of the Cross, to the 20th Century mystic Simone Weil –
were born into Jewish families.
And although we are not Conversos or Marranos, our contemporary sense of
the depth of personal identity, and of fractured identity, multiple identity,
brings us to a similar position.
In the depth of our meditation practice we also come to a strange and
marvelous sense of the ineffability of our sense of self – we find God in the
silence between thought and sensation, in the very strangeness of the
experience of subjectivity, much as those mystics did.

You
might have noticed that the last item in my chronology was Isaac Luria's move
to Sfat from Jerusalem where he was born, the son of a German father and a
Sephardic mother. He only lived
for thirty eight years, yet is considered the most important of all Kabbalists. He is the inventor of some of
Kaballah's most profound concepts – like tsimsum, God's absence, or withdrawal,
into God's own self, which allowed the world to rush into the breach and be
created. Kellipot, the vessels
into which divine light was poured at Creation, and from which it escaped, as
the vessels, and the world, broke, creating the need for Tikkun Olom, mystical
repair of the world, the supreme task of each Jew, whose daily acts of prayer
and kindness would drop by drop return the divine light to the vessels, so that
the world's brokenness would be healed. It is remarked by many scholars that Luria's kabbalah
is essentially a kaballah of exile, and that his teaching was an effort to make
sense of the history of Judaism during the medieval period of torment and exile
– especially the culminating moment of that period, the 1492 exile of the Jews
from Spain. Luria's kaballah is
essentially a teaching about God's hiddenness and exile. The world is not so much the expression
of God's grandeur as it is the expression of God's hiddenness – God literally
hides God's self, contracts God's self into an absence, and from this absence
the world is made – in brokenness, in exile. And Jewish life appears to be one thing outwardly, but
inwardly, in ways that no one but God can understand, it is somehow the repair
of the world, the restoring and healing of the world, which is left by God
entirely up to an obscure and exiled people whose true purpose is completely
hidden from view – even to themselves.
This is essentially the teaching of the Ari, and it has become a
normative teaching in Judaism today.
The patron saint so to speak of the Marranos and Conversos was Esther,
Saint Esther as they called her.
Like her, their true identities were hidden, and they had to keep them
hidden, on pain of death. But
also, they hoped, like her, their true identities would one day be revealed,
and when they were the Jewish people would be redeemed, making their very
hiddenness not an act of shame or cowardice, but God's own secret plan for the
universal salvation.

You
also may have noticed in my chronology that many of the Jews expelled from
Spain went to neighboring Portugal where they could live legally as Jews for
only five years, before they too were forced to convert – without any option to
leave. Many of them bided their
time and as soon as they could emigrated illegally. A large community of Portuguese Jews immigrated to the Netherlands,
a Protestant country where they could live openly as Jews. It was into this community that Baruch
Spinoza was born. It was a very
odd situation: the chief Rabbi of Amsterdam had been a Christian in Portugal
and so knew very little of Jewish law and had to consult with Italian Rabbis to
figure out how to construct and manage a Jewish community. Imagine the spirit of this community,
for whom Judaism had been more or less a dream that could now for the first
time become a reality. The Dutch
government was among the most liberal in Europe but even it had to pause and
consider the effect of this mass immigration of Jews into its midst. It declared that it would be ok for
Jews to practice their religion under one condition – that they actually and
faithfully did so, and did not mix with and therefore perhaps confuse their
Christian countrymen. So in
Amsterdam in the 17th century Jews were not only permitted to
practice their religion, they were required by law to do so. That, and the fact that observant
Judaism was new to them, gave them a particular zealousness, which is why they
had so little tolerance for someone like young Baruch Spinoza, who at an early
age began to ask some difficult and embarrassing questions – questions that
most of us in this room, probably including Rabbi Richman, would have also
asked. (The Jews of the Netherlands,
by the way, saw themselves as Esther – as having been hidden in Portugal, and
now, in the new country, revealed at last. Because of this they nurtured a powerful sense that the
salvation of the Jews and therefore of the world must be at hand, and rational
business people though they were, many of them sold all their worldly goods and
awaited the end of days in the mid-17th century when Shabatai Tzvi
declared himself the Messiah and marched on Constantinople. Spinoza was a young man at the time and
this spectacle must have corroborated his sense of the basic lunacy of Judaism
and religion in general). Spinoza
was a brilliant thinker and a confident rationalist who believed that religion,
if it were true, could not violate reason. Though he was excommunicated, and as such could have no
contact whatsoever with any Jew, including his own family members, and became
perhaps the first secular person in history – that is, the first person to
profess no affiliation to any religion – Spinoza was not an atheist. He believed in God. But in his own way. He was the first person to apply modern
historical scholarship to the scriptures
– that is, to recognize
that however divinely inspired scripture may be, it was written down by human
beings over a period of time and not divinely dictated to Moses in the
desert. As essentially a human
product, scripture was subject to reason and questioning. Quoting scripture, in and of itself,
could not be considered proof of anything. For Spinoza, God perhaps shone through the scriptures, but
was not limited by them. God was
the essential and supremely reasonable basis for the world, the ultimate a
priori assumption from which all else flowed. Though he eventually came to feel that Jewish law was not
necessary or reasonable, and that prayer was not prayer to anyone in
particular, Spinoza believed firmly in love and kindness and ethical concern
and a wide sense of human identity that flows naturally from what we are and
what the world is – and what God is.
Most religion, he felt, was mere superstition that came from narrow
personal identity and the unconscious fear of death. There was no heaven or hell. But goodness was necessary because God was good and the
world was good, and it was only because we humans had become so irrational and
selfish and twisted, and, unthinking, had lost our divine reason, that there
was evil in the world. In her
wonderful book Betraying Spinoza
Rebecca Goldstein remarks in an aside that Spinoza was the first Jubu. Maybe so! Though it is nearly impossible to actually read his writings
today because they are so archaically technical, and though we may not share
his scathing critique of superstitious religion, or his enormous faith in
reason, I think most of us would find a good deal of what he says to be
consistent with our own views. In
fact, it seems to me that the average educated person of today, whether he or
she is religious or not, is at least in part a Spinozist. Einstein was. So is Antonio Damasio, the contemporary cognitive scientist,
who sees in Spinoza's Ethics most of what cognitive scientists are now
discovering about human emotions.

Identity
is a major focus of Spinoza's thought.
For him wisdom is ultimately a matter of a widening of identity. As your contemplation of God – which is
also a contemplation of the world and of humanity through reason – deepened
over time your sense of identity grew.
You went beyond being a Dutch Portuguese Jew and went beyond being a Jew
and went beyond being a person separate from others and the world to
identification with all of life, so that even your own death was not so much a
concern for you. Spinoza writes in
The Ethics Part IV (Goldstein 2434) "A free man thinks of death least of all
things; and his wisdom is a meditation not of death but of life."

Spinoza
did not make a point of rejecting Judaism, and I am sure that if he were alive
today he would certainly be a member of a Jewish community of some sort, if not
a synagogue goer. In fact he did
attend religious school into his adult life, was a brilliant Hebraist and
Talmud scholar, and was a member in good standing of the community until the
death of his father (his mother had died when he was a child). At that point the rabbis could no
longer avoid his views and decided to excommunicate him. Though it was not something he
welcomed, he received it philosophically, saying something like, well, if this
is the way they want it, I will embrace it as my own. And so he moved away to a nearby town, dissolved the
business he had had with one of his brothers, and took up grinding precise
lenses for telescopes, a solitary profession that gave him plenty of time to
think and write. Having long ago
reasonably decided that romantic attachment would lead to much more sorrow than
joy, because you can never possess another person, and trying to do so could
only bring pain, he remained single his whole life. Oddly, 1492, the year Ferdinand and Isabella expelled the
Jews from Spain was also the year that Christopher Columbus, under their
patronage, stumbled into the New World.
It is equally odd that as Spinoza's fame as a philosopher grew the
British political thinker John Locke became interested in him and came to
Amsterdam to study with him.
Locke's thought, and Spinoza's, became foundational for the
Anglo-American patriots who were responsible for the American revolution about
a century after Spinoza's death, and it is possible that the American idea of a
secular society, in which religion can have its place, but need not and should
not dominate public space, traces its origin to Spinoza.

Though
he was technically finally not Jewish and his philosophy is not considered a
particularly Jewish philosophy, Goldstein writes that "… Spinoza is something
of a Jewish thinker after all. He
is paradoxically, Jewish to the core, a core that necessitated, for him, the
denial of such a thing as a Jewish core.
For what can be more characteristic of a Jewish thinker than to use the
Jewish experience as a conduit to universality?" 2297.

My
friend the poet Charles Bernstein makes a similar point when he says, "I am no
more Jewish than when I refuse imposed definitions of what Jewishness
means." (Radical Poetics page
3.). Charles defines himself – if
we can say that he defines himself – as a secular Jew, a non-meditating non
praying Jew. For him secular
Judaism is not merely Judaism that has lost its way religiously and is one step
away from assimilation but a distinct and noble enterprise which is essentially
cultural, involving especially the arts, but also other aspects of culture
practiced in distinctly Jewish ways, although as he indicates, it is not so
easy to say what ways. Secular
Judaism for him includes Jews who practice Buddhism and Jews who practice
meditation as two of its many branches. I find this very interesting. If as time goes on we are willing to
admit that there really does seem to be something to Jewish identity, although
there will probably never be a way to figure out what it is, we may also be
willing to admit that there is something to Jewish religion – something more
perhaps than we had noticed – and that we will probably never be able to figure
out what that is, either.
This however doesn't mean that we can't think about it, talk about it,
debate it. Probably we can't help
ourselves from doing so – because that's the Jewish thing to do.

 

 

edz

Talk on Buddhist Ethics

A talk on Buddhist Ethics, given to the Kaiser Ethics Committee, in Oakland, CA

Talk on Buddhist Ethics to
Kaiser Ethics Committee

Feb 12, 2010

First, I am very honored and
happy to be here. I hope I can
contribute something of value, though I am not at all sure that I can. I want
to thank you – and Kathleen – for inviting me. I accepted imagining that I would come and mostly listen to
you and learn from you and comment from my own perspective when I had something
to say. I didn't realize I was
going to be expected to address you at some length before that conversation. This is not so easy for me because I am
not at all sure of what your concerns are nor do I know what or how you think
about ethics and ethical philosophy. I imagine that you are making crucial life
and death ethical decisions on a daily basis, as you deal with real people and
their medical problems, so I wonder what a person like me, who doesn't have
such awesome responsibilities, could possibly say to you that would be of
benefit. Maybe it will help me to
begin if I acknowledge all that at the outset.

My topic for today is
Buddhist ethics, and I speak to this topic not as an expert or as a
spokesperson for Buddhism, but simply as one person who has practiced Buddhism
for a long time. So please don't imagine that what I will say is what all
Buddhists would say, or what the tradition officially would say. In fact, as I am sure you are aware,
there is no Buddhist position on this or that, just as there is really no
Christian or Jewish or Muslim position, and no one medical position – there are
many positions. People always
disagree. Some opinions may be
more sensible or better informed than others.

As you probably know,
Buddhism is not a revealed religion, which is to say it is a non-theistic
religion. One definition of
religion is "belief in a supreme being."
By this definition Buddhism is not a religion, and, in fact, in 1893, at
the first World Parliament of Religions, there was debate as to whether or not
to include the Buddhists, because Buddhism by this definition doesn't qualify
as a religion. Perhaps Buddhism is
a philosophy. In fact Buddhists
were invited to the Parliament despite this, and now though I think we would
all recognize Buddhism as a religion (it has beliefs, clergy, ritual,
scripture, and so on) Buddhism's radical difference as a non-theistic religion
remains. The question is,
what difference does this make for ethics?

In theistic religions
morality is revealed and ordained by the deity. God gives the Ten Commandments at Sinai, and this sets the
tone for all Jewish and Christian morality. I apologize for not being even basically knowledgeable about
Islam, but I do know that as a theistic religion it too finds the basis for
morality in God's word and intention. In revealed religion we know, we absolutely know, what is right and what is wrong. What is right is what God tells us is right, what is wrong
is what God tells us is wrong. God
is by definition good, so no further justification is needed. There are no two ways about
morality. For people who believe
that God's word is written in plain English in the bible, and is therefore
perfectly clear, morality is also perfectly clear, and there is a lot of
passion in defending what is right and opposing what is wrong. I am sure you are all familiar with
this attitude and have encountered it from time to time in your work, even here
in the Bay Area, where such an understanding of the bible and of morality is
much more rare than it is in other parts of the country and the world. For others who understand that the
words of the bible are not necessarily so clear, and are subject to
interpretation, and perhaps even to very broad interpretation and
reinterpretation over time as society changes, there are many fuzzy issues and
fuzzy areas, but still, the sense is that there is a true right and definite
wrong, and that it is our difficult job to discover what they are and not
confuse them. In our modern world
there are many who don't know whether they believe in God, and many who don't
care much one way or the other about God and may be quite vague on the
concept. There are others who
absolutely (and I use this word on purpose) do not believe in God and think
that people who do believe are foolish, even dangerous. But even for these people questions of
morality are tinged with a sense of righteousness and passion that goes with
our Judeo-Christian social and cultural conditioning. I point this out because
we take this passion so much for granted that we may not notice it. We are all, regardless of our
theological commitments or lack of them, pretty moralistic. We are all pretty passionate about our
beliefs about right and wrong.

The way ethical questions are
held in Buddhist cultures and other non-theistic cultures is quite different
from this. Though there is a
strong concern for what is ethical, it is held and understood in a completely
different way.

Buddhism seems not to be
concerned with the basic questions that theological religions engage, questions
whose answer is God. Questions
like the origin and ultimate meaning of the world and time. The Buddha famously refused to consider
such questions when asked, because, as he put it, such questions do not conduce
to liberation and happiness. He
gave the famous analogy (which, not incidentally, is a medical analogy) of a
man shot with an arrow, who is lying on the ground dying. A person comes along who is ready to
withdraw the arrow from the man's breast and save his life but the man stops
him and says, "Before you pull the arrow out, I want to know some things about
it. Who made this arrow? What sort of wood is the shaft made of,
what feathers are at the end of the arrow, what is the tip made of, where was
the arrow fashioned? What sort of
man shot this arrow at me? Was he
a tall man, a short man, a red man, a white man," and so on, several pages of
such questions. Before the man
would have a chance to learn the answers to all his possibly unending
questions, the Buddha said, he would be dead. Better then to set these questions aside and pull the arrow
out and save the man's life.
So the first point and purpose of Buddhism is not to ascertain who is
the author of the world so as to pay homage to him or her or it and take
direction from him or her or it, but rather to cure the human illness –
spiritual illness, of which physical illness is but a symptom.

I think this is very
interesting to think about from a medical perspective. Human beings are fundamentally
ill. Human beings without
exception have an incurable terminal disease. All doctors lose one hundred per cent of their
patients. All physical and mental
illness is simply a symptom of the fundamental disease, which is the radical
vulnerability – which leads to the
eventual demise – of the human
body and mind. All doctors should
write on all death certificates: cause of death: life. Cancer, heart disease, AIDS, and so on
are proximate, adventitious, causes.
The actual and fundamental cause of death is life. Once there is life, death will
follow. All creatures die but only
human beings understand that they will die. All languages have a word for death, although no one
knows exactly what this word means, no one knows what the experience of death,
the state of being dead, is; that is, if death is an experience or a
state. And if death is not an
experience or a state, if it is nothing at all – all the more reason to be
utterly confused about it. And yet
death remains the fundamental fact of life. This reality – that death is unknowable, uncontrollable, and
yet conditions us completely – makes us all nervous, I think, however unaware
of this we may be. And this
nervousness, this dread, this fundamental anxiety, is the human illness that
the Buddha wants to cure. It is the
reason why we worry about our conduct.
It seems somehow clear to us, though in a very unclear way, that since
we don't know what death is or if it is or what happens to us after death that
we had better be careful about how we live, about what we do. Otherwise we will go to hell or be
reborn into bad realms or endure meaningless tortured lives in the
present. Other creatures have no
concept of mortality and no concept of ethics. The two go together.

In a word, the spiritual path is the cure proposed by the
Buddha for the human illness of existential dread. The Path, as he conceived it, involves three main elements,
morality, meditation, and insight.
The three are likened to the three legs of a tripod, perfectly in
balance. With morality the mind is
made clear and peaceful and suffused with love. This makes deep contemplation possible. And deep contemplation leads to the
insight that our identity is not limited to the body and mind as we
conventionally know it – that we are in fact in identity with everything, and
once we realize this the dread and tragedy of sickness old age and death is
removed from us, and we can, with a confident heart, age, be sick, and die,
knowing that this is a natural and a joyful process that will not diminish what
we most truly are.

A footnote here to say that
the Western philosopher whose thought is perhaps closest to that of the Buddha
is Spinoza, who may be the originator in the West of what we now call
"secularism." Spinoza was a
thoroughgoing rationalist – but he was not an atheist. For him the existence of God was an
obviously self-evident logical proposition. Spinoza believed that through rational contemplation of the
world and of the human mind and emotions we could arrive at an expansion of
identity so thorough that we would lose our fear of death and embrace all of
life and humanity as ourselves and would no longer need what he called
"superstitious religion." We could
be ethical, understanding and kind to our fellow humans, without being ordered
to be that way by a punishing God.
For Spinoza God was the world's true and infinite beauty, which would
always be beyond what any finite human mind could grasp, and yet the human mind
could through rational contemplation appreciate this and extend knowledge. Einstein was a Spinozist as were
and are many scientists still -whether they realize it or not.

All of what I have said
speaks to a Buddhist philosophy of ethics, the why of ethics.
It speaks to the attitude that underlies all Buddhist considerations of
ethics. Now to the how of ethics,
the on-the-ground practice of ethical conduct.

Not surprisingly, Buddhist ethics doesn't differ much from
general Western ethics. The golden
rule applies: treat others as you would treat yourself, which implies that one
would treat one's self fairly and well.
As one part of the three part program for liberation from suffering,
ethics is a practical matter.
Ethics is effective, for one's self as well as for others. To keep the mind and heart clear for
contemplation and insight there should be no wild or erratic behavior even
privately, no stirring up the mind and heart. And to ensure that there is no outward disturbance or
trouble treat others with loving kindness so as to maximize the chance for
harmonious relations. In the end,
liberation is exactly the transforming insight that the narrow sense of
personal identity is conditional and false. Therefore others are one's self, one's self is others, so there is a full measure of love for
self as others and others as self, and a strong motivation to act out of love,
to share life with others, to aid them in their need, to cultivate a great and
ultimate selflessness, which would be the sign and mark of liberation.

Since ethics is part of a
program for liberation rather than a set of rules ordained by an all-powerful
God, ethics in Buddhism goes along with a general sense of cultivating the
heart. Ethics is a kind of
training – training in opening the heart, in kindness, in self-expansion. It is a practice rather than a rule. To be sure, the practice of ethics may
involve following rules, but these rules are considered training rules rather
than absolutes. This doesn't mean
that Buddhist ethics is situational ethics or relativistic ethics; yet neither
is Buddhist ethics absolute. The
Western conceptual framework of absolute and relative simply doesn't fit the Buddhist
understanding. In Buddhist
ethics there is right conduct and wrong conduct, it is not a matter of opinion
or mere social mores: in this sense Buddhist ethics is absolute. But the meaning of and appearance of
right and wrong conduct may be conditioned by intention and situation: in that
sense Buddhist ethics is not absolute.

This means that Buddhist
ethics is as much a matter of inward cultivation, the condition of the heart,
as it is a matter of outward conduct.
It's as much a matter of spirit and attitude as it is a matter of letter
of the law. This may seem to some
to be a slippery slope. But it
would not be a slippery slope within the context of a Buddhist culture in which
there are communities, teachers, clergy, ritual, and scripture, all for the
purpose of aiding and directing spiritual cultivation.

In the Soto Zen Buddhism that
I practice – to give you one quick
specific example -we follow 16 precepts.
These include both broad principles – like taking refuge in the awakened
heart as our primary guide and motivation – as well as more specific
guidelines, like not committing sexual misconduct, not intoxicating the mind,
not lying, and not speaking ill of others. The typical Zen student who practices with me and
wants to explicitly practice the discipline of ethical conduct will study
fairly diligently for about three years, which means practicing meditation
regularly both at home and in community, paying attention to conduct in daily
life, speaking with me and other students about precepts, and then committing
to living by the precepts in a solemn public ritual. The sense of this commitment is not that the precepts are
rules for living that must be followed to the letter, but rather that they are
tools for reflection, lenses through which to view one's life, ways to come to
a deeper understanding of and deeper connection to others. It is almost never the case that people
in the community point fingers at one another, accusing their fellow practitioners
of "breaking a precept." Such a
concept is unknown. We are all
trying to practice the precepts, with the understanding that there is really no
way to do so perfectly, and that, from another perspective, there is no way not
to do it perfectly, since whatever happens – including our transgressions
intentional or unintentional – is going to be part of our development. Even if we make mistakes that we
recognize to be mistakes, we can repent and change our ways, and learn
something in the process. In this
way there can be a maximum of effort for the good, a maximum of forgiveness,
and a minimum of guilt and recrimination.

Is it interesting that much
of contemporary Western thought about ethics is beginning to converge with
basic Buddhist ethical concepts and understandings. It is a little difficult for me to summarize in brief what I
want to say about this, but let me take a stab at it:

It is becoming clear that
ethics is not so much a matter of what we think is right or wrong, or what we
should think is right or wrong, as it is a matter of how we feel. Ethics, we now begin to understand, is
a category of emotional intelligence – a concept that itself was unknown a few
decades ago, but is now very important throughout our society. The rapidly advancing field of
cognitive science makes it clear that there is no thinking without feeling, our
brains simply work that way. Our
moral reasoning is not, as we had thought, the motive force of our ethical
conduct; reasoning comes later, after we have already felt our way into what we
know to be right or wrong. In a
recent New York Times column on the new Western sense of morality, David Brooks
(April 7,2009) quotes Jonathan Haidt of the University of Virginia, "The
emotions are in fact in charge of the temple of morality, and… moral
reasoning is really just a servant masquerading as a high priest."

And in evolutionary studies,
it is now commonplace to recognize that morality may not be a matter of rules
ordained on high, absolute imperatives, but rather built-in evolutionary
tendencies to altruism, cooperation, and concern for others that cause us
naturally to gravitate toward moral codes that connect us to others in
fairness, mutual concern, and deep human bonding. If these things are true, and all our best evidence seems to
suggest that they are, then morality and ethical conduct are, as the Buddha
intuited centuries ago, deeply embedded human feelings that aid us in finding
the spiritual dimension of our living and that will bring us some happiness and
healthy adjustment to the world and to each other. Brooks writes, "The rise and now dominance of this
emotional approach to morality is an epochal change. It challenges all sorts of traditions. It challenges the bookish way
philosophy is conceived by most people.
It challenges the Talmudic tradition, with its hyper-rational scrutiny
of texts. (and, I would add, it challenges the Christian and Muslim versions of
this text-based rationality as well).
It challenges the new atheists who see themselves involved in a war of
reason against faith and who have an unwarranted faith in the power of pure
reason and in the purity of their own reason."

Let me end with my own sense
of what all this might mean for medical ethics; that is, for actual situations
medical professionals may find themselves in on a daily basis. My guess is that what I will say will
echo what you have already come to during the course of your work.

First, if ethics is a matter
of deep feeling as well as thinking, and if feeling can be cultivated, that is,
if our capacity for empathy and compassion is not fixed but is flexible – as
Buddhism long ago claimed, and as contemporary brain studies show – then it
behooves people who work with life and death ethical issues to be involved in
an active and ongoing cultivation of their capacity for human feeling. I know you are all very busy. How would you find the time for
this? But it may not take any
extra time. It may be a matter of
quality of presence, not quantity of training. And it may be the great opportunity of a lifetime, not
merely another professional training you now need to obtain.

And second, ethics is a
social virtue, it is something we practice largely together. It involves feeling the feelings of
others, and changing and being changed by the feelings of others. If ethics is not reducible to hard and
fast rules, and is always a discernment, it is a discernment we make together,
in teams of experienced professionals who practice mutual respect, teams that
involve patients and their families, and the needs and desires of our society
at large. Remembering and acting
in this spirit this may reframe our ethical dilemmas and problems as
opportunities for discovery and connection.

I realize that sensitive
ethical determinations are not made in private or without references to hospital
policies and national, state, and local laws, the media, and public
opinion. There are plenty of
strict constraints, plenty of specific rules, plenty of potential difficult
consequences for missteps. Still,
in the end, as I assume many of you would attest, the relationship between the
physician and his or her team, and that team's relationship to the patient and
his or her family, is a powerful factor in decision-making, and one that should
be fully and passionately engaged, whatever the constraints. Apart from the policies and laws, apart
from what our belief systems tell us is the right and wrong of the case, what
do we really feel? And what do we
feel together, as a community of concerned people? Can we be honest and
courageous enough to entertain that, and to challenge ourselves to examine and
extend our feeling for the greatest good of the greatest number?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

edz

Bodhidharma’s Emptiness – Case 2 Book Of Serenity

Norman speaks on Bodhidharma’s Emptiness – Case 2 of the Book of Serenity Thomas Cleary edition. We are left with the questions of Boundlessness (or Emptiness) and Don’t Know.

Bodhidharma's Emptiness – Case 2 Book of Serenity

By Norman Fischer | January 14, 2010¡

Abridged and edited by Barbara Byrum and Deborah Russell

 

Let me introduce another case. This is the second case in the Book of Serenity:

Emperor Wu of Liang asked Great Teacher Bodhidharma,

"What is the highest meaning of the holy truths?"

Bodhidharma said, "Empty – there's no holy."

The emperor said, "Who are you facing me?"

Bodhidharma said, "Don't know."

The emperor didn't understand. Bodhidharma subsequently crossed

The Yangtse River, came to Shaolin, and faced a wall for nine years.

Bodhidharma, the legendary founder of the Zen school in China, who initially sets the tone for the Zen tradition, is anything but friendly. In fact, this story shows a character who is uncompromising, severe, totally serious, and completely uninterested in social niceties.

As I always say when talking about these Zen stories, let's not worry about whether or not the story is true. In fact, I think we can safely assume that this story – along with a number of other koans – is not true. Whether the story is true or not, it doesn't really matter, because the story is significant. Another way to say this is that stories are always true – even when they're false – because they always tell us something true about the person or persons telling the story. Therefore, they are always telling us something true about ourselves and about our world.

Just like last week's case told us something about Zen's way of understanding its own pedagogy, this case tells us something about how Zen sees its religious mission, in contrast to the mission of normative Buddhism, as it was understood in China at that time. So this is a story about the founding of Zen, the particular flavor of Zen as a new spirit in Chinese Buddhism.

Emperor Wu of Liang was a pious Buddhist. It is said that he studied the scriptures; he sponsored many lectures and convocations; he gave donations to the sangha; he built temples, and he endowed monasteries. This is really early on in the transmission of Buddhism to China, and at the time of Emperor Wu of Liang, Buddhism as a way of life and thought was pretty new to China. It was different from the pre-existing ways of thinking about the world that were Chinese. Chinese culture before Buddhism was, on the whole, literary and social. As some people say, it was almost like there wasn't religion per se, as we would understand religion in China, until Buddhism came to China. When Buddhism came, there were many people who rejected it as a weird, foreign cult. Throughout Chinese history there were times when Buddhism was rejected. For example, Mao's regime tried to eliminate Buddhism. It was just going along with an ancient Chinese tradition of every three or four hundred years getting rid of a religion. "Get rid of this foreign teaching!"

So there were people who looked at it that way; but then there were others who, like Emperor Wu and beyond, took on Buddhism, but understood that it was foreign. They understood that they didn't understand it. So, Emperor Wu must have been really happy: "Here comes this sage from the East, and I can get him to come to the court, and I can ask him questions." He must have been really happy about that, in anticipation of it, and perhaps disappointed after the encounter actually happened.

The "holy truths" in the case here refer to The Four Noble Truths, which are the grounding doctrine of Buddhism. Certainly the Emperor would have understood these truths and studied them: Suffering, cause of suffering, end of suffering, path. Like all good Buddhists, he would have respected and honored this holy teaching, and he would have wanted to ask a visiting sage exactly about the holy truths of Buddhism. "What is the most profound understanding of these truths?"

Bodhidharma, somewhat perversely, I think, refuses to engage the Emperor in this conversation about doctrine in the acceptable and expected way. Basically he says, "I'm not going to explain any holy truths, because there are no holy truths to be explained. Everything is empty. Nothing is holy." We don't know whether the Emperor is offended or upset by this brusque, off-putting answer, but he must have been, at least, shocked.

Anyway, he says to Bodhidharma, "Who is this facing me, saying this?" Again Bodhidharma answers in the rather severe and unfriendly spirit of strict emptiness: "Don't know." At which point, he turns and leaves. He goes off to remote Shaolin in the mountains, where he meditates facing a wall for nine years, not engaging students and not paying attention to the Emperor or anyone else. Eventually, as we all know, he does have a few disciples, but they have to go to great lengths to get his attention.

For the first five generations of Zen in China, a period of about 200 years, Zen is this intense, hermit-like meditation, whose main scripture is the Lankavatara Sutra, a Mahayana sutra of the Mind Only school. This sutra emphasizes that the world is a projection of the mind and that the supreme spiritual task is to turn the mind around, so as to overturn attachment to outward things. Later, with the the Sixth Ancestor, Zen begins to emphasize not the Lankavatara Sutra, but the Diamond Sutra, which deals with the teachings of emptiness in a dialogic rather than an introspective style. Zen shifts quite a bit after the Sixth Ancestor, but it never repudiates its origins with Bodhidharma and the Mind Only school and this intense practice of meditation.

Wansong's commentary on this case repeats the legend of Prajnatara, the Indian sage who is said to be Bodhidharma's teacher. The story goes that Prajnatara predicted that many years after his death, Bodhidharma was going to go to China. Prajnatara advised that when he went to China, he should avoid the sophisticated people of the South, and, instead, practice in the more rugged North. Emperor Wu of Liang is in the South, and Shaolin is in the North. So, that is exactly what Bodhidharma did.

If the ultimate goal of Zen is to be willing to share the teachings, which I think Bodhidharma would have agreed with, the question is, "At what pace? In what way?" Prajnatara's idea is that there is no rush. Take your time. No need to rush to the capitol and run around and schmooze with a bunch of people. He says to Bodhidharma, "Be careful not to go too fast and wither in the sun."

Then Wansong quotes a verse:

Willing to endure the autumn frost

So the deep savor of the teaching will last

This is all given as commentary to the Bodhidharma story in the case. It's telling us, "Don't rush out too fast. You will get burned in the sun. You will get stuck along the way. Endure the autumn frost, and the deep savor of the teaching will last. Take your time."

So this is the idea: just practice. Continue to practice and ripen. Brilliance is no substitute for time. Just time. Going on in time. Ripening long. Not being too quick to show yourself in the world. The time for that will come, if it is supposed to. In the case of the historical case here, it's a long time, five generations before Zen really takes root and becomes important in China. But the time expended doesn't matter. We're not in a hurry, because there is no hurry here.

That part of the story is the part about Zen – the Zen attitude, the Zen concept of how it wants to understand and view itself. Since we are practicing Zen, we shouldn't be naí»ve. We should know about these things, think about them, and study them. However, this is not the actual point of the story. The story has two important points. First: empty. Second: not knowing. I think we all understand these points. And, we can understand them better, as we go on in a lifetime of practice. In addition to that – and it is not the same thing as that – we can live these points. We can integrate them into our personality and the way we act in the world.

I will discuss these points a little, under the assumption that everybody already knows about them. The first point: empty. The Heart Sutra says that all dharmas are empty, which means that nothing is as it seems, or the other way around, everything is not how it seems. Material things of the world – ideas, concepts, one's self, others – are not the way they seem to be. So we have a world view, and it is deeply built into our perceptions, our attitudes, our motivations, our actions. All the ways we talk to ourselves and think about ourselves are based on this. And it is all, pretty much, incorrect.

We all know that things are impermanent. We all know that nothing lasts. We know that everything changes, but we don't really appreciate how radical a fact this is. We basically think that something is here and it changes. Maybe after a long time, and after it goes through many changes, maybe it is gone altogether. But this is an unexamined assumption. The closer we look at the process of change – and that is one of the great pleasures and immense things about intense meditation practice- the more obvious it is that there is nothing that changes. There is only change itself, and it is a continuous process. It's not isolated instances of change. It's a matter of one constantly turning process. The Sanskrit word sunya, which is pretty accurately translated into English as "empty," means not full of anything, vacant, insubstantial.

This word sunya, which stymied the Chinese and Japanese, was one of the main points that the Chinese could never get, for hundreds of years, about Buddhist teaching. They could never get that. They translated the word sunya into Chinese with the character that means "sky." So the Heart Sutra actually says in Sino-Japanese, "All dharmas are like sky," floating, completely open, with no contents, and, especially, with no boundaries. I mentioned before that Kaz Tanahashi made a translation of the Heart Sutra in which he translated the word for emptiness as "boundlessness," which is quite correct if you are working from the Asian languages and not from Sanskrit.

In Mahayana Buddhism, emptiness – boundlessness – always implies love. It is the same thing as love, the immense process of endless change. From the point of view of holding onto anything, it means endless loss, because we are literally losing everything as soon as it appears. Love is the endless sharing of nothing, with nothing, in boundless freedom.

What is the highest meaning of the holy truths? It is just this: freedom and love, with nothing to name, affirm, or hold on to. When we sit for a long time, paying attention to the body and the breath, and then eventually leaping off the body and breath, this is what we are aiming at: an appreciation of this truth. Zen awakening, or kensho, which translates as "seeing into your true nature," is this: seeing the empty, boundless nature of one's self, which means seeing the empty, boundless nature of everything. There are no boundaries. As the sutra says, "In emptiness, there is no form, no feeling, no perceptions, no impulses, no consciousness, no eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue," and so on. How could there be anything separate and distinct from anything else?

So that's "empty." Emptiness is an ontological reality. It's something that points to the way that things are. The second point, "not knowing," points to a psychological or epistemological truth. Given emptiness, who are you? Who are we? The only thing that we can say is what Bodhidharma says: "Don't know." Of course, I'm like you; I know a lot about who I am. Having lived a long time, I have had a lot of experience of myself. I am quite used to myself, you know? Insofar as I am my history and my associations, I know a lot about what this individual life is and has been. Also, having sat down on my cushion, and interacted with lots of people over a long period of time, I have discovered quite a bit about my own confusion and my own foibles and my own weaknesses and strengths.

So, in a way, if you ask, "Who are you?" I could write a novel. But all of that is nothing compared to the most important fact about me and about you: that we are living/dying human beings. About this – when it really comes down to it – we know nothing. So we know nothing about nothing – about everything. This "not knowing" is not an ignorance that I would hope to correct one day with more information. This is a different kind of not knowing. This not knowing is a deep and humble appreciation of the actual human condition. That's the "not knowing" that Bodhidharma is evidencing, and kindly offering to the Emperor. If I could be as honest and forthright with the Emperor as Bodhidharma was, when he asks me, "Who is this," I would have to say the same thing. "I don't really know."

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Women in Buddhism 2009 – 6

Sixth and final in a series on Women in Buddhism 2009 based on two texts: Grace Shireson’s “Zen Women: Beyond Tea Ladies, Iron Maidens and Macho Masters” and Susan Murcott’s “The First Buddhist Women: Translation and Commentary on the Therigatha”.

Women in Buddhism 2009 – 6

By Norman Fischer | December 17, 2009

 

Abridged and edited by Ryusen Barbara Byrum

Thanks to Chris [Fortin] for talking last week. I appreciated her talk and for bringing up Raihai Tokuzui. It is an amazing thing that in the 13th century Dogen would have such a powerful and clear sense of justice and make such a strong rebuke against prejudiced monks.

As we talk about practice and women and Buddhism, I wanted to read some inspiring quotations from a lot of women teachers. Mostly I am limiting them, tonight anyway, to Zen teachers and women who teach Theravada Vipassana. I am not taking up the whole realm of Vajrayana teachers, such as Pema Chodron and our local Lama Palden in San Rafael.

I will start with Aoyama Roshi. She has been a number of times to the Zen Center. She is a very strong, contemporary Japanese teacher, who has a training monastery in Japan. So I am going to read a page from her teaching:

The life and the voice of the Buddha is everywhere in heaven and earth and is manifested in all things. As art historian Muneyoshi Yanagi wrote in his last years in his book, "Buddha is the name of something nameless," the life of the Buddha originally had neither name nor form and is in everything – from a tree to a blade of grass, to a tile or a stone. It becomes the wind in the pines or in a sail. It is born as a man or woman. It is in good and evil, beauty and ugliness. Whatever form something takes, it manifests the Buddha. The magically gifted monkey in the 16th century great comic novel could not leave the palm of the Buddha's hand, and nor can we.

Whenever I am so arrogant as to think that I have the power to give myself life, I think of this poem by a five year old child: "The moment I say, ‘Tongue speak,' my tongue has moved. When I told my tongue to speak, who moved it?" The power that moves my tongue before I do is the power that works without rest when I sleep, and makes a flower bloom or a horse neigh. Whether we know it or not, the Buddha holds us in the palm of his hand, and he is the power that gives us life. To symbolize and revere that power, people have given artistic form to what originally was without name or form, by carving images of buddhas and bodhisattvas in human form. In the way that a child sometimes needs to call its mother, we call on Amida Buddha or Kannon Bodhisattva. Then, everything is revealed as Amida or as transformations of Kannon.

In the 1980's or early 90's, when I was director at Green Gulch, and there was nobody else there but me, there was no abbot. There was no tanto. So I could do whatever I wanted. I invited a lot of teachers to come, and they would come regularly. We had beautiful relationships with a number of powerful teachers. Among them was Maurine Stuart. And there was Tara Tulku Rinpoche and Ayya Khema. Ayya came to Green Gulch many times for retreats, and we became really close. She was a fantastic teacher, and in one of her books, on the little blurb I wrote for it, I said, "Ayya Khema is a meditator's meditator." And she was like that. She was really an incredibly astute expert on the details and the ins and outs of meditation. She had led a very colorful life, beginning with her escape from Germany – I don't know how old she was – but she was maybe a young teenager. She was Jewish and ended up escaping to China. Her family went to Shanghai. There was a whole bunch of Jews who were transported to Shanghai – a little known story. Starting from there, she had a very colorful life and ended up being a Theravadan nun. So here are a bit of her meditation instructions from her book When the Iron Eagle Flies. She has three or four books. They are terrific, detailed meditation instruction books.

When we keep our attention on the breath, the mind being with the breath is actually mindful. This is called anapanasati in Pali. Mindfulness of inbreath/outbreath. We will notice again and again that the mind just does not wish to stay attentive, but wants to do something else. So we will use that to gain insight into ourselves. We won't just say, "Thinking, thinking," because that doesn't tell us anything new. But rather we shall learn to label. We are going to say "Past, future, nonsense." The last one nearly always fits. We can say, "Wanting, hoping, planning." The last one is very popular.

We think that we can't get anything done while we are sitting, so at least we can plan what to do next week. The first label that comes to mind should be used. We need not try to find exactly the right label, because that induces new thinking. If thoughts are like clouds in the background, not solid, but quick to disappear, it is unnecessary to run after them to give them a label. That is neighborhood concentration – upachara samadhi and can lead to full concentration. When solid thinking takes place, labeling has two results. First of all, it dissolves the thought, because the mind can't do two things simultaneously. Giving a label means watching a thought objectively and not becoming involved with it. Therefore it dissolves like a water bubble. The second very useful result is gaining some insight into one's own thinking process and patterns. This is extremely important, because it helps the meditator not to fall into the error of always believing in his or her own thinking. Only people who never meditate believe what they are thinking. [So that's what you learn, you know, from meditation. Don't believe your thinking. At least not too much. Only up to a point.]

When one has labeled one's thoughts in meditation, one realizes that the thinking process is quite arbitrary and often has no real meaning. "Nonsense. No sense in it, and not even want it." Gaining such an insight into our thinking during meditation helps us in everyday life to drop thoughts which are not useful, and that makes our life less stressful. If we could drop a thought by labeling it during meditation, we can do the same in daily life. Otherwise, we have meditated in vain. We have been sitting and getting a knee pain without any result. We must be able to transfer our meditation practice into everyday life.

In meditation we drop all thoughts. When they recur, we drop them again. We substitute for them by putting our attention on the breath. In daily life we drop unwholesome thoughts and substitute wholesome ones. It's exactly the same substitution process, and when we learn in meditation how to do that, it can be a good habit in daily life. Not that it will always work – there is no such thing as always – but we understand the possibilities.

When we listen to the words of the Buddha, we know that he is showing us an ideal to work for, and if we have not yet reached that ideal, we need not blame ourselves. "Awareness, no blame, change" is an important formula to remember. "Awareness, no blame, change." To become aware of what is going on within ourselves, but not to attach any blame to it. Things are the way they are. But we, as thinking human beings, have the ability to change, and that is what we are doing in meditation. We can drop the thought and go back to the breath, and the more often we do this, the easier and more natural it becomes. Eventually the mind gives in and says, "All right, then. I'll stop thinking for awhile." Not only does this become easier because it has become a habit, but we shall be more and more determined to abandon discursive, non-directed thinking, because it has become apparent how unnecessary and how useless it really is. It brings no results. It goes round in circles. It is disturbing, and so the mind recognizes the value of staying with the meditation subject.

This is a book called Jizo Bodhisattva, by Jan Chozen Bayes. Jan was one of the early disciples of Maezumi Roshi. Maezumi Roshi had several powerful disciples in the early years, Bernie Glassman and Daido Loori – who recently passed away – and Genpo Merzel, who has a big establishment in Salt Lake City. Jan is also a doctor and has spent her whole life taking care of children. She specializes in needy children and battered children from troubled families. She continues this work to this day. They have a monastery in Oregon, but she still works a few days a week taking care of children. This has made her a devotee of Jizo Bodhisattva, who is the bodhisattva that takes care of children. So the monastery is devoted to Jizo, and they did a project making – I forget whether it was ten thousand or a hundred thousand – little Jizo statues, which they took to Japan on a pilgrimage – all around Japan, meeting people and giving them Jizos. They were called "Jizos for peace," and it was called a "Pilgrimage for Peace."

She is quite an extraordinary and inspiring person. Her one book is called Jizo Bodhisattva – Modern Healing and Traditional Buddhist Practice. It's about all that you could ever know about Jizo Bodhisattva. So I will read you one passage. Jizo is the same as Ksitigarbha in Sanskrit. The English translation is "earth store bodhisattva." So there is an Earth Store Sutra, and she refers to that here.

The Earth Store Sutra tells of ordinary human beings becoming bodhisattvas through the power of their vows. My teachers talk often about the importance of making vows. It took me many years to understand that vows are at the core of practice. Actually are the nuclear core of the energy pile that is our life. An interviewer once asked Maezumi Roshi if Buddhists believed in something like a soul that continued after death, and Maezumi Roshi said, "No. It is the vow that continues." A vow is like a seal that imprints itself on the wet clay of another emerging life, but it is more than a passive seal.

And as you know, that is one of the differences between Mahayana Buddhism and Theravada Buddhism. In Theravada Buddhism the goal is no longer to be reborn, because the energy of re-birth is karma and unfinished business. So you want to put all that to rest and never be reborn again. In Mahayana Buddhism, you want to substitute the vow for the unfinished business and the karma. She is saying here that we vow to continue to be reborn until all beings are at peace and nirvana. So that is what Maezumi Roshi is talking about there.

The vow has a propelling energy that propels us into the search for the end of suffering and into finding ways to help others. Finally, when all the various schemes we have developed to do these things fail, it propels us into practice. All Buddhist practices involve vows. At the Zen Center we chant the four great bodhisattva vows every day. [As we chant after lecture.]

Beings are numberless. I vow to save them.

Desires are inexhaustible. I vow to end them.

Dharma gates are boundless. I vow to enter them.

Buddha's way is unsurpassable. I vow to become it.

 

Over the years we have chanted vows like these hundreds, thousands of times. It does not matter if the vows were made when we were half asleep, or if we didn't quite understand them. We have made these promises, and now the gig is up and the promissory note is due. This explains the common feeling people have. "I don't know why I practice. I just have to. Something is compelling me to do this practice." The ongoing vow operates below the conscious mind.

I have a chapter on vowing in Taking Our Places, in which I say that I think that everybody has a vow. Every human being as a child develops a vow, which you forget about, or is not entirely conscious. Part of practice is uncovering the vow, and I think the vow is always the same. It is some version of wanting to use your life to benefit others. Somewhere, I think, we all have that in us. It's human to have that.

It is very important to say and shape our vows. Maezumi Roshi recommended starting each day with vows. There are many possible vows. They can be simple: "I vow to do what I can to relieve suffering. I vow to do what needs to be done to awaken fully, even if I am afraid at times. I vow to open my mind and hands and let go of what needs to be dropped, for me and others to be free." Vows can be formal and part of a ritual. They can be simple and spontaneous. What is important is to vow. At that point the things that are needed for the vow to be fulfilled begin to flow toward us.

Jizo Bodhisattva is called the "King of Vows." When we call upon the power of Jizo, we are calling upon the power in each one of us that is always urging us in the direction of fulfilling our life vow or purpose. For all of us, the fundamental vow is actually the same: to uncover and embody our innate wisdom and compassion. For each of us the specific situation that helps us with the uncovering and the embodying is different. It could be having a difficult child, caring for an elderly parent, working an extra job to earn money for retreats, or driving a city bus in a poor part of the city. When we are in the midst of these specifics, we often lose track of our larger purpose. We get angry or impatient and feel like we are failing. This is time to call upon Jizo Bodhisattva.

This is from Roshi Jiyu-Kennett's book, which used to be called Selling Water by the River, but when later editions came out, it became Zen is Eternal Life. Jiyu-Kennett has been gone now for some years, but she was actually one of the handfuls of founding teachers. When you think about this, it is really extraordinary what she did. She went to Japan just because she wanted to do Zen. She showed up in Japan, a very determined woman, and managed to get ordained as a priest and become a Zen teacher. She established a Zen lineage in the West very early on. She should be mentioned in the same breath with Suzuki Roshi and Maezumi Roshi and Katagiri Roshi – these early, first generation founding teachers. I met her a few times, and she was a very strong, totally convincing person, who went through a lot to be able to do what she did. This book, Zen is Eternal Life, is intended to be like a Bible for Zen in America. All you need to know about Zen. It was written early on in the Zen movement. This is chapter eight, "What are koans?"

It is essential to do zazen if one is to understand the world we live in with anything deeper than the usual, superficial understanding of the average person. It is not a matter of doing anything out of the ordinary, since all religions have practiced various forms of concentration throughout the centuries. Even dogs and cats love to sit quietly for long periods of time. However, most Western people, being intellectually oriented, are plagued by either fear or boredom during such periods if they have nothing specific to think about. This is the main reason why the Rinzai system of koans appeals to the average Westerner. It gives him something to think about.

This is a completely wrong use of koan and zazen. It was Daie Soko, born in 1089, who advocated the use of koans during zazen as preferable to the old method of quiet sitting, known as shikantaza in Japanese, which prevailed up to then, and on which he himself had been trained, as indeed, all the great masters up until that time, including Rinzai himself. Since Daie Soko was known to be brilliantly intellectual, I strongly suspect that he found the older method of meditation too difficult to practice. Only the intellectual types seem to have difficulty in practicing the old method of meditation. However, since the whole purpose of zazen is to quiet down the thought waves so that one may realize one's true nature, the present day use of koans for many Westerners – that of seeing how many they can solve like puzzles – is utterly wrong. In Japan I have so often seen, with disgust and sadness, a snobbish pride taken by these people in telling their fellow co-trainees how many koans they have solved and what heights of understanding they have reached. It must be clearly understood by all that the sole purpose of koan training must, and still is, to lead the trainee to a true understanding and keeping of the precepts – that is, the exhibition of enlightenment is daily life.

Sharon Salzberg is also a founding teacher. She is one of the founders of Insight Meditation and one of the founders of the Vipassana movement in America. She and others went to Asia without a clue, practiced meditation, came back to their home in America, and then established a new religion that they invented. Can you imagine this? But that is what they did, because Vipassana in America is not the same thing as Theravada Buddhism. It's based on that, but as a result of their own conversations and their own nerve, they just did it. It's really amazing when you think about it. And now, of course, it is a huge movement all over the world.

Anyway, just a little bit from Sharon's book Loving-Kindness. It's from a chapter called, "Relearning Loveliness." And she begins by quoting Galway Kinnell, who is a poet.

"The bud stands for all things, even for those things that don't flower. For everything flowers from within of self blessing, though sometimes it is necessary to re-teach a thing its loveliness. To put a hand on the brow of the flower and re-tell it in words and in touch, it is lovely, until it flowers again from within of self-blessing."

To re-teach a thing its loveliness is the nature of metta. Through loving-kindness, everything and everyone can flower again from within. When we recover knowledge of our own loveliness and that of others, self-blessing happens naturally and beautifully. Metta, love, or loving-kindness, is the first of the brahma viharas, the "heavenly abodes." The others – compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity – grow out of metta, which supports and extends these states.

In our culture, when we talk about love, we usually mean passion or sentimentality. It is crucial to distinguish metta from both of these states. Passion is enmeshed with feelings of desire – of wanting, or of owning and possessing. Passion gets entangled with needing things a certain way, with having our expectations met. The expectation of exchange that underlies most passion is both conditional and ultimately defeating. "I will love you as long as you behave in the following fifteen ways, or as long as you love me in return at least as much as I love you." It is not a coincidence that the word passion derives from the Latin word for suffering. Wanting and expectation inevitably entail suffering.

By contrast, the spirit of metta is unconditional, open, and unobstructed. Like water poured from one vessel to another, metta flows freely, taking the shape of each situation without changing its essence. A friend may disappoint us. She may not meet our expectations, but we do not stop being a friend to her. We may, in fact, disappoint ourselves and may not meet our own expectations, but we do not cease to be a friend to ourselves.

This was Sharon's first book, because she has made a practice of loving-kindness. It's her specialty. She worked very hard and a long time to write this book, Loving-kindness: The Revolutionary Art of Happiness.

Some time ago a book came out called One Bird One Stone – One Hundred and Eight Zen Stories. Probably no-one has ever heard of this book. It didn't seem to make a terribly big splash, but it's a good idea. I'll read some very short stories here that involve some other women teachers.

When Katherine Thanas, who was resident teacher of the Santa Cruz Zen Center was struggling whether to make a deeper commitment to Zen practice, she came before Suzuki Roshi during a Shosan ceremony [the question answer ceremony] and without preamble said, "Inside me there is a yes and a no." "Follow the yes," he told her.

Another local Zen teacher is from the Peninsula, Angie Boissevain, who was given transmission by Kobun Chino.

She came before him with a question that had been burning within her all morning. But after she made the customary three bows and knelt before him, she found her mind was utterly blank, and the question was forgotten. So she sat before him in silence for a long time before finally saying, "Where have all the words gone?" And he said, "Back where they came from."

Pat Enkyo O'Hara is the teacher of the Village Zendo in New York City. Are there any men teachers in America? Maybe, a few! So many women teachers!

Pat Enkyo O'Hara, who is now the resident teacher of the Village Zendo in New York City, was serving as caretaker of altars and offerings during the three month training period at Zen Mountain Training Center in Idlewild, California. During one very formal memorial ceremony, as she was carrying a lacquered tray, one of the cups tumbled from the tray and landed among some rocks, resulting in a chip on its highly polished surface. Devastated, she went to Maezumi Roshi and announced her intention to order a new one from Japan. "Why?" he said. "With a chip it is more valuable. See? Just as it is." "Over the years," says Ms. O'Hara, "this has emerged as his great teaching for me. He was broken. I am broken. And when we can see chipped and broken, we begin to value our life as the expression of the teaching that we are truly perfect and complete, just as we are."

One more, Toni Packer. She's still alive, elderly. I'm not sure how active she is, but she was a real ball of fire. She was trained by Kapleau Roshi and was Kapleau's first dharma heir. But then she walked out on the whole thing – rejected Zen, rejected Buddhism, and went her own way. This book, called The Work of This Moment, is a kind of strong argument against Zen, against Buddhism, and any from of religious practice. In this chapter, someone writes her a letter, saying, "I quit. I am quitting your group. I am leaving, because I'd like to work within a Buddhist framework." And then she sort of criticizes Toni for somehow not having any identifiable framework. And so Toni writes her back, and this is Toni's letter:

In your letter you talk about being disturbed by something of a double message at Springwater [her place] on the denial of any affiliation with Buddhism. And then, on the other hand, there are cushions, a wooden block to signal time, and a schedule that includes meeting and a talk – all part of the external form of a traditional Zen sesshin. I'm not sure you want an explanation from me, and yet you are raising the question. So let me state that I left the traditional Zen center because it was impossible to question within that context the totality of our conditioning, including the traditional forms and beliefs themselves. We do question the forms we use in retreats in Springwater and drop or change what has been found unnecessary or in need of change. You ask, "What is the context within you teach awareness work?" Awareness cannot be taught, and when it is present, it has no context. All contexts are created by thought and are therefore corruptible by thought. Awareness simply throws light on what is, without any separation whatsoever. You want to know whether I experience the formidable truths, the eight-fold path, the precepts, the nature of form and emptiness, as expressed in the Heart Sutra, as true. No formulations, no matter how clear or noble, are the Truth. The Truth is inexpressible in symbols. The question is, can a human being see directly, understand immediately, the origin of sorrow within himself or herself? Can one see and understand directly and immediately what perpetuates conflict and division within oneself and others? Can one see and understand directly, without mediation of any kind, the end of suffering in oneself?"

So she was very feisty and maintained that stance, I think, until present.

So, we were talking about the stories of Zen women throughout history. Grace [Schireson] did a great job in her book about uncovering a lot of those stories. We heard from Dogen and talked about stories from earlier in the tradition. I don't know what conclusions we can draw from this. If I read these same passages and said that they were by men teachers, would you be able to tell the difference? Would anybody say, "Wait a minute. Those couldn't be men teachers. They must be women teachers." I doubt it, actually. I doubt it.

In the universities now one of the great points of theory – people write about it all the time – is gender studies and feminist studies. It's a very important topic. And one of the big topics of debate is whether or not there is any such thing – essential thing – as gender. Is gender simply and entirely socially constructed? In other words, can anybody make any sense when they say, "Men are like this. Women are like that." Is there any way that men essentially are, that women essentially are? Or, is it really just the product of our conditioning on an intimate level? I don't think there is any solving this.

Although you can historically say, as Grace says in her book, that we can look at the manifestations of the way men practiced and the way women practiced, I think it would be very difficult to say that this is how men should practice or do practice in the present or the future, and this is how women should practice or do practice in the present or the future. All you can say is "This is how this woman practices. This is how this man practices." It seems to me that there is a tremendous variety. Each one of these voices is completely different, I think. Completely different from each other. There is a tremendous range in terms of whatever kind of values you want to use to categorize the teachers. There's a tremendous range.

And yet, don't you have the feeling that the full inclusion of women has made a difference, a big difference, in the Buddhist movement? As Chris was saying last week, this is not the case in other traditions, where women are not fully included. So the fact that they are fully included, and have been from the beginning of our movement, has been a huge factor, I think, of what Zen and Buddhism in America is like. Idealistically, you would think that it would be an improvement. To include those who have been excluded would always bring more humanity, don't you think? So you would hope, let's say, that in a world in which everyone was included would also politically be a better world. That if you had leaders of men and women, and different groups were equally included, you would have a better world. And then I thought to myself, "I hope so, but maybe not." Maybe if everyone was included, there would be just as many wars, just as much confusion as we have now. But we can hope.

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Women in Buddhism 2009 – 5

Chris Fortin leads the seminar in the fifth talk of a series on Women in Buddhism 2009 based on two texts: Grace Shireson’s “Zen Women: Beyond Tea Ladies, Iron Maidens and Macho Masters” and Susan Murcott’s “The First Buddhist Women: Translation and Commentary on the Therigatha”. Chris also speaks on Dogen’s writings regarding women teachers from Treasury of the Eye of the True Dharma Book 28 “Getting the Marrow by Doing Obeisance” (Raihai Tokuzui). http://hcbss.stanford.edu/research/projects/sztp/translations/shobogenzo/translations/raihai_tokuzui/rhtz.translation.html Unfortunately Chris’ mike dislodged 40 minutes into the talk and the remainder half hour is a low volume.

Women in Buddhism 2009 – 5

By Chris Fortin | December 10, 2009

 

I want to acknowledge what my qualifications are and why I am sitting here. First, I think it is primarily because I have a woman's body. Second, for the past eight years, I have been leading a women's sangha. I never intended to create a sangha just for women. It just kind of happened that way. We meet weekly, and there are one day retreats every three months. And the third thing is that I have been a psychotherapist for about twenty-five years, and, although I see both men and women, a good portion of my psychotherapy practice over the years has been seeing women. So I have had the rare and precious opportunity to sit with women in intimate space and to hear women's stories and to be a mirror for each other.

It has seemed to me from the beginning of this series [on Women in Buddhism] that what has been quite different is that usually when we come together at seminar, we don't think so much about gender, and we don't register gender on a conscious level. I remember the first night feeling like we were all sitting here, being aware in an almost illuminated consciousness way that we were in different bodies. This hasn't always been so comfortable. Some of us have male bodies, and some of us have female bodies. What a mystery this is! That we were born into bodies at all. That we have a precious human life.

Because I was born into a woman's body – and it is part of my life and conditioning – I am going to tell some stories about women. When I travel in Europe, I love to go into Catholic churches, and I love to light candles. When you go into the churches in France and Italy and Spain, you predominantly see women in the churches. They're praying. That's their life. You can feel that they are the body and the heart of the Church. And every time I am struck by the fact that women can't be ordained in the Catholic Church. They can't take full vows. They can't lead a service. They can't administer to someone. They can't be priests. I am always surprised at how acute the pain and anger is in me that arises around that.

When my partner and I did a pilgrimage to Bodhgaya, we would go everyday and sit under the Bodhi Tree. It was so beautiful, because there were so many people from so many different traditions. There were men and women, but there was something particularly poignant to me about seeing so many women practicing. Old Tibetan women. And I thought, "How did they even get here? They don't have money. How in the world did they get to this place?" They would sit and do their practices. The Tibetan women were doing their 100,000 prostrations. There were nuns – probably Korean and in grey garb. There were some in pink robes. But there was something about the commonality of being in this place with so many different practitioners from different lineages and traditions, and particularly, seeing the women, that really deeply moved me.

One day, a young, Thai monk came up to me. There are different monasteries around Bodhgaya, and he invited me to his monastery for lunch. Bruce and I went, and when we got there, there were a lot of young, male monks. The women nuns were all waiting on them and taking care of them. There was an old, old Thai woman. There was a Western nun practicing there, so she could speak English to me, and she said, "This woman has sat and practiced in caves. This woman is a living sage. She fixes the meals for the monks. All the nuns eat second. And she does their laundry. If you practice and follow the Vinaya, that's the plight of women in this order."

When we were in Sikkim, we were told there had once been vibrant orders for women in Sikkim. I asked, as I was traveling around the country, "Where are they?" They're just gone! You can't find them.

I try never to forget that I am able to practice with all of you – that, as a woman, I sit here and teach, and that we are equals, and that we do this together. There are women across time and space, and in current time, who can't do this. I actually take that as a strong responsibility. There's a sense of grace that that's what I have been given in this life. I do it for myself, I do it for all beings, and I also do it with a strong awareness that I am practicing for other women, who can't express the heart of their own deep religious life in the way that we can.

So, I have been asking myself, "What are we actually doing in this series? Why is this topic important to us now, when the men and women of Everyday Zen practice together for the most part quite harmoniously?" Maybe there is something helpful and healing for us all in witnessing women's experiences in this practice.

When many of us were young, we began practicing at the San Francisco Zen Center with forms that had been created by and for young, male, Japanese monks. Feelings and emotions and a kind of intimate relationship with the body were virtually left out. As a young woman, I thought that was just fine. I felt it was a place where I could really stabilize my life. But I think the turning point came when I gave birth. It became clear to me that this practice wasn't big enough. The fullness of my life couldn't fit into these forms and couldn't fit into a monastic schedule anymore, and I had to leave. And we did leave, with our young child. I discovered that part of growing into the fierce, loving, mother energy that arises when you have a child was that I had to feel and enter my life a whole new way. Eventually I went into therapy. I worked with a lot of frozen emotions and things from my past, and in time, and then I went back to school and studied to become a psychotherapist.

During this time, I also practiced with Tsultrim Allione, who was the first Western nun ordained in the Tibetan order. She remains a really helpful figure to me as a woman teacher. When I first went to one of her retreats, I walked into the room and was amazed that she looked like a woman. She was wearing lipstick, she had long hair, and she was pretty. At Zen Center, we had been, to a very large degree, practicing with a kind of androgyny – except for when we weren't, and then it erupted into crisis! Tsultrim's teachings include the feminine principle that is an integral part of the Tibetan lineage. She embodies these teachings unequivocally as a woman. This was such a relief to me! And it remains a deep relief to me.

I realized that when I was at Zen Center, I had been having subtle body, energetic experiences, that I really thought were not "Buddhist." I couldn't find any mirror to help me understand. I think they were kundalini experiences – but nobody talked about that kind of thing. So I really thought that my tradition couldn't hold or wasn't big enough for me to be in my own body and to hold my own experience. But Tsultrim actually validated my experience. I was so relieved to find that my own tradition actually included me.

Tsultrim's teachings and her book, Women of Wisdom, written in 1984, have a very psychological basis to them. I wanted to read some of the things she said, because I think it's still relevant:

It is difficult to imagine our lives without the life stories of others. We learn in infancy how to be human by imitation. Without the example of others, a child cannot grow up normally. As children begin to grow up, they begin to ask those around them for stories of their lives. All cultures provide biographies in one form or another – be it tales of ancestral heroes, stories of relatives and friends, or formal biographies of cultural and religious figures. However, our culture provides very little life stories for women who are on a spiritual quest. Women's stories have not been told, and without stories, there is no articulation of experience. Without stories, a woman is lost when she comes to make important decisions in her life. She does not learn to value her struggles, to celebrate her strengths, to comprehend her pain. Without stories, she is alienated from those deeper experiences of self and world that have been called "spiritual" or religious. She is closed with silence.

Suffering is a natural part of the cycle of birth and decay. It is relieved by understanding and acceptance by a willing giving over to the dark and light in turn. It is thought the Buddha wanted to be rid of the dark and painful, only to experience the light and blissful nirvana. There is a tremendous emphasis on going beyond, leaving the world, the ideal state which transcends the patterns of light and dark. Women's religions tend to incorporate this duality and hold it sacred. When this duality appears in men's religions, we usually find that the male is associated with the sky and spirit and transcendence, and the female nature with worldliness and murky complications.

In tantra we see the emergence of female images, which are sexual and spiritual, ecstatic and intelligent, wrathful and peaceful. When women are not allowed to incorporate all these aspects of the feminine into themselves, they become distorted and alienated from their own energies.

Tsultrim's Tibetan practices have their origin in the Bon tradition, which is close to its shamanistic roots, so it involves lots of sounds and colors and visualizations. It's pretty wild and beautiful. But what I discovered over time was that that I really missed zazen – that I had a very deep home in the silence and simplicity of this wonderful tradition. So with the grace and generosity of Norman and Everyday Zen, I returned to my Zen practice. And I now feel and know in my bones that this tradition is as big and wide and open and beautiful as the whole sky and earth and ocean. It includes everything. And I am home.

So, now I would like to talk about Dogen's fascicle, Raihaitokuzui, which he wrote in 1240 to address the errors of those who he believed had incomplete views and misunderstandings about women and the Buddhist teachings. It is amazing to me that in medieval Japan Dogen wrote with such unbelievable scorn and passion about male monastics who refused to bow to female teachers. Dogen had women disciples. He was comfortable with women as monastics. He was comfortable with women as teachers, and he was comfortable with women as teachers of men. [And while some scholars debate whether Dogen abandoned these teachings on equality for more traditional monastic and hierarchal views later in his life, there is good evidence that he stayed true to his original beliefs.]

Paula Kane Robinson beautifully documents in her book, Women Living Zen, how 20th century Soto Zen nuns used Dogen's writings to achieve full and equal status with male monastics in Japan. In 1941 the highest rank that a nun could attain in Japan was below the lowest rank of a male monk. Training requirements were more stringent for nuns than for monks, and women monastics were only allowed to head sub temples. The nuns demanded that institutional regulations be rewritten based on Dogen's fascicle, and after a long and courageous struggle, the Soto sect administration granted equality in 1989.

I'll now read from the text of Women Living Zen regarding Raihaitokuzui.

"In the following Raihaitokuzui passage, Dogen clarifies the confusion surrounding female Buddhist teachers. ‘It is irrelevant whether a guide has male or female characteristics, and the like; what counts is that the guide be a being of virtue, of thusness.' He continues with advice on the appropriate way to express respect and gratitude to a teacher of the Dharma regardless of their form: ‘Valuing the Dharma means that, whether [your guide] is a pillar, a lantern, buddhas, a fox, a demon, a man, a woman, if it upholds the great Dharma and attains the marrow, then you should offer your body-mind as its seat and serve for immeasurable kalpas.' His point is that women are competent teachers, even qualified to teach men. Dogen substantiates his counsel with an explanation of the precedents established by those with whom Buddhism flourished in Sung China: ‘Today in certain temples of great Sung China there are nuns who train. When [a nun's] attainment of the Dharma becomes known, an imperial edict is issued appointing her abbess of a nunnery, and thenceforth she expounds the Dharma at her appointed temple. All the subordinates gather together in the hall and stand to listen [to the abbess's words on] the Dharma, and [to exchange] questions and answers of the monastics. This has been the rule since olden times.'"

As with much of Japanese Buddhism and culture, the Japanese turned to the Chinese for inspiration and guidance. Dogen urges the Japanese to continue the equality accorded women and men in China, especially in regard to recognizing the true Dharma in female form. ‘In the case of a nun who has received the treasury of the true Dharma eye through transmission, if [the monks of] the four fruitions, pratyeka-buddhas, and even those of the three wise stages and of the ten holy states pay homage to her and seek the Dharma from her, she should receive their obeisance. By what right are only males noble? The empty sky is the empty sky; the four elements are the four elements; the five skandas are the five skandas. To be female is exactly the same: as for the attainment of the Way, both [male and female] can attain the Way. Hence both should have high regard for the attainment of the Dharma, and not argue about differences between male and female. Such is the most marvelous law of the Buddha-way.'"

"Dogen includes an even more direct criticism of the practices he finds in Japan in a version of the Raihaitokuzui found in the twenty-eight fascicle of the Himistu Shobogenzo [The Secret Shobogenzo]. It is a poignant example of his frustration with Japanese Buddhist practices that helped increase his sense that he was the first to introduce ‘true' Buddhism to Japan. ‘There is a ridiculous custom in Japan: it is the practice that nuns and women are not allowed to enter the places called restricted territories or training halls of the Mahayana. Such a perverted custom has been practiced for ages, without anyone realizing its wrongness in the least. Those practicing the ancient way do not reform it; and those who are learned and astute do not care about it. While some say that it is the work of the incarnated [buddhas and bodhisattvas], others claim that it is a legacy from ancient worthies. Yet all fail to reason about it. Their egregious absurdity is truly hard to believe…If such obsolete practices do not have to be redressed, does it mean that the cycles of birth and death need not be forsaken either?'"

When I first talked to Norman about being ordained, he told me that the foundation and practice of being ordained as a priest is humility, a sense of service, and seeing each person as Buddha. It feels to me that the essence and the marrow of this is humility and a profound sense of gratitude that arises at being part of their beautiful stream of Buddhist ancestors and the immersion of oneself in the Buddha's wise and compassionate teachings. To be able to fully take my place along with all beings, to practice completely as a woman, and to leave nothing out is an all-inclusive practice. The essence of this practice is love, and that is how I want to wholeheartedly spend the rest of my life.

edz

Family

Norman’s sixth and last talk at the Mar de Jade December sesshin is on Family.

The following is a transcription of just the last 10 minutes of a much longer talk; this section concerns the teacher-student relationship.

Family

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer | December 9, 2009
Location: Mar de Jade

[ . . . ] So I was deeply impressed by those words about Maurine (Stuart). And it's true. She did not express emotion so much. I don't think she buried emotion or covered it, but she was always very contained and dignified. I think this was partly her Canadian upbringing and the style of her generation; but I think it was also her deep sense as a Zen teacher that there should be some restraint, to make it clear that the student is independent and should not be emotionally dependent on the teacher. And over and over in the Zen teachings, this point is emphasized – that the teaching is in you. The teaching is to be found in your life. That you are the boss, and that in the end, we come to trust ourselves completely.

In our dharma family we emphasize warm sangha relations and warm relations with our teachers. But the point of this is not to admire the teacher's wisdom and eloquence, but to be willing to share our life fully. With full trust in the teacher, we find a full expression and full trust for ourselves. That's the point. And the tradition also says that we must always go beyond our teacher to find our own way. To become independent. In Zen practice "independent" means to become "interdependent." That is, when we find our own completion, without needing something or someone else to complete us, we find that the many others are already present within ourselves, and there really is no "me" to be separate and independent. There is only life. All of life – right here in our life. That's true independence.

I say this all the time, and I am sure that many of you have heard me say this: The last thing I ever wanted was to become a Zen priest or a Zen teacher, and I never tried to be one, and sometimes I'm not so sure I like it. All I ever did was to be willing to take the next step in my practice, whatever that turned out to be. And even now, despite what you may think, I don't feel like a Zen teacher, and I certainly don't feel like I have any students. I do feel like I have a family. I do feel that I have really close friends in the dharma. I love everyone I practice with, and I really care about everyone, and that means all of you – especially those of you I have practiced with for awhile. And I hope this doesn't mess you up. Perhaps I care too much, and, therefore, not enough.

So when I think about Maurine's teaching and her life – and I respected her so much – I get a little worried that I am not helping you enough to be independent. When I give a talk, my purpose is not to get you to pay attention to my words. My purpose is to point you back to yourself. To your own life. Sometimes when we're having such a good time and telling jokes and stories, I wonder whether I am failing in my purpose.

So, please, you should all think about this. And continue your practice. Continue to take care of yourselves, and to take care of one another. And the world.

edz

Love and Grief

Norman’s third talk at the Mar de Jade December sesshin is on Love and Grief.

Love and Grief

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer | Dec 07, 2009

Transcribed and edited by Barbara Byrum and Cynthia Schrager

Yesterday I was talking about the Buddha and the Buddha’s heroic path. Maybe you detected a note of irreverence or humor when I was discussing this. Maybe I am just getting old. Or maybe I have met one too many Zen Masters in my life! But I begin to feel there is something a little comical about this heroism. I can’t give it up entirely, because, yes, it’s true: we must be heroic in our practice. We have to make an effort.

It reminds me a little bit of games that boys play, the kind of games that I played when I was a boy. It is not so surprising that this would be the case, because for most of its history, until just a little while ago, Buddhism and religion in general have been imagined and defined by some men who are still boys.

This is why yesterday, when I was speaking of the Buddha and his great heroism, I used the masculine pronoun, although Laura, in Spanish, corrected me! As we know, women can be heroes too, but there is something about being a hero that is more about boys. This is the way that boys grow up, imagining that they are heroes. Maybe, now, these days girls also grow up this way.

How do we know the story of the Buddha? Because men remember the story in the way that they like to tell it, and they passed it on from one to the other, and then they wrote it down. Maybe it’s not even a true story. In fact, I think we can count on it not being a true story in the way that we usually think of a true story, like something that we read in the newspaper. If you have ever been involved in something that was written about in the newspaper, you realize that the newspaper is not always a true story!

If the Buddha is a hero in this story, it is because men imagined him in this way. The Buddha leaves home. He leaves his wife and his child behind. Not exactly an admirable thing for a person to do. But maybe the Buddha does not physically leave home. Maybe that is not what the story is really telling us. Maybe it does not mean so much that he abandoned his family, but that he realized it was necessary for him to love them by letting them go. Maybe he realized that love of one’s self and love of another means letting go, and that this is the only way that there can be respect and full love.

It’s hard to let each other go. It’s painful sometimes, but this is what we have to do to overcome suffering. It is the only way to overcome our own suffering and to help others to overcome their suffering. We have to let them go, let them be independent. So maybe that is what the story actually means.

The Buddha taught letting go, letting go of self. He taught that the self that we cling to is the fundamental human illusion. How much sense does it make to think the Buddha was a great person in the way that we think of a hero or a conqueror? Actually it is very un-Buddhist to think of it like that. What person would we be talking about?

So it is really most true to say that the Buddha, the hero, is the person within our human heart, the person who is free of being a person. In Zen practice, when we appreciate and respect the Buddha, this is what we mean.

Here is another famous story from the early times of the Buddha. It is a story of a nun named Kisagotami. She came from a very poor family, but married the son of a rich banker. Like most women in Asia at that time, she moved to the home of her mother-in-law, where she was very badly treated. She received no respect until she gave birth to a son. Then they gave her respect.

The child, when just a baby, died. Of course, the death of children was common in Asia then. Nevertheless, Kisagotami was a very young woman. She had never had seen death and did not expect such a thing . So, when her child died, she couldn’t stand it, and she went insane. She took her child and ran around, looking for someone who would bring her child back to life. Running from person to person, holding up the dead child, and saying, “Do you have medicine that will bring this child to life?” Of course, no one knew what to say to her. Finally, some kind person directed her to go visit the Buddha. She said the same thing to him, “Can you give me some medicine to bring this child to life?” The Buddha said, “Yes, I can. Go find a house where you can find a mustard seed and bring the mustard seed to me. But there is just one thing: the mustard seed must come from a house where there has never been any death.”

Feeling great hope, Kisagotami ran around the village, knocking on every door, asking for one mustard seed. Almost every house had one mustard seed, but she couldn’t find any house where there had not been a death touching someone in the house. After going to many, many houses, little by little, she understood, because she could feel the shared grief with every person she asked. Eventually the shared grief broke the shell of her madness, and she came back to herself. Finally she could recognize that her child had died, and she let him go.

Then she went to the Buddha, and she asked him if she could become a disciple, if she could become a nun. She became one of the most important practitioners in the early days of the Buddha.

We have a poem by Kisagotami, written so many generations ago:

I have practiced the great eight-fold path straight to the undying.

I have come to the great peace.

I have looked into the mirror of the dharma.

The arrow is pulled out. I have put my burden down.

What had to be done, has been done.

Sister Kisagotami, with a free mind, says this.

There is another story in the Buddhist scriptures about Kisagotami. This is a time when she is a nun, and she is going to meditate in the forest. Mara, the Lord of Death and Evil, comes to her, just as he came to the Buddha. This is what happens:

Thus have I heard. Once when at Savati, the Buddha stayed at Anathapindika’s jeta grove. The nun Kisagotami woke and got dressed and went into town with her bowl to beg for food. She came back and ate her food and then went into the dark forest to spend her day in meditation. Just like the Buddha, she sat down at the foot of a tree. Then Mara, the evil one, came. He wanted to scare her and ruin her meditation. He spoke this verse to her:

“What is going on, Kisagotami? You look as if your child has just died. You sit alone. Tears are streaking your face. You have come to the woods alone. Are you looking for a man?”

She thought, “Who is this? Is this a human being or not? I think it must be Mara. He spoke this way to frighten me and ruin my meditation.” It took a while for her to understand Mara’s words and to understand who he was. When she understood, she spoke the following verse:

“I am finished with the death of my child. Men belong to the past. I don’t grieve. I don’t cry. Friend, I am not afraid of you. Everywhere the love of pleasure is destroyed. The great dark is torn apart. Death, you too are destroyed.”

This is very interesting, because clearly she was crying, and yet she says, “I’m not crying.” Clearly she was grieving. That is how Mara knew to come. But she says that she is not grieving. It is a very interesting story to me.

The story of Kisagotami shows a person who is both very vulnerable and, at the same time, very strong. Here grief overcomes her, and yet, in the end, she overcomes her grief, and overcomes Mara, the Lord of Death, just as the Buddha did. But her story, despite her courage, doesn’t sound like the story of a hero. Kisagotami is not on a heroic mission. She is simply trying to save herself from her unbearable pain. It doesn’t seem as if Kisagotami made a decision to do what she did. It seems that she simply had no choice. She was lucky that with the help of a kind person, she ran into the Buddha at just the right moment. If she had run into the Buddha sooner, maybe she would not have paid any attention to him. If she had run into the Buddha later, it might have been too late. So it was just exactly the right moment.

Maybe we could say that there are two things that brought Kisagotami to peace: very bad suffering and a piece of good luck. She was able to make use of these things, instead of being eaten alive by her suffering, as so many people are. For Kisagotami, death was not something that she could avoid, something she could forget about or ignore.

There are lots of kinds of suffering in this lifetime, but it is possible that the suffering of a mother who loses a child, especially a young child, is the worst possible suffering that there could be. I have practiced closely with several mothers who have been through this. I know from them, a little bit, how hard it is and how long it takes to digest this reality.

So this was Kisagotami’s practice. She says in her poem, “The great dark is torn apart.” The dark is her grief and her fear. When something like this happens, the realization of your worst fear, the whole world and everything in it, outside and inside, becomes fearful. The fear is like a dark curtain that separates yourself from your life. She doesn’t say, “I tore the curtain apart.” She says, “The curtain is torn apart.” When she is willing to come closer, to become quieter, more intimate with her fear, it opens up of itself. She says, “Death too, you are destroyed.”

Maybe you were struck yesterday, as I was, when I read one of the lines that Zen teacher Maurine Stewart wrote. She was talking about the Buddha’s awakening. She said, “He realigned himself with the situation around him.” That was her description of the Buddha’s awakening: “He realigned himself with the situation around him.” The basic human situation is a given. The particular situation of our lives is given to each of us. We don’t turn it into something else, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. We realign ourselves with the situation, and the whole world then becomes different.

When we sit down on our cushions, we are realigning our body and heart to our situation. If sitting is sometimes painful in the body or in the mind or in the heart, that is why. Because if your body and mind are distorted, it is painful to realign them.

Sickness, old age, and death are not something at the edge of our lives. They are something at the center of our lives, always. The Bible sounds like it is telling us that sickness, old age, and death are somehow a mistake. These things wouldn’t exist, but we sinned, and that’s why they exist. But I don’t think this is what the Bible really means. God gives us life, and there is no life without sickness, old age, and death. On every moment, there is sickness, old age, and death. The beauty of our lives is inseparable from sickness, old age, and death. Where there is a body, where there is a world, there will always be sickness, old age, and death. It’s right there.

One or two of us sitting here in the room, myself included, are not so far away from old age. Maybe some of us have parents, who are not so far from old age or who have already died. Of course, we try not to think about old age. After a while, it becomes impossible not to think about it. But old age might not be so tragic or so terrible. Yes, there may be many unpleasant sensations, but there were unpleasant sensations before. When you are really able to feel the unpleasant sensations, it’s not that bad, as long as you don’t make an inventory of them, and then make a theory about it: I am getting old, and now I am scared that it is going to get worse. If you can avoid putting those labels on those things and feel what you feel every day, it’s not so bad.

Also, old age brings tremendous advantages. I don’t know about here, but in the States, you get discounts! Also, I think in old age, there can be a lot more peace. If we are lucky, and we pay attention to our lives, when we are old, we can say just as Kisagotami says, “What had to be done has been done.”

This makes a big difference. You don’t have the pressure anymore of finding a life. It’s very hard to find a life, and you don’t worry about that so much in old age, unless by then, you have still not found a life.

Death brings peace, and as Maurine said, “great peace.” Those were almost her last words. In the story of the Buddha under the tree, he attains awakening like the great hero. We are celebrating that this week. At that time, the Buddha was still a young man. He went on to practice with others for many years and lived to old age, speaking dharma talks every day, with no days off. As we say in Zen, “Without ever uttering a word.”

The tradition tells us that Buddha did not attain complete awakening. As long as he was living in a human body, there was still some sin. Still some work to do. In Zen we say of the Buddha, “He is only halfway there.” Practice goes on. Awakening is just the beginning. It continues to unfold. In the Buddha’s case, he did attain complete awakening. He lay down between two sala trees and entered nirvana completely. This was his true and final awakening. To us, on the outside, it looked like the Buddha died, but actually there is no death. There is only letting go of our life and coming home. At that time of our lives, we are all the Buddha. Until then, and possibly even after that, we continue our practice.

There are many paintings which depict the moment of the Buddha’s ultimate nirvana. In these pictures we see the Buddha lying down on his right side, between the trees. Usually, in the middle of the picture, or slightly lower than the middle, there are plants and animals and people and all kinds of creatures. If you look closely, you notice there are two kinds of people. There are celestial bodhisattvas that have beautiful smiles on their faces, with jewels and beautiful hairdos. Then there are monks and nuns who look miserable and are crying. To grieve at the time of loss is human. To cry when we are about to leave this world, or to cry when someone we love is about to leave this world is natural and painful. Our teachers, our loved ones, our parents, our spouses, even sometimes our children die, and we cry bitter tears. But also, with our practice, we become celestial bodhisattvas. We see love in the middle of the loss. We feel the joy of letting go, and we feel the love coming to fill the absence created by the loss. This is what Kisagotami found and what many others have found. This is how she can be crying tears and say, “I’m not crying.”

So, our heroic journey is complete, and it is just beginning.

edz

“Enlightenment or Not”- Case 62 of the Book of Serenity

Norman speaks on the Koan Mi Hu’s “Enlightenment or Not” Case 62 in the “Book of Serenity” Thomas Cleary edition.

“Enlightenment or Not”- Case 62 of the Book of Serenity

By Norman Fisher | November 29, 2009

Abridged and edited by Barbara Byrum and Cynthia Schrager

My subject for today is Book of Serenity, Case 62. Introduction to the case:

Bodhidharma’s highest truth, Emporer Wu’s confusion; Vimalakirti’s teaching of nonduality, Manjusri’s verbal excess. Is there anyone who has the ability to enter in actively?

Case:

Mi Hu had a monk ask Yangshan “Do people these days need enlightenment or not?”Yangshan said, “It’s not that there is no enlightenment, but what can be done about falling into the secondary?” The monk went back and reported this to Mi Hu. Hu deeply agreed with this.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Book of Serenity, it is a collection of one-hundred Zen stories. They all have little introductory remarks, and there is a poem at the end of each one. There is a fairly lengthy commentary to the main case and to the poem. The cases were selected and the poems were written by a monk named Hongzhi, who, I think, is from the 12th century, the height of the Song dynasty. The commentaries are all by another monk, Wansong.

In commenting on the stories that Hongzhi collects, Wansong often explains them by telling other stories. So here is another story that Wansong tells in his commentary. This happened before the events of the main case.

A monk had previously asked Mi Hu, “Do the eminent sages since antiquity arrive at the real truth?” Mi Hu said, “Yes.” The monk said, “If it’s the real truth, how can it be arrived at?” Mi Hu then gave a very interesting answer to this. “When Huo Guang sold a phony silver city and gave the receipt to the chief of a foreign tribe, whose doing was this?”

This cleared up the monk’s problem, because after he heard this answer, he was very appreciative. The problem that the monk was bringing to Mi Hu is something that we can all relate to, because we all read books about the great spiritual masters of the past and of the present. We find their stories and sayings very inspiring, but what do they really mean for us? What can we actually do with them? Are these masters and sages just exceptional people? Do we read their words as we would read the words of a great novelist or poet or philosopher? Is there some truth that is being conveyed that we can actually access? If there is, how do we hold that truth? How do we make use of it?

The monk asks, “Do the sages of antiquity arrive at a real truth that we can make use of to transform our lives?” Mi Hu says “Yes. Yes they do!” There is truth that we can really make use of. But how? What is that truth? How can the truth be something that can be conveyed in words?

That’s why when Mi Hu says there is a truth, the monk wonders: If there is a real truth, how could they arrive at it? How could it be something that they grasp and then somehow put into words? How do we understand the teachings that we receive, when we know that the truth cannot really be reduced to words or expressions? It can’t really be some external thing out there. It has to be something that activates our lives and turns them around. So how is that conveyed through the teachings?

Mi Hu’s reply, as we learned, was a question: “When Huo Guang sold the phony silver city and gave the receipt to a chief of a foreign tribe, whose doing was this?”

The Book of Serenity is full of obscure, Chinese legends and stories from different classics. I can usually rely on Wansong to explain these references in his commentaries, but in this case, Wansong doesn’t say a word about this story. So I don’t know where it comes from or what’s behind it, but the basic idea is clear enough. The real truth and the teachings based on that truth are like a fake city – a precious silver city to be sure – but phony. Not real. Not solid. This does not mean it is unreal in contrast to something else that is real – like you, me, the world, suffering. No, the city is unreal in exactly the same way that everything is unreal. Like a dream, a fantasy, a flash of lightening, a dew-drop, a bubble, a lantern, a light show.

There is nothing to hold on to. That is the truth, and that saves us. There is no one to accomplish this truth, and no one to possess it. It is just the way things are. So to this rhetorical question, “Who’s doing is this?” the answer is, “No one is ‘doing.'” And yet the Ancients did arrive at this truth.

Anyway, all that happened before the case. It is a background for the case. You can imagine that Mi Hu was really thinking about the monk’s question. I think he was turning it over in his mind, and he wanted to get another opinion, like a doctor who is thinking about a case, saying, “Let me call a colleague and get a second opinion.”

The great Yangshan was from the so-called golden age of Zen. He was very renowned, so Mi Hu sent this monk to Yangshan to ask him a similar question. It is very similar, except here it is much more immediate. It is not about the sages of old. It is about us. It is about people of today. “Do people these days need enlightenment or not?” Yangshan said, “It’s not that there is no enlightenment, but what can be done about falling into the secondary?”

So what is enlightenment, and what good is it? Is it real or is it fake? Does it come and go? Or is it some kind of permanent condition? Is it something decisive, or is it just a thrilling moment that passes away and becomes a memory? This is the question.

These days we have been doing practice a long time, so I think we have a realistic and down-to-earth view. So, would we say that we have gotten over our old, naí»ve ideas about enlightenment? Have we come to the place where we now see that practice is a tremendous comfort to us? That we can also improve our character and our psychological well-being?

I am sure that Master Mi Hu was also practicing a long time, and he had these questions. He wanted to know what Yangshan thought about this. So in the light of that, it is very interesting to consider Yangshan’s answer, in the exact way in which Yangshan speaks of it. He does not say, “Yes, there is enlightenment.” And he doesn’t say, “No, there is not enlightenment.” He isn’t even cagey about it, like Zen guys often are: “There both is and isn’t. There neither is nor isn’t.”

What does he say? He says, “It’s not that there is no enlightenment,” which means, yes, of course, there is real illumination. There is fundamental turning around. There is real transformation. There is real truth about our human life. It goes beyond whether we are doing well or not doing well. There is real truth here. But that’s not the issue. That’s not the problem. The problem for practice is, “What can be done about falling into the secondary?”

When you read that at first, you might assume that Yangshan means that there’s enlightenment, which is primary, which is fundamental, which is absolute. Then there is the secondary – the ordinary, messed-up, troublesome lives that we are all leading. And we are always in danger of falling into the secondary. How do we avoid that? How do we keep our enlightenment shiny and fresh?

But I don’t think he is saying that. Enlightenment, which is primary and fundamental, is already the secondary – the messy. Why is that? Because as soon as you experience something, identify something, define something, know something, it has fallen into the secondary. As soon as something appears in our life as an identifiable experience, as a phenomenon in this world, it has automatically fallen into the secondary. That is, our whole life is the secondary. Enlightenment constellates delusion. It is a way of understanding delusion and vice versa. So enlightenment as such is already trouble and suffering. Yangshan is not asking, How do we avoid falling into the secondary? He is asking, What do you do about falling into the secondary?

When we sit down on our cushions and sit together over the years – ten, twenty, thirty, forty years – it really feels like all we have to do is sit down, and right away we return to our true human heart. Sitting down connects us automatically with the primary. But then, of course, as we all know, we get up. As soon as we get up, the secondary rolls on. The truth is that any experience that we have, including our experiences on the cushion, including our moments of great awakening, is already the secondary. Really, we shouldn’t even call it the “secondary.” But Yangshan calls it the secondary for a reason, because if it is the secondary, if we understand that it is the secondary, it makes us profoundly humble. Not just humble, but profoundly humble.

To me, this is the beauty and the depth of this teaching. There is, fundamentally, no need to strive for something, because we can be just as we are, and we can admit all our troubled, wounded, human feeling. We don’t have to fix it, and we don’t have to correct it. We can take it in, and admit it, and we don’t have to contrast that with some other state. We can find our heart’s ease right there in the secondary – right there in whatever comes and goes inside us and outside us – if we are truly willing to be with it. Really and truly to investigate it.

Yangshan teaches, The secondary is the practice. Fully embracing what’s within us with our whole hearts and fully investigating it and fully seeing it as our treasure. That’s the practice.

To be humble is to accept this moment and all it brings. To see through all the discouragement, or the anger, or the judgment, or the hoping, or the wishing, and just profoundly embrace and accept the situation (and accept here doesn’t mean resign yourself to some bad situation). That’s awakening: you actually see the situation. You know the situation. You know that this is it. This is my life. It’s just like this. It’s not some other way. It’s this. Pain, suffering, joy, grace, clumsiness, skill, lack of skill – this is it. It’s just like this.

Another aspect to this wonderful story, I think, can be appreciated from reading the introduction.

Bodhidharma’s highest truth, Emperor Wu’s confusion; Vimalkirti’s teaching of nonduality, Manjusri’s verbal excess. Is there anyone who has the ability to enter in actively?

These first lines refer to famous Zen stories. I’m sure that many of you know that Bodhidharma goes to Emperor Wu, and the Emperor is totally clueless, which means that Bodhidharma is enlightened. They go together; Emperor W’s cluelessness and Emperor Wu’s enlightenment depend on each other. That’s the point. Vimalakirti is silent, after fifty-three brilliant monks give their point of view – the fifty third being Manjusri, who gives a disquisition on nonduality. So Vimilakirti’s thundering silence depends on Manjusri’s chattiness; they go together.

Enlightenment and delusion are the Bobsey twins, you know? They go together. You always have one with the other. The primary and the secondary must go together. We need to understand the secondary, and we can’t understand the secondary without the primary. We can’t understand delusion without enlightenment, and we have to go beyond both of them. We have to enter our lives actively – beyond the confusion of enlightenment or delusion, or “I’m going to be healed,” or “I’m not going to be healed,” or, “I’m going to be fixed,” or “I’m not fixed.” To enter actively, with our whole heart, our life just as it is.

So I will finish with Hongzhi’s poem on the case:

The secondary – distinguishing enlightenment, breaking up delusion:

Quickly you should free your hands and throw away net and trap.

Accomplishment, before it’s exhausted, is like an extra thumb:

Wisdom can hardly know, like you can’t bite your own navel.

The full moon’s icy disk weeps in the autumn dew:

The birds are cold in the jade tree, the dawn breeze is chill.

Brought forth, great Yang distinguishes real and false:

Completely without flaw, the white jade is esteemed.

The secondary is the suffering that comes from “I’m over here. I should be over there. I’m deluded. I should be enlightened.” Or, “I’m enlightened, and look at all those dummies over there who are deluded!” This is something that we all have to go through. There is no avoiding the suffering of delusion or the suffering of saying, “This or that. I like it. I don’t like it. I want it. I don’t want it.”

We have to go through this, and we do go through it. But as soon as we go through it, we should put away the nets and traps and quickly drop whatever accomplishment there has been. It’s just like an extra thumb, a deformity that gets in the way and makes it hard to pick something up. In other words, we struggle in our practice for a period of time, and there is no getting around it. The fruit of our struggle is some understanding, some change, and as soon as that comes, put it away, get rid of it. Don’t let it get in your way! Because you have to pick up the next thing. You have to go forward in your life. Don’t let your practice be like an extra thumb that makes it impossible to grab hold of what is important. Throw it away.

Wisdom only knows emptiness, and emptiness isn’t anything. So wisdom is a not-knowing. It’s liberation from knowing. The last lines of the poem beautifully express Hongzhi’s feeling of celebration for the cold, brisk beauty of this perfect practice that we call human life: “The full moon’s icy disk weeps in the autumn’s dew/ The birds are cold in the jade tree, the dawn breeze is chill.” It’s bracing. It’s not this reality of being human. It’s beautiful, and still there are tears. “Brought forth, great Yang distinguishes real and false/ Completely without flaw, the white jade is esteemed.” A perfect piece of jade is the image for the perfect beauty of a human life fully lived.

edz

Dogen’s Time Being (Uji) 5

Norman’s fifth and last talk on Dogen’s “Uji” or “Time Being” from his classical work “Shobogenzo”. Norman uses three translations in discussing this important work on Time: 1) “Moon in a Dewdrop” by Kazuaki Tanahashi 2)”Shobogenzo Zen Essay’s by Dogen” by Thomas Cleary 3)Shasta Abbey Shobogenzo translation on line http://www.shastaabbey.org/1dogen/intro.pd The final minutes of this recording were unfortunately lost due to technical error.

Dogen’s Time Being (Uji) 5

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer | September 16, 2009

Abridged and edited by Ryusen Barbara Byrum

I thought I would just go forward and see if we can make it to the end. I will read my version of the text and make some comments. So I won’t read the Tanahashi version, and you can just follow along.*

This is section number fifteen, where we left off last time:

“Yaoshan was sent by his teacher Shitou to study with Mazu. He asked, ‘I am familiar with the Buddha’s basic teachings, but what is the main point of Zen?’ And Mazu said, ‘For the time being have him raise his eyebrows and wink. For the time being don’t have him raise his eyebrows and wink. For the time being to have him raise his eyebrows and wink is right. For the time being to have him raise his eyebrows and wink is not right.’ Hearing this Yaoshan understood and said, ‘When I was studying with Shitou, I was like a mosquito trying to bite an iron bull.'”

So this is one of the times when something sounds like it’s coming out of left field. Raising the eyebrows and winking is a reference to a particular story in Zen -a very famous story. It’s the story of the first transmission and is the beginning of the Zen lineage. Once, when Buddha was on Vulture Peak, he held up a flower. When he held up a flower, nobody understood, but Mahakashyapa in the assembly understood and raised his eyebrows. When Mahakashyapa raised his eyebrows, Shakyamuni Buddha winked. This eyebrow raising and winking was the moment when they understood each other perfectly, without using words. So, what’s the main point of Zen? He refers to that story, which is the beginning of the Zen transmission.

So, what does that story amount to? It amounts to, first of all, this sense of true meeting, true intimacy and communication between two people. It refers to meeting in a deeper sense. Every time our senses really meet a sense object, it is this kind of meeting as well. And it refers to expressing the truth and passing on the truth. So it’s an active – interactive and active – expression. It’s often the case in Zen stories, in Zen phrases, that the story has to be understood on simultaneous levels. So it means all that, but it also means any activity. Winking and raising the eyebrows means anything that goes on. Wherever there’s life, there’s activity. In other words, in Zen, transmission is simply the ongoing activity of life in its most fundamental sense.

So, Mazu is saying, “What’s the point of Zen? It is the activity, the ongoing, living activity of expressing dharma, of intimately sharing dharma.” But then, he doesn’t want to set this up as some kind of doctrine or idea, so he asserts it, he denies it, he says it’s right, and then he says it’s not right.

So it sounds like, “Oh, God, there they go again, those Zen guys. They can’t leave well enough alone. They have a nice thing there, and then they have to go and muddy it all up with all these paradoxes and tricky ways of speaking. Why do they have to do that all the time? That is so predictable. Why do they do that? And doesn’t it make it sound like this doesn’t mean anything? It could mean anything. And it’s up for grabs, you know.”

But I think there’s a deeper point to it, as I look at it, and it is really the same point that Suzuki Roshi makes when he says, “Not always so.” In other words, isn’t this what we do? We get a really good idea, and then we set that up. We put out a shingle. A Zen shingle. And before you know it, we have customers, and then we have bills to pay, and taxes, and then we get in fights, and everything goes bad. So don’t put up a shingle. Don’t have a fixed truth. Don’t have a doctrine. That doesn’t mean there isn’t absolutely the right thing to do, the correct thing to do on every occasion. It’s just that it is different on every occasion.

So Dogen goes on: “Mazu’s expression is unique. Eyebrows and eyes are mountains and oceans, and mountains and oceans are eyebrows and eyes.” And again, you could understand this on two levels. On the one hand, it is symbolic. Mountains are like Mahakashyapa’s raised eyebrows. Mountains stand for the time of training, the student climbing the mountain of practice. And oceans are like Shakyamuni Buddha’s winking – the ocean of enlightenment, the ocean of awakening. But also, at the same time, mountains and oceans are just mountains and oceans – in other words, the actual mountains and oceans of this world – in all of their deep time, their primordial time. Every object of this world – every mountain and every ocean – is as it is, the whole of the truth. So everything in our lives, every moment is the whole of the truth, if only we could enter that moment.

To “have him raise the eyebrows” is to see the mountains. To “have him wink” is to understand the oceans. He is “right” because the whole world arises in him, and he comes alive through the activity of raising the eyebrows and winking, which he naturally does according to his conditions. He can also be “not right,” but this does not mean that he doesn’t raise his eyebrows and wink. There is no “not right,” just as there is no non-winking or non-raising. Something is always raising and winking, and we call it “right” or “not right.” In other words, raising and winking means life’s activity, which is always going on. So the whole world comes alive in our activity, and our activity is whatever it is, according to our conditions. We’re all different, and we all have different situations, inside of us and outside of us. But whatever it is that is given to us to be doing in this moment of our lives, the whole of the mountains and oceans of enlightenment are always there. So we are always “right” in the absolute sense, just because we are. We are always exerting our lives, and we can’t be not right, because we are. In other words, there’s a certain rightness in what is, when we really, profoundly appreciate what is.

Yet, also, in a relative sense, we do have right and wrong. We have right and not right. So Dogen is saying all of this. He is saying, “Yes, we honor the relative world of right and not right, but in the most profound sense, all of our activity – just being our activity, whatever it is for us – is the moment of transmission, is the moment of truth. It is the whole of Zen.”

Dogen goes on,

“Mountains are time and oceans are time. If not, there would not be mountains and oceans. Don’t think of mountains and oceans as one thing and time as something else. There is no other time but what is arising now. If there were, time would be cancelled out, and mountains and oceans would not exist. But time is never cancelled out, and mountains and oceans arise. And that’s why Buddha sees the morning star, awakens, and raises a flower. Seeing the flower, Mahakashyapa raises his eyebrows, and Buddha winks. This is time. This is every moment of time. This is the depth, the is-ness, the echo of time. All of time. All of the time. For the time-being.”

Number 16:

“Zen master Guixing of She is the heir of Shoushan, a descendant of Linji. One day he taught this: ‘For the time-being, awakening arrives, but not expression. For the time-being, expression arrives but not awakening. For the time-being, both awakening and expression arrive. For the time-being, neither awakening nor expression arrives.’ “

So it’s similar in a way – the four-part statement, which runs through all the possible negations and affirmations. It is typical in Zen, but it comes from the logic of Indian Buddhism. Here it is referring to one of the most important issues that is always raised in Zen practice: the relationship between the state or experience of truth or awakening, and the expression of it. The issue of expression is a huge thing in Zen. Zen is not really about meditation. Zen is really about action, about expressing your life. The relationship between the awakening and the expression of awakening is really important. So that is what he is talking about. Sometimes awakening arrives but not expression; sometimes expression but not awakening; sometimes both; and sometimes neither.

So I can explain these four positions in two different ways. You could think of them as stages of practice – one leading to the next. Or you could think of them as four ways of responding, as four possible ways of responding to situations, and – as I mentioned before – both interpretations are simultaneously true.

As stages of practice, the first stage is that we practice for awhile, and we begin to really feel our awakening. We really begin to feel the truth of the teachings, but we can’t express it. We don’t really know even how to think about it, let alone how to express it to someone else. It’s beginning to dawn on us, we’re beginning to feel it, but we don’t know what to make of it. In the second stage we now have gone further, and now we can express the truth, but as soon as we express it, we lose track of it, because we’re not really ready yet to express it, and we are caught by our expression. Maybe we don’t know that or maybe we do. Maybe every time we open our mouths, it sounds wrong. In the third stage we are finally ready to express ourselves. The truth is full within us, and we can express it. In the fourth stage we realize that that was too much. In other words, we realize that there is a subtle grasping going on there. We think that we are practicing Zen. We think we know something about it. We think we’re expressing it. So eventually we let go of all of that. We don’t think there is any awakening. We don’t think there is any special expression. We just think we are living our lives. Perceiving what we perceive. Responding according to the request.

So that is looking at the saying as four stages. Looking at it as four responses, it could be something like this. The first one: There is awakening but no expression. Just observe your life with love. Observe what happens with love. No need to respond. Just be with everything as love. Nothing is required. The second one: Forget about awakening. Forget about love and just respond like a human being. Just be ordinary and do what everybody does. Sometimes it’s too passive to observe with loving eyes and not respond. The building is on fire, so run outside. Grab somebody and take them out. Third: Respond with that loving-kindness. Respond with that awakening. The fourth: Respond in the sense by non-response.[DR4] Without any feeling of responding or not responding, without any feeling of awakening or non-awakening, just let go in everything you do. Go beyond everything that you do.

So now Dogen goes on to explain: “Both awakening and expression are the time-being. Both the arriving of the awakening and the expression, and the non-arriving ofawakening and expression are also the time-being. Before a moment arrives, its non-arriving is already here.”

I think the point here is to notice how right away we want to objectify time, as though it were some substance. Dogen is saying time is nothing – which is why it is everything. So it’s not a substance; it’s not a thing. It’s not like some kind of goo that is spread all over everything. Now there’s a plop of goo here, and there’s another plop of goo over there. It’s not like that. “Even when a moment of time is not here, it’s already here. All of time is arising now; even the non-arising is its arising.”

Then Dogen goes on: “Awakening is a donkey. Expression is a horse.” Using an old, commonplace Chinese saying. Donkey and horse, colloquially in ancient Chinese, meant ‘this and that.’ But in Zen the donkey was taken to mean an ass – somebody who is plodding along. And the horse is a stallion, which is galloping and leaping. So the donkey is like somebody who is struggling to study the Way, and a horse is like someone who has mastered the Way. “Awakening is a donkey and expression is a horse.” And here I am adding in my translation an explanation – “The hard work of practice in the trenches is awakening. The galloping tongue of a Zen master is expression. Being full of the teaching is expression – like the teacher. Never having been empty of the teaching is awakening – like with the student. Arriving [in the sense of arriving at awakening or arriving at understanding] does not mean that you have come from elsewhere. Not yet having arrived doesn’t mean that you are not already there.”

So if you have the experience, “Oh my God, this is enlightenment. Now I’ve got it,” this would be a sure sign that you have no idea what you are talking about, because you think that it arrived from elsewhere, and it wasn’t here before. The feeling is more like, “Oh! They were right. There is nothing to it. There never was. It’s always there this way.”

“Awakening, expression, being a student, being a teacher – then and now, yesterday and today, accomplishment and non-accomplishment – all are just pictures.” So, again, one of our themes tonight is an image or a concept of Zen simultaneously standing for several things. And all those things are important to keep in mind. So here I have used the language of teacher and student, but also it could be relative and absolute, or deep time and conventional time. These are all analogues of one another. “Student’ in Zen stands for the conventional – the effort. “Teacher” in Zen stands for the absolute – being fully realized. They are just positions. They’re just temporary pictures. Ultimately they are all the time-being, so they are all of ultimate value. It’s just shifting positions.

Number 17: “The time-being is like that. A moment is completely covered by its own time, but not by its before and after. Before and after are completely covered by before and after, but not by now.” So it’s as if he is saying that yesterday, today, and tomorrow are all right here. But it appears as if only today is here, because today covers today, and before and after cover before and after. It’s not that yesterday doesn’t now exist. It’s just that yesterday is covered by yesterday, and now is covered by now. Let me go on a little bit, and you will see how he does it. He uses “covered,” because the irony is – and the strangeness of our lives is – that things appear, and that’s why they are unknown to us. [I am afraid it is getting a little thorny here.] It’s as if the appearance of things blocks our knowing of them. It’s as if the absence of things is more real than the appearance of them. So appearance covers our lives. It’s like the old saying in Chinese, “A finger tip can’t touch itself.” It cannot experience itself. A moment of time, in appearing, covers itself. The covering is more than the conceptualization of it; it’s the actuality of its being there. It actually gets thornier, because the word sources from the word “hindrance.” It means blocking or obscuring your thought, with the implication that if you could remove that obscuring, you could have clarity.

Dogen often uses Buddhist terminology in a really sophisticated way, and the opposite way from how it is usually used. On the one hand, he is using the word “hindrance” and the word “cover” to indicate the actual existence of something. The existence of anything is its own hindrance. Because you exist, you can’t understand yourself. If you didn’t exist, there would be perfect understanding! So existence is, itself, its own hindrance; but without that hindrance, it doesn’t even appear.

“So before and after are completely covered by before and after, but not by now.” So they don’t appear as now. They only appear as before and after. “The time of awakening completely covers awakening. The time of expression completely covers expression.”

So the comment here is what I was saying before – that this is why we can never understand time, and we can never understand ourselves: Because in every moment that moment is completely covered. It’s overwhelmed by its own being. So when we’re awakened, we don’t know it. When we’re teaching, we have no idea that we’re teaching.

There is a sense of the beauty and intimacy in this. It’s always here in our lives. This is why practitioners could go into a cave and meditate for twenty-five years and not think that they were alone. This teaching tells you that every moment of being alive, of entering deep time, is completely embracing everything. Being embraced by everything. There is no way not to be sharing the joy of life, moment after moment, with everything.

* editor’s note: the quotation marks indicate Zoketsu’s translation of the Tanahashi version of the Dogen text.

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Dogen’s Time Being (Uji) 4

Norman’s fourth talk on Dogen’s “Uji” or “Time Being” from his classical work “Shobogenzo”. Norman shares this talk with Jay Simoneaux, the shuso for this practice period. Norman uses three translations in discussing this important work on Time: 1) “Moon in a Dewdrop” by Kazuaki Tanahashi 2)”Shobogenzo Zen Essay’s by Dogen” by Thomas Cleary 3)Shasta Abbey Shobogenzo translation on line http://www.shastaabbey.org/1dogen/intro.pdf.

Dogen's Time Being (Uji) 4

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer and Jay Simoneaux| September 9, 2009
Location: Deer Run Zendo

 

Abridged and edited by Ryusen Barbara Byrum

 

Last week I was saying that there is a paradox inherent in this text that we're studying. On the one hand, Dogen is communicating to us something about our lives that is important, a religious truth that he passionately wants us to get. He wants us to understand that our life as it is, even with all of its imperfections, is always immense, always whole, always profound. He knows that we don't understand this about our lives, so he really wants to tell us this. On the other hand, the paradox is that he doesn't want to make this into a concept, a doctrine, or a belief, because he knows that as soon as we make it into a concept, doctrine, or belief, it will be just another form of bondage. It won't be that which he is trying to tell us. So, in effect, he is desperately and passionately trying to communicate something to us which, at the same time, he wants to cancel out and erase – even as he is telling us.

Last time I was discussing the idea that we're not going to make [Dogen's teaching on time-being] into a doctrine, or hold onto a concept about our lives, and that we have to be willing to let go at every point. This is something that we have to deal with all the time. So, unfortunately, we've got fixed ideas – like the idea of "me." There's a big difference between "me" as a concept that I am clinging to, and "me" as an ongoing flow of experience. This ongoing flow of experience is more like what Dogen is speaking about.

I had asked us all to look this week at our fixed ideas, our concepts, and to see if we could identify them. To see what it felt like to let them go, to see what it felt like to hold onto our ideas – even our ideas about who we think we are and what we think we're doing. Could we not be so fixed and rigid about those ideas? What would that feel like? What does it feel like when we notice our self-concept or ideas about our lives? We do hold them rigidly, so what does that feel like?

And now let's hear from Jay.

[Jay Simoneaux speaks:]

Sixty years go by, and you wake up one day, and you're sitting behind a lectern, wondering what to say about Dogen. Norman asked me to start with reading a couple of the sections from Time-Being. So this is section 12:

You may suppose that time is only passing away, and not understand that time never arrives. Although understanding itself is time, understanding does not depend on its own arrival. People only see time's coming and going, and do not thoroughly understand that the time-being abides in each moment. This being so, when can they penetrate the barrier? Even if people recognized the time-being in each moment, who could give expression to this recognition? Even if they could give expression to this recognition for a long time, who could stop looking for the realization of the original face?According to the ordinary people's view of the time-being, even enlightenment and nirvana as the time-being would merely be aspects of coming and going.

So I wrote my own version of this paragraph: "The future remains a concept. The idea of ourselves projected forward, never to arrive. Realization and truth abide whether or not we understand. Our usual sense of time, something arriving from the future and receding into the past, clouds and covers entry into the present moment of awareness. When can we get past our conceptual world view? Who is it that can express realization? Who is it that can really put aside seeking advantage? From our ordinary viewpoint, realization and nirvana would merely become ornaments decorating our personal histories. This is called swimming with our boots on."

Section 13:

The time-being is entirely actualized without being caught up in the nets and cages. Deva kings and heavenly beings appearing right and left are the time-being of your complete effort right now. The time-being of all beings throughout the world in water and on land is just the actualization of your complete effort right now. All beings of all kinds in the visible and invisible realms are the time-being actualized by your complete effort, flowing due to your complete effort. Closely examine this flowing. Without your complete effort right now, nothing would be actualized, nothing would flow.

Dogen says that our whole-hearted, sincere practice actualizes the time-being, that it brings it into effect and sets it in motion. Somehow our best effort, graceful or not, brings forth the entire universe, and this universe remains free from ideas and concepts. Dogen says that we must look closely at this point.

When I learned that I was going to be shuso, I went for a practice interview with Norman. I confessed my deep unease and fear of speaking publicly in sesshin. Norman, in his usual way, was attentive and understanding. He said, "Yes, these talks can be nervous making. Even more so, talks during sesshin. You become sesshin nervous." Gulp! Then the very next day, Norman announced at a gathering, "In addition to the talks at sesshin, Jay will give two seminar talks on Dogen." Gulp, gulp!

So these talks have weighed on me over the last several weeks. And my homework consisted of thinking about, "Who is it that gets so nervous, speaking to his friends? And who is it that gets so upset about what he is going to say or not say or say wrong?" Sometimes that offered relief, but not often. [Laughter.] Mostly I have existed in what I would call "a warm panic."

What do I have to say about Dogen? I have two basic responses to his writings. The first response is that I get a glimpse of the dharma. This is like catching something out of the corner of my eye – a glimmer in the shadows. And when I turn to face it fully, it's gone. It's not graspable, but still a sense of inspiration lingers. The second response to his writing feels something like facing an impenetrable thicket of entangling vines – no way in and no way out.

This morning I was at work at a construction project, working with some really friendly, nice, good carpenters, and I said, "I'm out of my mind with nervousness. I've got to give this talk."

And they said, "Talk? Well, what are you going to talk about?"

I said, "Well there's this 13th century mystic named Dogen, and I have to say something about Dogen."

And they said, "What did Dogen say?"

Now you have to understand that we're in a job site. It's loud. People are running around. There is dust in the air. There's hammering and sawing. It's crazy, and so they asked me about Dogen.

I said, "Actually we're talking about time. How I'm always placing myself in the future, and that makes the future seem real, and it makes my imaginative picture of myself seem real." I thought that was pretty good. [Laughter.]

Then Michael, my good friend Michael – a terrific carpenter, a great guy – said, "Well, that's silly. If we don't plan for the future, nothing will happen."

I thought he had a good point. [Laughter.]

So sometimes Dogen's poetry for me is a breath of fresh air. At other times, more frequently, I am lost; I am adrift. Maybe this was Dogen's intention: Reveal the dharma and then dismantle any and all concepts we want to construct around his teaching. So my experience of studying Dogen is up and down. Some phrases really inspire me, and some knock me out. For example, the end of section eleven, which we read last week:

Vigorously abiding in each moment is the time-being. Do not mistakenly confuse it as non-being. Do not forcefully assert it as being.

To me that is so beautiful. It just knocks me out. It calls out, "Let's try some zazen." It is really compelling. I think I heard that in several peoples' comments tonight – about holding ourselves not so strongly. Not holding views so strongly.

One of the things I want to talk about is moments. The term "moments" is used quite a bit by Dogen and by Katagiri Roshi and by the Buddha.

Vigorously abiding in each moment is the time-being.

So what is a moment? Are moments the building blocks of time, where a bundle of moments makes a second? And sixty seconds makes a minute – minutes, hours, and so on, for a lifetime? Is a lifetime moments stacked one on top of the other? Or are the moments "vigorously abiding" something else entirely? I have been looking for moments this last week. Webster's defines moments as "indefinite, short period of time." So while moment as a word is concrete and seems like it refers to something real, something measurable, it really refers to something absolutely vague and unbounded. I can't locate a moment. Where is it? What is it? Before, I thought I knew; and now, not so much.

Another aspect of Uji that I want to mention is the description of the real present in contrast to our usual understanding of time. This is from Katagiri's book Each Moment is the Universe:

In being-time, Dogen Zenji constantly encourages us to see time from a different angle by being present at the source of time. The source of time is the place where you can see your human life from a broad view. We usually think of time as streaming from the past through the present to the future. But at its source, time is not like that. There is no stream of time from the past to the present to the future.

This is the part I really like:

The past is already gone, so it does not exist. The future has not yet come, so it also does not exist. So the past and future are nothing. No time. Then, is the present all that exists? No. Even though there is a present, strictly speaking, the present is nothing, because in a moment it is gone. So the present is also nothing. Zero. No time, no present, no form of the present. But the nothingness is very important.

The real present is not exactly what you believe the present to be. In everyday life we constantly create some idea of what the human world is, because we are always thinking about how things were in the past or how things will be in the future. When you are thinking about the past and future, the contents of the present are just imaginary pictures of the past and future – pictures fabricated by your consciousness, so it is not the real present. The real present is the full aliveness that exists before your conceptual thinking creates an imaginary world through human consciousness.

I really enjoy this, because I can make some sense of it, and for a moment I am not covered in doubt.

Barbara Byrum emailed me this really great question. "What do you think the relevance of Uji is for our everyday practice?" And that's my question. So what do you think? What is the relevance of Uji to our everyday practice? Does it have relevance to your practice?

[Norman continues:]

I attended those talks that Katagiri Roshi gave at Green Gulch in the late eighties. So when you were reading, just now, it was like I was there again, in that moment. Sometimes I have that experience – whether it is memory or experience, it is very strong. And I could feel my body sitting there. I remember the spot in the room where I was sitting when he was giving that talk. And maybe he was saying those things that you were just quoting. So, just now, it was a very immediate experience of that – more than a memory. It actually seemed like that moment was very real. Tonight. So it's strange, don't you think? We're always living in that kind of situation. You were saying those words, so that evokes that experience in me, but where was that time? It was there anyway. You didn't make it appear by quoting that. It was already there, and so my whole past was already there in every moment. I guess I have a weird everyday life, because, for me, that kind of experience is thoroughly typical. There is a strange quality of time that's there in everyday life. There's a depth to everyday experience, because it's everyday experience for the time-being. The time-being always has this in it. Maybe I'm just weird.

[Jay speaks:] I think so. [Laughter.]

[Norman speaks:] It's a kind of déjíá vu. I wrote about it in Sailing Home. To me, déjíá vu is not some strange, quirky thing. It's a powerful experience – time.

edz

Dogen’s Time Being (Uji) 3

Norman’s third talk on Dogen’s “Uji” or “Time Being” from his classical work “Shobogenzo”. Norman uses three translations in discussing this important work on Time: 1) “Moon in a Dewdrop” by Kazuaki Tanahashi 2)”Shobogenzo Zen Essay’s by Dogen” by Thomas Cleary 3)Shasta Abbey Shobogenzo translation on line http://www.shastaabbey.org/1dogen/intro.pdf.

Dogen's Time Being (Uji) Talk 3 of 5

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer | September 2, 2009

 

Abridged and edited by Ryusen Barbara Byrum

Last week we were reading in Uji about the past as a place in time, a unit in time, or as a flavor of time. Does the past actually exist or not? What does the past feel like? And when we say the past, do we think about being a child, or the past an hour ago, or the past a moment ago? How does it condition the present? What's the feeling tone or flavor of passing time in your life? We were asking everybody to tune into that during the week. See if you can notice how time in the past, whatever that may be, surfaces and affects your days.

I would like to continue with what I was doing before. I'll read a section from Kaz's (Tanahashi) translation; I'll pause a moment for everybody to digest that; and then I'll read my interpretive version of that same section.

So we're up to the eighth section:

The time-being has the quality of flowing. So-called today flows into tomorrow, today flows into yesterday, yesterday flows into today. And today flows into today, tomorrow flows into tomorrow.

Because flowing is a quality of time, moments of past and present do not overlap or line up side-by-side. Qingyuan is time, Huangbo is time, Jiangxi is time, Shitou is time, because self and other are already time. Practice-enlightenment is time. Being splattered with mud and getting wet with water is also time.

Just a word before I read my version of that. This is a very difficult thing to talk about. Here Kaz translates time as "flowing." Time is flowing. The Shasta Abbey translation is that time has "continuity." Cleary says that time is "passing." And conventionally that's how we talk about it. We say, "Time passes." Time doesn't stand still. Time doesn't get bigger or smaller. It seems to have an even, perfectly regulated continuity. No lumps. No glitches. No one moment jumping over another, getting out of sequence. It seems to go along really nicely. We can count on it.

The trouble is that all these words – continuity, flow, passing, and so on – are metaphors that must only make sense in relation to things. We were saying earlier that time is exactly nothing, but all these words only make sense in terms of things – as in water flows. If you're standing by the banks of the stream, there's flow, there's continuity, there's passage. You are standing on the bank watching something flowing by. But the trouble is that all these metaphors are not even inherently – though Dogen can't help but use them – what time it is about. Time is exactly not like water flowing, or like anything else that we can talk about in physical terms, because we're not standing on the bank. There is no bank. There's nothing that exists that could be out of time. So even though time passes, or seems to pass, it can't flow in the way that anything else flows.

So that is background to this section. Here's my version: "For the time-being can't ever be static or still, because it isn't anything at all. It could only move, flow, or pass, and then it is gone before it arrives. You can catch a cup of water from a stream flowing by, but you can't catch time. We speak of today, but today is already tomorrow. Today is already yesterday. But since yesterday is also not a something, it isn't anything at all. Yesterday is already today. Still, each time does have its appearance and its function, and each time holds everything. So today is already today, and tomorrow is already tomorrow. Because of this quality of time (although we can't really say that time has qualities), there can never be any glitches. Moments don't pile on top of one another, nor do they line up, end-to-end. Qingyuan is the time-being. Huangbo is the time-being. Jiangxi is the time-being. Shitou is the time-being. Because "self" is the time-being, and "other" is the time-being, these great masters are each different, and they share the time-being and do not share it. Also, they are the same, because, in essence, they are just for the time-being. That's all they are, or were, or will be – exactly like you and me. Their practice-enlightenment – and that's always one word for Dogen, "practice-enlightenment" – is the moment of practice." (The idea of practice-enlightenment is central to our practice. We're not practicing for a future enlightenment. You can see now why that term – that concept – is so crucial for Dogen. Behind it is Dogen's whole idea, his whole feeling for time.) "So their practice-enlightenment is only for the time being, as is ours. Struggling and helping each other through our struggles. This is also only for the time-being."

So, Dogen's point is that we always miss the point. We do see time as the medium in which we are operating. We do see time as flowing, with all the various fish and us in it. We think that the ancient masters are upstream. They lived in the past, upstream, and they were really great. And we are in the present, downstream from them. And we're not so great. They're enlightened and we're not. However, we have some hope that if we continue swimming downstream, we can be good enough, and we can be enlightened. This is exactly what Dogen is arguing against. He's saying "Yes, conventionally there is an upstream and downstream. Conventionally there is a self and other. But at the deepest level of reality, there isn't. Time is always just for the time-being. It doesn't come from anywhere. It doesn't go anywhere. So self and other, past and present, enlightenment and struggle, are all just for the time-being. As such, they share something much more than the differences."

Next one, section 9,

Although the views of an ordinary person, and the causes and conditions of those views, are what the ordinary person sees, they are not necessarily the ordinary person's truth. The truth merely manifests itself for the time-being as an ordinary person. Because you think your time or your being is not truth, you believe that the sixteen-foot golden body is not you.

However, your attempts to escape from being the sixteen-foot golden body are nothing but bits and pieces of the time-being. Those who have not yet confirmed this should look into it deeply. The hours of Horse and Sheep, which are arrayed in the world now, are actualized by ascendings and descendings of the time-being at each moment. The rat is time, the tiger is time, sentient beings are time, buddhas are time.

"Although we all have our views, and we all have sensible reasons and causes for those views, these views are not what we really are. They don't encompass the simple truth of our being for the time-being. That simple truth merely manifests itself for the time-being as you and me and our various views. Because we don't realize this and believe so much in our views, we believe we know who and what we are, and who and what others are. We are convinced that we are ordinary persons and not enlightened buddhas. So although this may seem touchingly humble, the truth is we're frightened of our own awesomeness. We're trying to escape being what we really are, because we think it's too much for us. But even as we try to do this, in the very doing of it, we're manifesting the time-being, and our immensity is never hidden. And if we don't see this yet, we just need to look more deeply. The hours and weeks and months and years that paint a picture of a world are nothing other than the endless risings and fallings, the shiftings and ruminations, of the time-being. Being yourself is the time-being itself. Being a buddha is the time-being itself."

Let's go on a little bit – number 10,

At this time you enlighten the entire world with three heads and eight arms; you enlighten the entire world with the sixteen-foot golden body. To fully actualize the entire world with the entire world is called thorough practice.

To fully actualize the golden body – to arouse the way-seeking mind, practice, attain enlightenment, and enter nirvana – is nothing but being, is nothing but time.

"The time-being lights up the whole world. Our anger and confusion light up the whole world. Our wisdom, our love, lights up the whole world. And the whole world lights up the whole world. That's what we call thorough practice. Becoming a buddha, going through the steps and stages of a buddha's career, arousing compassion and commitment, practicing all the virtues, becoming enlightened, entering nirvana – this is just for the time-being. It's what the time-being always is, was, and will be."

I want to do just one other section, because it has to do with what I would like us to think about for this next week. The next one is section 11:

Just actualize all time as all being; there is nothing extra. A so-called "extra being" is thoroughly an extra being. Thus, the time-being half-actualized is half of the time-being completely actualized, and a moment that seems to be missed is also completely being. In the same way, even the moment before or after the moment that appears to be missed is also complete-in-itself the time-being. Vigorously abiding in each moment is the time-being. Do not mistakenly confuse it as nonbeing. Do not forcefully assert is as being.

"So just constantly investigate the time-being, and there's nothing beyond this. Even something beyond this would be nothing other than the time-being, because we can never limit, enclose, define, know, or appreciate the time-being. And still, it is completely the time-being, because half of the time-being is all of the time-being. And even a moment missed is a moment fulfilled, as is the moment before the moment missed and the moment afterward. The time-being is always completely fulfilled and incompletely fulfilled. It's just for the time-being. Don't think of it as non-being, but don't think of it as the time-being either."

So that's a good segue to what I would like us to think about and look at this coming week. Clearly, as this section makes most obvious, there is a paradox at the heart of what Dogen is doing in this essay. He's definitely trying to communicate something to us. He wants to tell us that every moment of time, every moment of being, is our life. And our life, even with all its many imperfections, is always whole and always deep, if only we could look at it. He's telling us this, and yet, he really wants to avoid making this into another doctrine, concept, or idea. We're always making everything into something. So he's trying to do this very difficult thing of trying to communicate something that he's serious about, and that's really important for our living, if not the most important thing. And at the same time, he wants to avoid making it too clear or making it too pat so that we now hold this up as a banner. He wouldn't be doing this if he didn't think that it would really make a difference to us to have the right idea about our lives. It does make a difference, and at the same time, he doesn't want us to build a big edifice out of this idea.

The implications of that for our lives are really immense, because you can't not have some idea. Dogen knows that we're going to have some idea about our lives, so we should have an idea that's fruitful, rather than an idea that is nothing but bondage. But if we cling to that idea, no matter how fruitful it is, it becomes bondage. And yet we have to have ideas and concepts and identities. So that's the point: How do we hold the things that we think? How do we hold our thoughts, our identities, our concepts in such a way that they don't oppress us? In such a way that they don't become fixed, and become cannon fodder for more suffering that is aimed at ourselves or at someone else?

For instance, our favorite idea of all: Me. This is our favorite idea, right? Me! There's a big difference between "me" as a fixed concept and "me" as a lightly held, ongoing experience. We're not looking for the disappearance of me. That will come soon enough. We're looking for the possibility of me as a lightly held, ongoing experience. What does it feel like to do that, and what does it feel like to have a fiercely grasped concept of me?

So study your fixed ideas this week. Take a look. When is it that you're holding onto a concept such as "This is what is really happening," or "This is what I really am," or "This is why I don't like this"? Whatever it is. Is it possible to hold your ideas in a different way, so that they no longer become sources of suffering? So that they can open a door towards liberation?

 

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Dogen’s Time Being (Uji) 2

Norman’s second talk on Dogen’s “Uji” or “Time Being” from his classical work “Shobogenzo”. Norman uses three translations in discussing this important work on Time: 1) “Moon in a Dewdrop” by Kazuaki Tanahashi 2)”Shobogenzo Zen Essay’s by Dogen” by Thomas Cleary 3)Shasta Abbey Shobogenzo translation on line http://www.shastaabbey.org/1dogen/intro.pdf.

Dogen’s Time Being (Uji) 2

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer | August 26, 2009

Abridged and edited by Ryusen Barbara Byrum

What I would like to do now is go through some more sections of the text, and do what I did last time: give you my paraphrase, my impressionistic, interpretive translation. I’ll pause a little bit for you to feel that section for yourself, then I’ll read my interpretation, and then we’ll see if anyone has anything to say.

I am starting at section 4 in Kaz’s version:

Know that in this way there are myriads of forms and hundreds of grasses throughout the entire earth, and yet each grass and each form itself is the entire earth. The study of this is the beginning of practice.

When you are at this place, there is just one grass, there is just one form; there is understanding of form and no-understanding of form; there is understanding of grass and no-understanding of grass. Since there is nothing but just this moment, the time-being is all the time there is. Grass-being, form-being are both time.

Each moment is all being, is the entire world. Reflect now whether any being or any world is left out of the present moment.

I’ll remind us all that in the previous section Dogen had just been talking about the self. He had been saying that when you look at the self closely, you see that the self and the world are really the same thing. If you look closely, you really can’t limit the self – it just continues on to include the whole world. He says the self arrays itself as the form of the entire world. And then he says that the self is time.

So, in other words, space is time, and self is space and time. This is one of the great, deep secrets of meditation practice. If you really sit in meditation and enter the breath fully, you see everything. You don’t need to see anything more than what is in this one breath, because everything is complete – right here.

Here is my interpretive translation:

“Understand, therefore, that there is no end to the variety and diversity of the world. And no one will ever encompass it all objectively. And yet, each and every thing in the world encompasses the whole of the world. To study this fact, to experience it, to stop wishing for otherwise and elsewhere, is the real beginning of practice. Knowing this, you are not looking for something else. You see that wherever you are, whatever you are, all things are always included and nothing more is needed. Knowing this, there is always the effort to understand things as they appear, and the recognition that you can never understand anything, because everything is too immense to be understood.”

There’s actually a wonderful footnote for this very passage in Cleary’s translation. He said the following: “Clarifying and sharpening relative understanding, while at the same time being aware of the ultimate inconceivability of existence in itself, is a Zen art.” I think that is really good. It is one of the pith secrets of our practice. “Clarifying and sharpening relative understanding, while at the same time being aware of the ultimate inconceivability of existence in itself, is a Zen art.”

So the idea is that we are not uninterested in the world. We are as interested as we could be in the relative world – understanding what makes ourselves tick, what makes our friends tick, how does the world work? Why is the economy so bad? Why is the government in a mess? How can we make it better? Why are our children so confused? Why are we so confused? Whatever we can learn about the world, whatever our field of endeavor, we want to learn as much as we can and be as skillful as we possibly can about the relative world. And at the same time, absolutely understanding and never forgetting that everything is fundamentally inconceivable. You can’t understand anything. Really.

So these two things are not in contradiction. You’d think that if we recognize that everything is inconceivable, we wouldn’t bother or care to learn about anything. Who cares? Or, on the other side, if we were really interested in the relative world, you’d think that we’d abhor the idea that things are inconceivable and that we can’t understand them. But Zen is the art of holding these two things in dynamic tension, and, in fact, they support one another. Because the way in which you can understand the relative world is going to be different when you understand also that nothing can really be known. And the way you hold the fact that nothing can really be known is very different when you take a huge interest in the world around you.

And this is really the heart and soul of our practice — when you think about it, the heart and soul of zazen. Because in zazen you are not trying to push away and be uninterested in all the stuff that comes into your mind. You are interested in your body and your mind and everything that arises, but you also know that none of it explains anything. None of it can be encompassed. It is all inconceivable.

So my version was that there is the effort to understand things as they appear, and also the recognition that you can never understand anything – because everything is too immense to be understood.

I’ll go on and finish my interpretation of this section. “Since there is nothing but just this moment, ‘for the time being’ is all the time there is. Everything, in being what it is, is all the time there is. All the time there is, is all the being there is – all the myriads of worlds.” Think about it. Is this moment lacking in anything? Is it lacking in any time? Is it lacking in any world? Can you see that everything is always here, always full and complete – wherever you are and whatever you are?

So to go on a little bit. I’ll read Dogen and then I’ll give my version. Section 5,

Yet an ordinary person who does not understand buddha-dharma may hear the words ‘the time-being‘ this way:

For a while I was three heads and eight arms. For a while I wasan eight- or sixteen-foot body. This is like having crossed over rivers and climbed mountains. Even though the mountains and rivers still exist, I have already passed them and now reside in the jeweled palace and vermillion tower. Those mountains and rivers are as distant from me as heaven is from earth.

It is not that simple. At the time the mountains were climbed and the rivers crossed, you were present. Time is not separate from you, and as you are present, time does not go away. As time is not marked by coming and going, the moment you climbed the mountains is the time-being right now. This is the meaning of the time-being.

Does this time-being not swallow up the moment when you climbed the mountains and the moment when you resided in the jeweled palace and vermillion tower? Does it not spit them out?

So this is my interpretive version. What I’m doing, to a great extent, is explaining in my translation the different references and de-mystifying them. “Yet an ordinary person, with a conventional view of time and being, may understand the time-being in relation to spiritual practice like this: ‘At one point in time I was a deluded, angry person, but later on I became enlightened. That is, I went through an unfortunate past, that really existed, to a really existing present in which I am enjoying the fruits of my spiritual endeavors. And that past is far beyond me now.'”

So isn’t this what we are all hoping for? But he says, “No, it’s not that simple. In the so-called past, you were you, and as we now know, the you that you really are is all of time and all the world. So although time appears to pass away, in fact it also always remains. Time is always time. It does not truly pass into some imagined realm we call ‘the past.’ Time is always time. It doesn’t come, and it doesn’t go. So your deluded past is still here for the time being. It doesn’t go away, and you don’t go beyond it. The meaning of impermanence – of time’s coming and going – is exactly that you are time, and all of time is exactly now, here, in time, for the time-being.”

“The time being swallows up the past and the present and spits them out. Time is always eating and excreting itself. So don’t be so sure you know what the past has been. And don’t be so sure you know what’s going on right now. You should be more doubtful and more humble about your spiritual accomplishments, because you haven’t changed at all. Time-being includes everything, and also much more.”

And here I’ve added the implied doubt. I think in this passage the intention is that we would all recognize how time looks to the ordinary, average person. We’d all recognize ourselves and say, “Yeah, that’s right, that’s how it looks to me.” And what he’s telling us is that you should be more doubtful about that, and you should be more humble and more willing to experience your life, rather than measure it in terms of spiritual progress, or thinking that you have gone beyond yourself in the past, to the present, where you’re getting better. You are just committed to being with your practice and with your life in this moment – with openness and questioning and not-knowing.

[After some questions and answers.]

We can all agree there is no past. So we agree on that and then go on to the next day, and yet we experience a past. So what Dogen is saying is that we will experience a past. How do we understand that? How do we work with it? How do we live with it? What he’s saying is, “Don’t think the past is just dead behind you somewhere.” And I think we all understand this in our own way. The past is right here. Everything that ever happened to you is operative in everything you do and in every word that comes out of your mouth. We don’t know if the past ever happened or not – but we certainly know what we are now. And there it is. It’s here in our present functioning. And it’s the time-being.

It’s a very hopeful thing, in a way. Because otherwise you could say, “All these bad things happened to me in the past, so I’m screwed. There is no way that I am going to have a decent life here.” But he is saying, “No, the past is operative right here. If you enter the time-being this moment, your life is the life of Buddha. Your life is the life of awakening, regardless of the content of the past. The question is how you understand the past and how do you hold it? You could certainly understand the past in such a way that you are screwed – “No way. I give up.” And you could live that life, and a lot of people do. Or not thinking that way but just reacting to the past in such a strong way that you create problems for yourself all of the time, and you say, “Well, it’s because of my past.” Well, yes, you did have that past, but at the same time, it’s the way you’re holding and understanding that past and reacting to it that is really the source of the present anguish. If you understood it in the way that Dogen is speaking about, it’s very uplifting, and spiritually there is always possibility, no matter what happened in the past.

Okay, one more. This is number 6:

Three heads and eight arms may be yesterday’s time. The eight- or sixteen-foot body may be today’s time. Yet, yesterday and today are both in the moment when you directly enter the mountains and see thousands and myriads of peaks. Yesterday’s time and today’s time do not go away. Three heads and eight arms move forward as your time-being. It looks as if they are far away, but they are here and now. The eight- or sixteen-foot body moves forward as your time-being. It looks as if it were nearby, but it is exactly here. Thus, a pine tree is time. Bamboo is time.

So, my version: “It may be true that in the past you were deluded and angry, and that in the present, at least for the time being, you are enlightened. Yet the past and the present are both here in the high, wide, and endless vista we call ‘now.’ Yesterday’s time and today’s time do not ever go away. There is nowhere they could go to that wouldn’t also be just for the time-being. Your deluded past moves forward with you, as you are. It may seem that it is far away, but it is always with you for the time being. Sometimes it may seem close, but it is even closer than it seems. It is exactly arising now. Time-being is eternal, unmoving time. And it is the passing hours, days, months, and years of a lifetime.”

Maybe we could take a moment or two to meditate with how we hold and feel about the past – our own personal past. So settle your body and breath. When your mind is a little quiet, bring up some image or feeling that you have about the past. It could be yesterday, or it could be fifty years ago. Whatever image of the past or sense that comes into your mind first. Just breathe with that image or sense of the past and be with it for a moment. Notice how you’re feeling about it – how you’re holding it. How real you take it to be. How liberating it is. How restricting it is. How heavy, how light. Just be open and curious about it.

Let’s just do one more section, and then we’ll close. Number 7,

Do not think that time merely flies away. Do not see flying away as the only function of time. If time merely flies away, you would be separated from time. The reason that you do not clearly understand the time-being is that you think of time only as passing. In essence, all things in the entire world are linked with one another as moments. Because all moments are the time-being, they are your time-being.

So my reading of it is: “Don’t think time passes. Don’t see time passing as the only way time goes. If time only passed, there would be a gap. You would be here, and time would be over there. But as you are time and time is you, and you are here, time has not passed at all. To think of time as only passing is to misunderstand yourself – to construct a gap between yourself and yourself. Whether they exist in the same moment or in many different moments, all things in the world that are, are linked to one another intimately. Whether they are the same moment or different moments, all moments are just for the time-being. And it must be your time-being, because you are.”

Think about all the ways that things and people are different from one another. People are so different from one another. Men are different from women. People in one language group are different from people in another language group – or religion or culture. But that’s nothing compared to the differences between people and rocks. When you put rocks into it, people are almost exactly alike. Rocks are really different from people! [Laughter.] But then if you put all the people and all the rocks that exist in one category, compared to the things that don’t exist, they’re really different! I mean, what could be more different than something that is from something that is not? Right?” Think about it!

Therefore, everything that is, is very much the same. Quite connected. Quite intimate. We’re all cousins. We’re cousins with rocks and clouds. And so that’s what he’s saying here. Because we are – we are absolutely intimate with and connected with everything. And it’s personal. That’s why he says at the end that it’s your time-being. The intimacy of things is very personal and friendly to ourselves. It’s right at the heart of what we are.

edz

Dogen’s Time Being (Uji) 1

Norman’s first on talk on Dogen’s “Uji” or “Time Being” from his classical work “Shobogenzo”. Norman uses three translations in discussing this important work on Time: 1) “Moon in a Dewdrop” by Kazuaki Tanahashi 2)”Shobogenzo Zen Essay’s by Dogen” by Thomas Cleary 3)Shasta Abbey Shobogenzo translation on line http://www.shastaabbey.org/1dogen/intro.pdf.

Dogen’s Time Being (Uji) 1

By Zoketsu Norman Fischer | August 19, 2009

Transcribed and edited by Ryūsen Barbara Byrum

We’re reading Uji, which is most often translated as “The Time-Being.” It is a fascicle of Dogen’s from Shobogenzo, his great work. The main translation we’re using is the one in the book Moon in a Dewdrop – Writings of Zen Master Dogen, edited by Kaz Tanahashi.

This is a particularly unique and important writing by Dogen, because very few religious writers write specifically on the subject of time. It’s unusual that someone would take up the question of time as a religious matter, and so this essay of Dogen’s is well-known. Also, it just so happens that it has exactly the same title as a work by Martin Heidegger called Sein und Zeit (Being and Time.) This is Heidegger’s great work, and since Heidegger is probably the most seminal Western philosopher in the second half of the twentieth century, the fact that Heidegger says in many ways the same things that Dogen is saying is really noteworthy and interesting to a lot of philosophers, writers, and scholars.

We’ll read the text a little bit, and I will make some comments. Dogen is quoting here, I think, from Yaoshan, who says:

“For the time being stand on top of the highest peak.

For the time being stand on the bottom of the deepest ocean.

For the time being three heads and eight arms. [Which means a fighting demon and thus an agitated, angry mind.]

For the time being an eight – or sixteen-foot body. [That means Buddha. These are opposites: highest peak – deepest ocean. Fighting demon – Buddha.]

For the time being a staff or a whisk. [These are symbols of the Zen teacher – the realized Zen teacher who has a staff and a whisk.]

For the time being a pillow or a lantern. [These are objects that signify a monastic – the striving and struggling to be realized. Again, a set of opposites.]

For the time being the sons of Zhang and Li. [Meaning your average Joe – “Joe the Plumber.”]

For the time being, the whole earth and the whole sky.”

Last week we noted something interesting. Typically the Japanese word “uji,” which can mean “for the time being” or “at that time,” can also be translated in different ways according to the context. Often in Zen stories you will see the word “uji” in the part of the story where it will say that so-and-so became enlightened. For example, “At that time (uji), he became awakened.” Dogen’s point is that when you read the story, the phrase “at that time” is a throw-away. Who notices those words of the story? You notice the dialogue and the enlightenment. You don’t focus on the phrase “at that time.” Dogen says that the whole thing is about “at that time.” The pivot of the story is not what these guys are saying. The pivot of the story is “at that time.”

Similarly, I think Yaoshan is very innocently saying, “For the time being.” Dogen is now going to write a whole essay on the part that says “for the time being,” which I think Yaoshan didn’t mean to emphasize in his original writing. So Dogen does this very odd thing. It would be as if you were interpreting a literary text, and you decided that you would do a major book on the words “the” and “an” in Shakespeare. Shakespeare’s profound theme of “the” and “an.” That’s what Dogen is doing here.

“For the time being” here means time itself is being, and all being is time. A golden sixteen-foot body is time; because it is time, there is the radiant illumination of time.

So, this is a beautiful thought. It comes from a sutra that says, “There is not a place anywhere in the cosmos – an actual place – that the Buddha, in his many, infinite lifetimes of the past, has not practiced.” In other words, right there where Jack is sitting, at a previous time, a Buddha literally sat there and practiced meditation. And the same thing where Mary Ann is sitting. In the Avatamsaka Sutra it is not that the Buddha was in the past, but is in the present moment. If you actually had a microscope strong enough to see what was going on in the molecules of the present, you would see that on every atom of space, in this moment, there’s a little buddha sitting on top of the atom. The buddha has a whole retinue of disciples and he’s giving a dharma talk to the disciples. This whole thing is there on every atom of space, everywhere.

That is what he is saying here. Time is illuminated by the presence of awakening. It’s funny to make these little visualizations, but what they amount to is this profound thought that time and space are illuminated – the way that I would put it nowadays – by love. Think of that. Time and space are actually illuminated at all points by love. We are missing it, of course, because we are so burdened by all of our problems, but it is actually so.

Study it as the twenty-four hours of the present.

In other words, study the twenty-four hours of your day. Study them. Look for the illumination in every moment.

“Three heads and eight arms” is time;

This is astonishing, because we get it that Buddha is time. That sounds nice. But our angry, confused mind is also time, and, therefore, it is also illuminated.

because it is time, it is not separate from the twenty-four hours of the present.

So I’m going to share with you an exercise that I really encourage you to take up. This would be a great thing. Take any two sections – maybe one we’ve gone over or one we haven’t gone over – and give your own interpretative translation of it. Free translation. Following along the sentences, but doing it in a way that is actually what you understand from the text. So that is what I’ve done with section 2 and section 3 of the Kaz translation, and I’ll share those with you:

First, Dogen’s words for section 2,

Even though you do not measure the hours of the day as long or short, far or near, you still call it twelve hours [which means twenty-four hours, because the Japanese way of telling time is every hour is two hours. It means twenty-four hours of the day]. Because the signs of time’s coming and going are obvious, people do not doubt it. Although they do not doubt it, they do not understand it. Or when sentient beings doubt what they do not understand, their doubt is not firmly fixed. Because of that, their past doubts do not necessarily coincide with the present doubt. Yet doubt itself is nothing but time.

I think it’s hard to understand what is being said here. If you are a translator, and you’re really trying to stick to the text and not add extra words and explanations, something that may be clear or understood in the original would not be clear or understood in the translation. But then you feel constrained not to make it clear if that means adding all kinds of things. See what I mean? In a way, I think it is hard to grasp the meaning of this section, because Kaz is being faithful to the original, but maybe if you were a Japanese 13th century speaker, you would understand.

So now in my version I’m adding more words. It’s not a translation. It’s an interpretation. So here’s what it says: “Although we may not have actually measured the twenty-four hours of the day to see how long or short they really are…” Which is true. Who has sat down and actually measured time other than with a watch? How would you measure it? “Although we may not have actually measured the twenty-four hours of the day to see how long or short they really are, still we call them twenty-four hours, and we’re confident of their length. The traces of time, having come and gone, are clear.” A picture of you twenty years ago is different from a picture of you today, so we conclude that time has passed, because there are reasons to believe so. “The traces of time, having come and gone, are clear, so people do not doubt that these twenty-four hours have actually occurred.” So, although we haven’t verified the amount of time, we still figure that time really did pass. “But, even though people commonly have no doubt about time having occurred, they cannot know for certain that the past did occur, because it is now past and therefore cannot be concretely verified.” We assume that the past happened, but it’s passed – it’s gone – so there is no way to concretely verify that it happened. In other words, there is a lot here to be doubtful about, but we do not doubt any of it. We take it completely for granted, even though when you think about it for even a minute, there are a lot of doubtful things – about the passing of time, the amount of time.

“So though people commonly have doubts about things that they can’t be entirely sure of, in fact, they can’t even tell whether a doubt that they had in the past, or even a doubt that they had a moment ago, is the same as the doubt that they have now. And so, they should be doubtful about their doubting – not as certain of it as they so often seem to be. Doubt is doubt for the time being. Nothing more. Doubt itself is time.”

So, in effect, Dogen is – in a very skillful and logical way – pointing out that we should all be very doubtful about the passing of the day. We don’t know whether or not it really occurred, and so now we become doubtful. Then he says that even though we become doubtful, we can’t even be sure of our doubtfulness, because time is passing while you are doubting. A doubt of a moment ago may not be the same as a doubt of this moment. So all we know is that life is time. Our assumptions are probably wrong, and even our doubts about our assumptions are probably wrong.

In section 3 Dogen says:

The way the self arrays itself is the form of the entire world. See each thing in this entire world as a moment of time.

Things do not hinder one another, just as moments do not hinder one another. The way-seeking mind arises in this moment. A way-seeking moment arises in this mind. It is the same with practice and with attaining the way.

Thus the self setting itself out in array sees itself. This is the understanding that the self is time.

I think, again, that we have the same problem. In a way, we can understand the words, but the significance escapes us, I think, because of the trueness of the translation. So here is my interpretive version of that same section:

“What do we mean by me, myself? Ultimately, if we contemplate this far enough, my self, my body, my position in space, and all that is involved with it, is all-inclusive. The whole world of location is involved – each and every place and thing.” If you really think about, ‘What is me? What is my self? Where do I end?’ I think that’s where you end up. You end up realizing that the self is all-inclusive, and each and every place and thing – being as it is– is time. So the self is actually all of space and time.”

“Although it seems that things cannot occupy the same space, and so must hinder one another each vying for its space…” As in the game “musical chairs,” which is based on that idea. When the music stops, somebody doesn’t have a chair, because somebody else is sitting in it. And our whole lives are based on that. I have to get enough money, because if so-and-so gets it all, then I won’t have any. I have to get enough love, because if so-and-so gets it all, then I won’t get any. Our whole sense of the way we live is based on the fact that things hinder one another, and so we all have to stand up and get what we need, right? “Although it seems that things cannot occupy the same time and space, and so must hinder one another – each vying for its space, in fact, things, as being, do not ever hinder another, just as time moves freely without hindrance.” So time flows on. There is no problem. Does yesterday get mixed up and become today? It doesn’t happen. You don’t wake up one morning, and all of a sudden it is five years later – except in a movie, maybe. Time has a way of flowing freely without any hindrance.

Well, he says, it’s the same with everything else – things too. So then love arises as time, because that’s what way-seeking mind means. Way-seeking mind means bodhicitta. We’ve had many long discussions and months and months of seminar on bodhicitta – which is compassion and love. Way-seeking mind, which he mentions here, is love. He doesn’t use that word, but that’s how I interpret it. “So you see how the arising of things, without hindrance, flowing together, without any problems, mutually supporting everything – what is that but love? Love arises as time, and time arises as love. In the same way, ongoing effort and practice, and the joy and release of full, culminated practice, arise as functions of one another and support one another.”

This is one of Dogen’s most important ideas and one of his most profound religious thoughts – that one moment of practice is one moment of awakening. Full awakening is there in every moment of time. Buddha is in every moment, so in every moment of your practice is the full culmination of the whole of practice. Enlightenment supports your effort every moment, and your effort every moment supports enlightenment.

“And so, each of us arrays ourselves as the world. When we see the world, we see ourselves. When we fully enter time, we see that we and the world are nothing but time. Nothing but love.”

edz

Blizzard of Depictions

A talk about the essentially unrepresentable nature of Buddhism, given by Norman at the “Speaking For the Buddha?: Buddhism and the Media” conference at U.C. Berkeley on February 8-9, 2005Speaking for the Buddha? Buddhism and the Media (a conference at U.C. Berkeley). Feb 8,9, 2005.

A week or so ago there was a huge blizzard in the northeast. I was watching reports about it on television. You'd see, in the tiny box of the television, pictures of snow-covered streets and buildings, with snowflakes whirling all around. There would be a reporter standing in the foreground all bundled up in a winter parka, his or her face barely visible, clutching a cold microphone. The reporter would be saying something like "There is really a lot of snow out here!" I watched these reports in Vancouver, British Columbia, where the weather was mild, with a light drizzle.

Wittgenstein famously said, ""Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent." But he didn't mean by this that what you can't speak about is irrelevant or non existent. In fact, Wittgenstein felt that the unspeakable was the most salient reality. He also said, "The mystical is not how the world is, but that it is."

I suppose that what I am trying to say is that the world of media is not the world that I or probably most committed Buddhist practitioners live in. The world I live in is more or less difficult to talk about or to depict in any way that is broadcastable or otherwise commercially viable. It's a quiet world, an unspeakable world, an intimate world. I am not saying that I don't watch television or go to the movies or read books or pay attention to the current buzz in Washington, or Baghdad. I'm only saying that I pay attention to these things knowing that they are different from the world I live in. (Of course the intimate world I am talking about also exists in Washington and Baghdad- only you do not see it on television). I pay attention to the media because I care about all worlds, not just the ones I happen to inhabit. I also know that "Norman Fischer" exists in several worlds, including the media world. I try to be clear about the difference between the various worlds so as to avoid getting them mixed up.

I realize that the title of this conference is "Speaking for the Buddha, Buddhism and the Media," and I suppose I am saying that it is really doubtful that anyone who can appear as a spokesperson in the media, including "Norman Fischer" or the "Dalai Lama," would actually be speaking for Buddhism. Because I don't think that Buddhism – at least as I understand it – is that sort of thing. I appreciate that in the title as it appears on the website there is a question mark after the phrase "Speaking for the Buddha." I guess that I am also doubtful about the language of the conference description that reads, "The notion of what it means to be Buddhist in America is determined not only, or even primarily, by learned monastics, but also by publishers, film producers, marketers, and entertainers." As far as I am concerned, what it means to be a Buddhist is not determined by any of these.

I wanted to get that thought off my chest so that I could go on. In this panel our specific topic is authority and transmission in Western Buddhism. This is something I know about and I am happy to address it. As a Zen priest and teacher I have been given the authority to transmit the Dharma to worthy disciples, and I have done this several times. One of the things we do in the lengthy process of Dharma transmission is to study together. We study, among other things, texts of Dogen that talk about the ineffable intimacy between teacher and disciple, and between person and world, and about the fact that Zen transmission is essentially undefinable and therefore undepictable, even in the realm of thought. I am not trying to be mysterious here, and Dharma Transmission isn't anything mysterious. It's just a fact of ordinary life. In our tradition there's no test you can give to ascertain whether someone who has received Dharma transmission actually has received it. All you can do it examine the documents of transmission and hear the testimony of the people involved that the process of transmission actually took place. In the tradition, authority in the Dharma is conferred not as a reward for skill or brilliance but mostly I suppose out of a sense of faith and confidence, on both sides, in this ineffable yet quite ordinary intimacy.

Some years ago when I was involved in the formation of an organization called The North American Soto Zen Buddhist Association, a professional organization for Western Soto Zen teachers, we considered how we would choose our members. In other words, how would we ascertain who was and was not a qualified Soto Zen Buddhist teacher. In fact it was quite easy: since we all understood that there cannot be any objective, in other words, media-worthy, way to suss out a Zen teacher, all we had to do was to trust that anyone who had been through the recognized Soto Zen Dharma Transmission ceremony in a recognized lineage was in fact a Zen teacher. Within the small world of Soto Zen Buddhism in the West, which has very little media exposure, this has worked quite well.

A few months ago someone came to me asking, in so many words, for certification as a Zen teacher. This fellow who was not only a bright Zen student with lots of talent and understanding- he was also already a Zen teacher with a thriving Zen group, and several members of his group had previously come to talk to me, telling me of his compassion, wisdom, brilliance, and so on. But I had to tell him that I couldn't give him Dharma Transmission without getting to know him well, practicing side by side with him, and going through the long process that all Soto Zen Buddhist teachers go through. Although the fellow really was in some ways a good Zen teacher, I could easily see the difference (although it would be hard for me to describe it, other than with a dubious phrase like "a particular feeling for life") between how he was practicing and what he understood, and how Soto Zen Buddhist teachers practice and understand.

Even though I couldn't help him out by endorsing his teaching, I had no problem with his going on teaching if that suited him and his group. Why not? If someone has something worthwhile to teach, and if there are people around who want to learn it, and keep on showing up, who's to say that the person can't do this? And if he wants to call what he does Buddhism, or even Soto Zen Buddhism, who's to say that this is a misnomer? "But," you might object, "uncertified Buddhist teachers could be charlatans, and could do serious harm to their unsuspecting and possibly charisma- addicted students." That's true. But certified religious traditions, including Soto Zen Buddhism, are full of instances of serious harm done by certified charismatic or uncharismatic religious leaders. Real religious practice is dangerous stuff; it is hard to tell the difference between the fake and the genuine, and both the fake and the genuine have the potential I am sure to be helpful or harmful to our lives. Students just have to trust themselves and hope for the best I suppose. This is the post-modern West, after all!

The media will always be depicting something about Buddhism, and people will follow those depictions, which will always (when it comes to the Buddhism I am interested in) be incorrect. Despite the great influence of the various media on all of us, I have a lot of faith that the Buddhism I am interested in, the unspeakable, intimate, Buddhism, will persist and will be carried on through the various traditions quietly amidst the snow flurries. I have no evidence for this: I just believe it.

Any religious tradition is and has to be an open system if it going to survive. A religious tradition is constantly being revised, influenced by its surroundings, and usually this revision is not conscious or deliberate. If, as I believe, the various Western Buddhist traditions we have inherited from Asia will go on quietly, outside the media glare, they will not go on unchanged. Each practitioner effects a change in a tradition, as does the weather, the landscape, and yes, the chatter of newspaper, radio, television, internet, movies, and so on. Change is inevitable, necessary. and positive in the long run, I think, so I am not worried. To be honest with you, I feel that the post-modern media-crazed world is a bit off balance and deranged. Nevertheless somehow out of this blizzard what's worthwhile and true will emerge; at least it is cheering to hope so.

edz

Love, Loss, and Anxious Times

Fear and uncertainty mark our lives as we face our own difficulties and those of a troubled world. This article will appear in the Aug-Sept 09 issue of Shambhala Sun magazine. It is also available for download here in pdf format.

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3 Versions of the Zen Precepts

Here are three versions of the Bodhisattva precepts. The first is Norman Fischer’s version of the 16 precepts, from his book, “Taking our Places: A Buddhist Guide to Truly Growing Up.” The second version is the 16 precepts from the Everyday Zen Wedding Ceremony. The third is a version of the 10 grave precepts, with commentary by Bodhidharma & Dogen Zenji.

 

THE SIXTEEN BODHISATTVA PRECEPTS

Norman Fischer’s version

The Threefold Refuge

I take refuge in Buddha (the principle of enlightenment within).

I take refuge in dharma (the enlightened way of understanding and living).

I take refuge in sangha (the community of beings).

Pure Precepts

I vow to avoid all action that creates suffering

I vow to do all action that creates true happiness.

I vow to act with others always in mind.

Grave Precepts

Not to kill but to nurture life.

Not to steal but to receive what is offered as a gift.

Not to misuse sexuality but to be caring and faithful in intimate relationships.

Not to lie but to be truthful.

Not to intoxicate with substances or doctrines but to promote clarity and awareness.

Not to speak of others’ faults but to speak out of loving-kindness.

Not to praise self at the expense of others but to be modest.

Not to be possessive of anything but to be generous.

Not to harbor anger but to forgive.

Not to do anything to diminish the Triple Treasure but to support and nurture it.

THE SIXTEEN BODHISATTVA PRECEPTS

– from the Everyday Zen Wedding Ceremony

The Threefold Refuge

I take refuge in Buddha.

This is the stillness, the clarity, the kindness that is the real nature of all life.

I take refuge in Dharma.

This is the way of life, day by day, that accords with Buddha.

I take refuge in Sangha.

This is the community of all being that is our refuge and support.

 


The Three Boundless Precepts

I vow to refrain from all action that increases suffering.

This is the intention to always practice a wise restraint.

I vow to perform all action that increases awareness.

This is the intention to actually do what occurs to us that can make ourselves and others truly happy.

I vow to live for and with all being.

This is the intention to always try to see everything with an unselfish eye.

 

The Ten Clear Mind Precepts

A follower of the way cultivates and encourages life, does not take life.

One who is committed to following the way lives with awareness. Such a person can never knowingly harm a single thing.

A follower of the way honors the gift not yet given, does not steal.

Everything belongs to us and nothing belongs to us; but we don’t take anything unless it is offerred to us as a gift.

A follower of the way remains faithful in relationships, does not misuse sexuality.


There is no way to remain deeply in relationship without complete honesty and openness.

A follower of the way communicates truth, does not lie.


Our speech must be true and accurate and kind. We make and destroy worlds with our words.

A follower of the way polishes clarity, dispelling delusion, does not intoxicate self or others.

To share spirits moderately with friends may be all right; but intoxication as a way to relax or cope, whether it be with substances or doctrines, creates confusion and unhappiness.

A follower of the way creates wisdom from ignorance, does not criticize others mindlessly.

This precept is very important in marriage. We make an effort to be thoughtful and caring in our speech about others. In this way we can love and be loved.

A follower of the way maintains modesty, praises others, not self.


This precept is also very important in marriage. Please let each other know, frequently, how much you love and respect each other and why.

A follower of the way shares freely, is not stingy.


Since there is nothing we can possess, especially others, we approach the world and each other with open hands.

A follower of the way dwells in equanimity, does not harbor anger or ill will.


When there is anger, see it as anger; respect it but don’t keep it close; try as much as you can to let it go. Try not to let a single day end with ill will between you. There is no justification for resentment. Remember this.

A follower of the way respects the Buddha, unfolds the Dharma, nourishes the Sangha.


With the taking of these precepts we express our vow to live a life that is in accord with the sacred nature of all that is.

 

 

 

THE 10 GRAVE PRECEPTS

with commentary by Bodhidharma & Dogen Zenji

 

The First Grave Precept: Not Killing

Bodhidharma said, “Self-nature is subtle and mysterious. In the realm of the everlasting Dharma, not giving rise to concepts of killing is called the Precept of Not Killing.”

Dogen Zenji said, “The Buddha-seed grows in accordance with not taking life. Transmit the life of Buddha’s wisdom and do not kill.”

 

The Second Grave Precept: Not Stealing

Bodhidharma said, “Self-nature is subtle and mysterious. In the realm of the unattainable Dharma, not having thoughts of gaining is called the Precept of Not Stealing.”

Dogen Zenji said, “The self and the things of the world are just as they are. The gate of emancipation is open.”

 

The Third Grave Precept: Not Misusing Sex

Bodhidharma said, “Self-nature is subtle and mysterious. In the realm of the ungilded Dharma, not creating a veneer of attachment is called the Precept of Not Misusing Sex.”

Dogen Zenji said, “The Three Wheels are pure and clear. When you have nothing to desire, you follow the way of all Buddhas.”

 

The Fourth Grave Precept: Not Lying

Bodhidharma said, “Self-nature is subtle and mysterious. In the realm of the inexplicable Dharma, not preaching a single word is called the Precept of Not Lying.”

Dogen Zenji said, “The Dharma wheel turns from the beginning. There is neither surplus nor lack. The whole universe is moistened with nectar, and the truth is ready to harvest.”

 

The Fifth Grave Precept: Not Giving or Taking Drugs

Bodhidharma said “Self-nature is subtle and mysterious. In the realm of the intrinsically pure Dharma, not giving rise to delusions is called the Precept of Not Giving or Taking Drugs.”

Dogen Zenji said, “Drugs are not brought in yet. Don’t let them invade. That is the great light.”

 

The Sixth Grave Precept: Not Discussing Faults of Others

Bodhidharma said, “Self-nature is subtle and mysterious. In the realm of the flawless Dharma, not expounding upon error is called the Precept of Not Speaking of Faults of Others.”

Dogen Zenji said, “In the Buddha Dharma, there is one path, one Dharma, one realization, one practice. Don’t permit fault-finding. Don’t permit haphazard talk.”

 


The Seventh Grave Precept: Not Praising Yourself While Abusing Others

Bodhidharma said, “Self-nature is subtle and mysterious. In the realm of the equitable Dharma, not dwelling upon I against you is called the Precept of Not Praising Yourself While Abusing Others.”

Dogen Zenji said, “Buddhas and Ancestral Teachers realize the empty sky and the great earth. When they manifest the noble body, there is neither inside nor outside in emptiness. When they manifest the Dharma body there is not even a bit of earth on the ground.”

 

The Eighth Grave Precept: Not Sparing the Dharma Assets

Bodhidharma said, “Self-nature is subtle and mysterious. In the genuine,

all-pervading Dharma, not being stingy about a single thing is called the

Precept of Not Sparing the Dharma Assets.”

Dogen Zenji said, “One phrase, one verse – that is the ten thousand things and one hundred grasses; one dharma, one realization – that is all Buddhas and Ancestral Teachers. Therefore, from the beginning, there has been no stinginess at all.”

 


The Ninth Grave Precept: Not Indulging in Anger

Bodhidharma said, “Self-nature is subtle and mysterious. In the realm of the selfless Dharma, not contriving reality for the self is called the Precept of Not Indulging in Anger.”

Dogen Zenji said, “Not advancing, not retreating, not real, not empty. There is an ocean of bright clouds. There is an ocean of solemn clouds.”

 

The Tenth Grave Precept: Not Defaming the Three Treasures

Bodhidharma said, “Self-nature is subtle and mysterious. In the realm of the One, not holding dualistic concepts of ordinary beings and sages is called the Precept of Not Defaming the Three Treasures.”

Dogen Zenji said, “The teisho of the actual body is the harbor and the weir. This is the most important thing in the world. Its virtue finds its home in the ocean of essential nature. It is beyond explanation. We just accept it with respect and gratitude.”

 

 

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The Collected Poems of Philip Whalen

Norman reviews his friend Philip Whalen’s collected work.Review:
The Collected Poems of Philip Whalen
Edited by Michael Rothenberg
Foreword by Gary Snyder
Introduction by Leslie Scalapino
Wesleyan University Press, Middletown, CT

By Norman Fischer

As a cultural phenomenon, Western Buddhism has always been highly self conscious. Issues of translation, of religious renewal and decay, have been part of the discussion from the start. Despite this, Western Buddhist practitioners have been curiously uninterested in culture, preferring instead to see the Dharma as a set of scientific procedures that will produce desired impacts on the psyche.

But the fact is, religion is culture, not science.

In this light, I'm especially delighted to have in my hand the new Collected Poems of Philip Whalen, a founding document of Western Buddhist culture. To be sure, I am prejudiced: a working poet myself, I not only knew and admired Philip Whalen, I was his friend, and I have missed him daily since his death in 2002. Still, his importance as a Western Buddhist poetical pioneer is well enough established that I can be forgiven for emphasizing it again now, as this wonderful, thick, beautiful volume appears.

What is an American Buddhist poetry? It's obviously not enough merely to reference Buddhist terms; for the work to reflect, through and through, Buddhist perspectives, they must be deeply imbedded in what's written, as form, as attitude, as structure and substance. As American Buddhist poets go forth with their projects, they will inevitably be building on Philip's work. He was (more than any of the other "Beat" writers, among whom he is always included) a master of form, a bold (if humble and unself-conscious) innovator. His generational American forebears, Pound and Williams, had already broken with conventional English verse, forging a poetry that was hard-edged and inclusive. But they remained magisterial in tone and spirit. It fell to Philip, influenced by his Zen practice, to let that pretence go, writing instead a poetry that was off-handed, present moment oriented, and that could include anything that came along, not because the poet wanted it to, but because it happened to be there. Philip was the first to recognize that poems are not actually "about" anything, and no one is in charge of them. So the poem's scope could be immense, its form spontaneously arisen in the course of writing. I remember first seeing evidence of this in Phil's work in the late 1960's when I was thunderstruck and suddenly liberated from my literary struggles by the elegance of these lines about not being able to write a poem:

Worry walk, no thought appears
One foot follows rug to wood,
Alternate sun and foggy sky
Bulldozer concrete grinder breeze
The windows open again
Begin
a line may
start:
spring open, like seams of a boat high on the hot sand

(from "The Best of It" 1964)

Philip was, famously, a learned man. After the Second World War (in which he served as a radio operator) he returned home to the GI bill and went to Reed College, where he took up reading and writing in earnest, deciding that he'd devote his life to these pursuits, salary or no. He spent the rest of his life living out this promise to himself, relying on the kindness of strangers, until, after stints as a high country lookout in the Cascades, and as an English teacher in Japan, he returned to America to become one of the earliest ordained Western Zen monks.

Despite his erudition, which appears throughout his poems in the form of doodles, puns, speculations, and idle chatter ("Balzac: "brillant et tres fecond… malgre certaines/imprefections de style et la minutie de qualques de-/scriptions….")/ St. Honore preserve us against black coffee/These Japanese knickknacks & from writing ourselves/To death instead of dope, syphilis, the madhouse, jail/Suicide…) Philip was given to deceptively sophisticated recitations of plain American English. Here is the entire text of a poem called "Whistler's Mother," one of my favorites:

Mother and Ed are out in the car
Wait til I put on some clothes
Ed's in a hurry. He hasn't eaten since this morning
Wait til I put on some clothes.
Mother and Ed are out in the car. Do you have any clothes on yet?
Let me come in.
Wait til I get some clothes on
Ed is impatient. He and mother are waiting. Can I come in?
Wait til I put on some clothes.
Mother and Ed are out in the car
Wait til I get into some clothes
Can't I come in? Aren't you dressed yet?
Wait til I put on some clothes
Mother and Ed are out in the car. Can I come in?
Wait til I get on some clothes.

(1963)

No one had ever written anything like this before, not even close. What's Buddhist about it? Well, not to put too fine a point on it (and I wouldn't argue with someone who called it unBuddhist), this poem reflects what's right in front of you, with nothing added, no poetical emotion, no projected meaning, not even a striking image to set it off. True, it sounds nothing like a Japanese or Chinese poem, but then this isn't the Chinese or Japanese tradition, it's the American tradition. It builds on, and takes much further, some of Pound's and Williams' use of Ammurrican slang, as well as Stein's mindless repetition. Its about the immediacy of words themselves, taken, fearlessly, to the nth degree. And it was this powerful insight ("guess what, it turns out that writing is words, how they sound, how the look lying there on the page"), essentially Buddhist in character (there's no self or person, just what arises), that influenced poets of my generation, who built on it, as Whalen had built on his predecessors. (Leslie Scalapino, in her important introduction, writes persuasively of this).

A whole other angle on Philip's immediacy in writing has to do with his calligraphic style, his doodling and drawing, that's integral to the poetry, though seldom reproduced (editor Michael Rothenberg is aware of this, and the present volume gives us a much larger sampling of this material than has been generally available before). At Reed, Philip had studied with the great calligraphy master Lloyd Reynolds, and was early on aware of the tradition of graphic poetry that was always part of the Asian tradition. Over the years Philip worked out an analogue for it in Western calligraphy, and his journals are full of drawings, drawn words, and doodles, sometimes colored and sometimes in black and white. Some have argued that a printed poem by Philip is inevitably a translation of the actual poem, which is, as with Asian poems, an original art work.

Beyond all this brilliant formal innovation, Philip is also the first poet to intimately chronicle American Zen sights and sounds. His Tassajara Monastery poems of the late 1970's are down to earth personal documents of what it is like to live a full-on Buddhist life, and his great long poem "Scenes of Life in the Capitol," takes us into the daily life of Kyoto, with its Buddhist shrines and temple bells.

So any educated Western Buddhist needs to know this book. A life's work between two covers, document of a mind in motion, Buddha Nature as screed, it tells the story of all of us who are trying to find a way to be what and as we are, as Buddhists.