Good For Nothing
My partner and I go through a little ritual at the beginning of every meal we share. We hold each other’s hands, close our eyes, and there is a moment of silence—sometimes entire minutes—then we read a poem. Sometimes I read the poem to her, and sometimes she reads the poem to me. There is always a poem, though.
At the moment, we are slowly working our way through Mary Oliver’s Red Bird. And recently, we read “The Orchard.”
I have dreamed of accomplishment. I have fed ambition. I have traded nights of sleep for a length of work. Lo, and I have discovered how soft bloom turns to green fruit which turns to sweet fruit. Lo, and I have discovered all winds blow cold at last, and the leaves, so pretty, so many, vanish in the great, black packet of time, in the great, black packet of ambition, and the ripeness of the apple is its downfall.
Late last year, and for the first time, I chose a poem as the centerpiece for a Dharma Talk. The poem was Theodore Roethke’s “The Auction.” The occasion was Rohatsu, or an assembly on the occasion of Shakyamuni Buddha’s awakening. I enjoyed working on and delivering that talk. And though we generally refrain from praise and blame in Zen practice, I am also proud of it. You can listen to the talk below.
I am once more feeling the itch to sit with a poem. I remember being moved by “The Orchard” immediately, almost in the same instant as when I finished reading the last line.
Below is what arose from keeping company with “The Orchard” this past week. Enjoy.
What catches my attention in the opening verses is the combination of the words “accomplishment” and “ambition” and the exchange of “nights of sleep” for “length of work.” From one perspective, this combination invites us into the experience of being not simply goal-oriented but intensely goal-oriented.
You may recall periods of your life when this was the dominant mode of operation. I can, notably when I was a graduate student. Some of it was fueled by perceived need. I was told over and over that the job market is fiercely competitive. I saw it, too, as job candidates cycled through the department each year, hoping to secure a single opening for themselves—or using it as leverage for a more attractive position. I compared the current state of my C.V. to theirs—it consistently paled—and strategized how I might reach their level of performance in my remaining time, if not exceed it.
It did not all come from the outside, though. My self-image and self-worth were deeply intertwined with my position within the university environment, my particular department, and among my peers, especially those in my cohort. I craved praise and recognition, and I exchanged more than a good night’s sleep for them: I gave up relationships, whether with friends, family, or romantic partners; I let pass most opportunities for my life to be “multi-dimensional,” in particular being in nature, reading non-academic literature, and Zen practice; and I sacrificed my sanity and well-being, for as long as possible anyway.
I credit ambition as one of several co-primary causes of arriving at a treatment facility for severe substance abuse. This would happen some years after I finished my graduate studies. At that point in my life, there were only sleepless nights because I could barely function. Any semblance of well-being had vanished, and, especially during a bender, I was positively insane.
A few of these patterns and qualities remain in some form. I am still ambitious, for example. And I still trade leisure and time with others to ensure certain tasks are completed on time. You might call this the “price of being too responsible.”
Yet I pay close attention to something we often call “balance,” too. What is this thing called “balance” that we seem to be constantly searching for? It does not matter what it is, nor is it important to find it, and it is foolish to try to hold onto it. There is an entire genre of writing and industry that would vehemently disagree. That is all right; we all have a part to play.
What matters is noticing when things become tilted, when we start to lean far in some direction, whether literally or metaphorically. Sometimes, we call these experiences or states of “imbalance.” An effort to notice them is vital, though not because they are a sign that something needs to be fixed; not because we need to “restore balance” or “come back to the center”; not because we are concerned with functioning well, succeeding in some domain, or anything else comfortably under the umbrella of “accomplishment”; and it is not about your goals or anyone else’s for that matter.
It is not even about being in the present moment because there is no moment in which you can be present. And there is no “you” either, lest we forget.
What is it about?
Lo, and I have discovered how soft bloom turns to green fruit which turns to sweet fruit.
It is that—right there.
Do you see it?
I typically facilitate what is called “Beginner’s Instruction” or “Newcomer’s Orientation” at O-An Zendo, the small Soto Zen temple where I live. As its names suggest, the meeting is an opportunity to sit down with someone and introduce them to the particular flavor of practice that they will find at O-An and the texture of its Sangha, whether they are just starting their exploration of meditation, Buddhism, and Zen, or arrive with some experience.
Who are you? Where are you from? Something has brought you here today. What is it?
Invariably, responses to these questions include the mention of some goal. Meditation, Buddhism, and Zen are seen as a means to some end, usually under the description of mental health, productivity, or both. “I am a very anxious person,” I hear, or “I am so stressed out all the time, and I need to manage that.” Occasionally, “I read that meditation can enhance your ability to focus. You can accomplish tasks with greater ease. I want that so I can … ”—you can fill in the rest.
An old friend once told me that people arrive at any one of 84,000 Dharma Gates either because of intellectual curiosity or suffering. If you enjoy learning about different “belief systems” and religious or spiritual traditions and delight in sitting with philosophical questions and exploring the paths they open, you will find plenty to occupy you in Buddhism. Or, if it feels as though your life is falling apart and everywhere is filled with suffering, you can find refuge in these practices, teachings, and the communities that sustain them for future generations. This last is how I found my way to the Three Treasures in the fall of 2009.
Whatever way you arrive, it is just fine. There is no right or wrong way, no good or bad path to whichever Gate appears before you. These categories that dominate so much of our lives are not entirely out of place here. Yet they do not fit comfortably, either.
Kobun Chino Roshi described what urges us to Zen practice as the “inner battle of you.”
What is happening within you right now? What are you experiencing in this instant?
When it feels appropriate, I shift the conversation’s focus and begin sharing how we at O-An Zendo understand Zen practice.
It starts with the word shikantaza, typically translated as “just sitting.” Whereas many forms of meditation practice are centered on a method or technique (for example, counting your breaths or labeling your thoughts) and connected to a specific goal or objective (for example, controlling or quieting the mind), shikantaza is without method or technique, without any goal or purpose. What happens on the cushion, seiza bench, or chair? Just sitting—that is it.
Often, it feels appropriate to introduce a story featuring our Chinese ancestor, Shitou Xiqian. One of Shitou’s senior students asked, “What is the essential meaning of Buddhadharma?” Shitou replied, “Not to attain, not to know.” Then, the student inquired if there was any other pivotal point. Shitou continued, “The wide sky does not obstruct the white clouds drifting.”
We sit like the wide sky—just being, being what we are, how we are, where we are, and as we are—and we might add that the wide sky does not obstruct the gray or black clouds or birds, it does not obstruct rain, hail, or snow, and it does not obstruct lightning and thunder. And Shitou could have responded, had he felt so inclined, with the sour that follows Mary Oliver’s sweet fruit. That
all winds blow cold at last, and the leaves, so pretty, so many, vanish in the great, black packet of time
Each arrives at the same, just from different beginnings. Whereas Shitou focuses on the generosity of the wide sky, Mary Oliver is silent about the field or mountain range through which the wind blows, the skin that it contacts and chills, and the trees that, with grace, let go of their decorative leaves and the ground where the leaves now lie as they begin the next transition. Instead, she highlights the rhythm and the progression present in those things that sometimes occupy, and sometimes not, the great spaces in which everything—including our lives—unfolds. From soft to green to sweet, from cold to cessation, and from suddenly present to slowly absent. All arising and perishing in their own time, necessarily.
Although all this happens, and with observable regularity, there is no need to suppose that nature is striving towards some goal, that it feels compelled to maintain some image, realize some enlightened state, and that it is either anxious, frustrated, or troubled with its machinations to bring any of these to a desired fruition. The wide sky is simply intimate with the drifting clouds, the forest with the cold winds, and the ground, without complaint, supports all leaves as they prepare for departure into the “great, black / packet of time.”
Nature does what it does, as it does, and when it does, and for no reason other than that is the time in which what is happening happens.
Shikantaza is no different, and there is something all the more penetrating about Shunryu Suzuki Roshi’s admonishment in this light.
“Do not ever say that you sit zazen!” he once shouted, “Zazen sits zazen!”
For some, words such as these bring relief and comfort. There is no additional item on the already too-long To-Do List. You need not find space for one more “stick” to measure yourself against an ideal. Whenever you sit, in whatever posture is appropriate for your body, just sit.
Others, understandably, raise an eyebrow. Its rise expresses not disapproval but skepticism. “So … that is it? I mean, just sit quietly and do nothing?” Yes.
Still others shake their head, if only inwardly, to indicate strong disapproval. I write “if only inwardly” because I have yet to witness this response personally. If this is your response, I understand. And you are not alone.
Dogen Zenji, the founder of our Soto Zen lineage, met with similar disapproval. The third question addressed in Shobogenzo Bendowa (On the Endeavor of the Way) reads:
We understand that you have studied the path of the buddha ancestors and authentically transmit the tathagatas’ excellent art. This is beyond the reach of ordinary thought. However, reading sutras or chanting buddha’s name must be causes and conditions of enlightenment. How can zazen, just sitting uselessly doing nothing, be depended upon for attaining enlightenment?
Dogen’s response immediately following the question is delightful.
If you think that the samadhi of all buddhas, their unsurpassable great art, is just sitting uselessly doing nothing, you malign the Great Vehicle. Such misunderstanding is like saying there is no water when you are in the middle of the ocean. Just now, all buddhas sit serenely at ease in receptive samadhi. Is this not the actualization of vast merit? What a pity that your eye is not yet open, that your mind is still intoxicated!
You might say, upon reading, “Oh snap!” But while amusing, this does not address the questioner’s primary concern: the recommended form of practice seems to be nothing other than sitting uselessly and doing nothing. How can I depend on this allegedly useless practice to help me attain enlightenment?
I mentioned in last week’s post, which you can find below, that there is no enlightenment to be attained from Dogen’s perspective. The emphasis here is not on “no enlightenment” but “no attainment.” We are constantly and continuously replete with enlightenment; it is never absent or lacking.
Yet such a response does little to assuage the skeptical or disapproving person. For the issue at hand does not concern the attainment of enlightenment; it was never about the attainment of enlightenment. Instead, it is the perceived uselessness of shikantaza, of zazen, of just sitting quietly and doing nothing.
Why do something supposedly useless? The response is not that sitting quietly and doing nothing is not useless but somehow useful. The descriptions of “useless” and “useful” do not apply here. You might as well try to fit a square peg into a round hole or try to go south by heading north.
To correct the misperception, you must embrace it wholeheartedly, letting it sink into your muscles, bones, and sinews. Then, the opportunity to pivot presents itself; you turn around, and suddenly, everything is perfectly clear. Talk of what is “useless” and “useful” always looks to something beyond what is immediate. It is another way we become caught in pursuing an end or a goal, hungrily reaching for something—anything—to fill a perceived lack. The critical moment is when you see that you are lacking nothing whatsoever.
The final section of the Genjōkōan addresses the whole matter directly.
Mayu, Zen Master Baoche, was fanning himself. A monk approached and said, “Master, the nature of wind is permanent and there is no place it does not reach. Why, then, do you fan yourself?”
“Although you understand that the nature of wind is permanent,” Mayu replied, “you do not understand the meaning of its reaching everywhere.”
“What is the meaning of its reaching everywhere?” asked the monk.
Mayu just kept fanning himself.
The monk bowed deeply.
The actualization of the buddha dharma, the vital path of its authentic transmission, is like this. If you say that you do not need to fan yourself because the nature of wind is permanent and you can have wind without fanning, you understand neither permanence nor the nature of wind. The nature of wind is permanent; because of that, the wind of the buddha house brings forth the gold of the earth and ripens the cream of the long river.
The meaning of the wind’s reaching everywhere is actualized through a gentle movement of the wrist. As the wind cuts through wide fields and deep valleys, it chills your skin precisely because you are open and receptive. In just the same way, though continuously replete with enlightenment, the expression of our awakened nature has myriad forms, above all in the good-for-nothing yet all-embracing activity of sitting quietly and doing nothing.
Yet this “doing nothing” is not simply doing “nothing.” It is the complete expression of what is most essential. When you are you, everything else is just as it needs to be, too.
Thus, we need not let our lives pass into the “great, black / packet of ambition.” Instead, when the appropriate time arrives, we can graciously let go and begin the next transition without complaint.
Or, as Mary Oliver wrote:
and the ripeness of the apple is its downfall.
For some additional reading or listening, check out these recent offerings:
The quotations from Dogen Zenji are from “Treasury of the True Dharma Eye,” edited by Kazukai Tanahashi.
This was an excellent and important teaching. Boy, is this nation ever caught in an ambition trap. Rest or ‘just sitting’ is condemned!! Fortunately, I see a shift in the young generation. I do!! But boy, the old boomers are gonna try thier old shame game on the new generations that are ok with just ‘hanging out’.
Thanks for the hard work writing this. It’s making a difference!! 🙏