Bereft
Bereft
Offered to the Falmouth Soto Zen Sangha on October 22nd, 2024
Below is an approximate transcript of a Dharma talk offered to the Falmouth Soto Zen Sangha on October 22nd, 2024.
I am grateful to have received the invitation. Enjoy.
Tonight, I want to share how I found myself wearing these robes, as this month marks one year since my priest ordination. (In fact, in one week, it will be one year to the day since I was ordained.) The year has seen a pair of unexpected twists and turns, a tiring amount of personal growth, and insight into how I can be impatient and am still challenged to show up right-sized.
As I wrote those words, I was reminded of how a child of a particular age, upon hearing from their parent or guardian that “It is time to grow up!” will respond (without missing one beat), “But I do not want to grow up! Hrmph!”
Boy, I feel that. Anyway …
Sometimes, when I am in this sort of space—a space that we can describe as a “Buddha field,” where we come together as a sangha to practice and share the Dharma—I introduce myself as “Taishin.” This is the name I was given when I received the Bodhisattva precepts for the first time in 2015 in a ceremony called Jukai. The ideogram pronounced “Tai” means “peaceful,” and the ideogram pronounced “shin” means “heart-mind.” Together, they form “Taishin” or “peaceful heart-mind,” a name that, in my view, signifies less who I am and more who I aspire to be: someone who continually goes straight on the ninety-nine-mile curve, preferring neither this way nor that; someone who moves with the world as we often see clouds drift without anxiety through the open sky, to paraphrase W. H. Auden.
Other times, when wearing my barista apron and serving Pumpkin Spice Lattes to coffee shop patrons, I introduce myself as “Michael.” That is the name my mother gave me (and she never lets me forget it) and is interchangeable with “Mikey James”—but only by her. At still other times, when sitting on a chair in a circle in some church’s basement, for instance, I introduce myself by saying, “Hi, my name is Michael, and I am an alcoholic.” And I share this last because the story of my coming to be a priest is intertwined with the story of my becoming sober.
It is also important to share this now because talking about addiction and substance abuse can be uncomfortable and upsetting for some, whether owing to their own behavior, the behavior of a loved one, or another reason. Consider this my “heads-up” to you.
When I offer a Dharma talk, I often use poetry. For this particular occasion, I chose Robert Frost’s poem “Bereft,” which I want to read for you.
Where had I heard this wind before Change like this to a deeper roar? What would it take my standing there for, Holding open a restive door, Looking down hill to frothy shore? Summer was past and day was past. Somber clouds in the west were massed. Out on the porch’s sagging floor, Leaves got up in a coil and hissed, Blindly struck at my knee and missed. Something sinister in the tone Told me my secret must be known: Word I was in the house alone Somehow must have gotten abroad, Word I was in my life alone, Word I had no one left but God.
My aspiration to become a priest first arose in 2017. At the time, I was practicing at the Santa Barbara Zen Center as a student of Koan Gary Janka Sensei and wrapping up my doctoral studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara. I confess that the aspiration arose out of greed, from one point of view, and a desire for fame and praise, from another.
When I took part in a Jukai ceremony only two years earlier, I was part of a group of three: two women who would become my Dharma sisters, Renkei and Shinryu, knelt beside me as we took refuge, recited the Three Pure and Ten Prohibitory Precepts, and chanted the verse of the kesa. There were few Rakusus in the zendo at that time. I felt special! … because I wore a hand-stitched garment that bears a striking resemblance to a bib. Yet, time would pass—as it has an unfailing way of doing—and no longer would I feel special. I started to “hear a wind [I had heard] before \ [though without] change [… and only] a deeper roar.” I wanted to wear a much larger hand-stitched garment that bears a striking resemblance to a bed sheet! I would feel special again; only Koan Sensei wore an Okesa.
It would be six years before I would receive the precepts for a second time (and from a different Zen teacher). Although Koan Sensei and I met to discuss what it meant to be a priest and study various materials, I would move so slowly that you could have mistaken me for standing still or shuffling in reverse. And I moved so slowly because I had a problem with alcohol, and, for whatever reason, I could not bring myself to sew an Okesa and ordain as a priest until something had been done about that. Somehow, in the middle of confusion, guilt, shame, and much more, I could tell this was not the right time.
Perhaps I would have done something about the way I abused alcohol sooner if a large pile of leaves had coiled itself and hissed before me with “something sinister in [its] tone \ [Telling] me my secret must be known,” as Frost writes. That (I assume) would have not only caught but held my attention. Instead, in the five years that followed, plenty of experiences would make contact only to depart, similar to the summer season and daylight. But traces of their presence would remain; my condition would transition from merely damp to sagging, for I would:
Be arrested for driving under the influence
Miss teaching and other professional obligations, sometimes disappearing for a week or two at a time, feigning illness to my students and colleagues
Resign from my position at Purdue University near the end of my contract to hide my abuse of alcohol
Be hospitalized twice during my first term at Penn State, causing disruption and hardship for many
These are the “highlights.” Not included are dozens of relationships I damaged, people I hurt, and other (from where I currently stand) smaller events. Frost writes of somber clouds amassing in the west. Yes, they did, and those clouds followed me from California to Indiana to Pennsylvania. Some are still present, too, here in Wisconsin. I will not pretend that, since becoming sober nearly 1,000 days ago, there are only clear blue skies above me.
I fell apart completely in February 2022, went on medical leave, and checked myself into a treatment facility for severe substance abuse. I would reside there for thirty days.
Zen teachers often say it is better to ask How rather than Why. It is better to ask how to sit zazen or shikantaza than why we sit zazen or shikantaza, for instance. We must, they say, maintain an emphasis on action, on what we can do, rather than understanding, on what can only be thought about or said. Beginner’s Mind. Don’t-Know Mind. Do not lose these!
Yes—and …
Yes—and understanding has its place, too. Sometimes, how we understand a series of past actions all but determines how we will act in the future. So, I invite you to pay attention to that incessant activity between the ears, at least sometimes, and hold any judgments reached in open hands.
Plato describes thinking as the soul having a silent conversation with itself and judgment as what happens at the conversation’s end. He did not say, however, that the soul converses with itself only once—either ever or on some subject matter. People seem not to notice that. I find this amusing since much noise is made about the activity between the ears and efforts to quiet it.
Yet, such continual activity brings a constant arrival of fresh judgments, ready and able to replace those once fresh but now spoiled. Renewal (or perhaps revision) is part of the human condition. But we resist letting things change, arise, and pass away of themselves. We attach to something long gone and end up living somewhere not here.
Why did I take so long and suffer and cause suffering to so many others before admitting powerlessness and asking for help? There were plenty of opportunities, after all.
At this time, what is alive is the sheer power of attachment and aversion, the two sides of some singular coin. I was so attached, my tight grip betraying desperation, to a particular story about myself that either I would not or could not entertain the possibility that if the story were ever true, its time had passed, like a star at dawn or a flash of lightening in a summer cloud. I was so averse, stubborn, and resistant to the truth, as revealed in my present direct experience, that I persisted in an elaborate delusion for an audience of one, himself attending only part-time.
I am in awe of that, but I am also not surprised. What are we more attached to than the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and how we are related to all other things? What are we more averse to than letting go of those stories, especially when their replacements (albeit temporary) present us unfavorably?
So, I held on and pushed away and moved in that way until no amount of holding and pushing could sustain the delusion. Then, to paraphrase the Dhammapada, the house collapsed. The roof caved in as the rafters gave way. Left “I was in my life alone […] I had no one left but God.”
I adhered to a rigorous schedule while in treatment. There were group and solo sessions, some of which were educational and others therapeutic. There was also time for group and individual counseling, daily chores, and exercise. In the evenings, we had “free time,” where “free” meant a choice between several options (also on the schedule) about how to spend that time.
One option was titled “Mindfulness and Meditation.” I signed up for it each morning, but I was disappointed each evening when I discovered it was not offered (again).
After my first week, I asked a counselor why meditation was advertised but not offered. “We stopped offering it several months ago but never got around to updating the list of evening options,” I was told. “People would sign up,” he continued, “but not show up.” From somewhere came the question, “Well, can I offer and lead it? I have experience with meditation practice and leading it, too.” “Sure,” the counselor said, “though you will likely end up sitting in a room by yourself.”
The counselor printed off copies of the Lovingkindness Sutra for me. With chairs arranged in a circle and a copy of the sutra at each seat, I sat alone in a room one evening and waited … and was not alone long. A dozen people came to sit with me that first night; more usually attended in the following nights. I guided that small sangha, comprised of fellow addicts and alcoholics, through a twenty-five-minute lovingkindness meditation, followed by an opportunity for questions and sharing. We concluded by reading the Lovingkindness Sutra together.
One night, a young man named Bryce joined the circle. Bryce was nineteen at the time and struggled with depression and substances. He cried all through the meditation, not at all unusual. It seemed to profoundly affect him, however.
During the sharing portion of the gathering, Bryce looked at me, tears falling from his eyes, and said, “Thank you. Thank you for offering this. For the first time in my life, I can say that I love myself.” Not long after, we recited the Lovingkindness Sutra, and I watched this young man give voice to each word as tears continued to roll down his cheeks.
May all beings be happy. May they be joyous and live in safety. All living beings, whether weak or strong, in high, middle, or low realms of existence. Small or great, visible or invisible, near or far, born or to be born. May all beings be happy.
In the past, when telling this story, I focused on Bryce’s share and the transformation that occurred within him: he could say that he loved himself. I focused on how I helped encourage that transformation and said it brought about a similar yet different transformation within me. It would lead me to receive the Bodhisattva precepts a second time a year and eight months later in a ceremony called Shukke Tokudo.
That version of the story no longer feels quite right; this is not to say it feels wrong, but only “not quite right.” What feels quite right is attending to the moment when something arose from somewhere offering to lead the advertised but not currently offered evening meditation.
There was a need for something absent to become present, for someone to assist with the arising of a Buddha field and serve as a vehicle for the Dharma in that particular place at that particular time. I stepped into that opening despite feeling utterly lost and filled three times over with doubts about who I was, what I was doing, and what I would do when I returned home. Despite all that, I stepped forward to serve others.
I say that the offering arose from “somewhere,” as if I do not know where its impulse and subsequent manifestation came from. But I do.
Frost’s poem opens with the question:
Where had I heard this wind before Change like this to a deeper roar?
I had heard it in 2017 and shared it with Koan Sensei during daisan one Sunday morning. It was colored by gain and insecurity at the time, colors that had since faded, though they were not absent entirely. What had faded, though, allowed for a change.
It was no longer about me and my preferences and expectations. It was about all beings, particularly those around me who were trying to transform ignorance into wisdom and suffering into liberation, just as I was.
The Verse Of The Kesa says:
Great robe of liberation field far beyond form and emptiness wearing the Tathagata’s teaching freeing all beings.
Freeing all beings. Serving others. I was starting to understand that to wear the kesa is not to step up but to step down—to step down into service to others. To wear the Tathagata’s teaching is to set aside personal preferences and expectations; it is to understand that, in wearing the robe, it is not about you. And it takes great courage, fearlessness, and a ceaseless, limitless trust in oneself and zazen to do this.
Sitting in a treatment facility for severe substance abuse, in a circle of fellow addicts and alcoholics, I discovered that that was the right time to sew an Okesa and undertake priest ordination. And a year ago this month, I would ordain.
You might consider these other offerings:
This is beautiful and honest. Thank you. I will carry this with me: "I was starting to understand that to wear the kesa is not to step up but to step down—to step down into service to others."
Loved reading this story and learning the meaning behind your name, Taishin Michael.