Waves

Some Thoughts While In Transition

A lot has been moving through this one’s heart-mind for the last few weeks. I decided to conclude my residency at the Buddhist temple where I served for the past two years and step down from the leadership position I held while there. Another decision precipitated these: to separate from the teacher who guided my practice during that time.

That decision was difficult yet made with ease. The pathway leading to it was at once clear and murky. And there were no hard feelings or ill will harbored on my side of the street. Instead, there is only the sure sense that this is no longer the right place for me and I am not the right person to serve in this way at this time.

Western systems of logic—most of them, anyway—maintain that two statements that contradict each other cannot both be true at the same time. At one and the same time, for instance, I cannot both be sitting down and not sitting down; it is one or the other at some one time, necessarily.

Things are a bit different in Zen; in my experience, they better reflect my (dare I say, “our”?) lived experience. For example, at one and the same time, I can be both angry and not angry at some one person. Similarly, a decision can be arrived at with ease and, at one and the same time, made only with difficulty. Pathways can be both murky and clear. There is no need to suggest that these truths refer to different aspects of an experience or situation or are relative to different times. Zen welcomes contradictions—embraces them, even.

Still, an allowance for contradictions does not eliminate pain and suffering. It does, however, offer a unique position from which to explore them. There is no need to choose only one part of what is alive within ourselves. We can, if we choose, walk, stand, sit, or lie down in the middle of the whole catastrophe.

What is here in this upheaval?

There is an insight into fear’s power to shutter the heart-mind, hindering compassion for others.

In the wake of my decisions, I felt both fear and relief, though the former was more pronounced than the latter. I feared for the physical safety of my partner, my cats, and me; I felt fear when facing the uncertainty of our financial situation and when wondering whether we would be isolated or supported by others; and, briefly, I feared that my sobriety would be in jeopardy.

Questions of legitimacy are not appropriate at this time—though most fears were confirmed in some form—for, independent of whether the fears were “legitimate” or not, “justified” or not, they were present and vibrating at a high frequency. And with them, there was an inability to suffer with others affected by my decisions from their point of view. I could suffer with them from my point of view just fine—no issue there, I assure you—but I could not see past the boundaries of this skin bag.

All things change, however. Tense situations resolve themselves, and uncertainty transforms into clarity. There is little we need to do for this to happen, as all things have their way of working out, in their own time and toward some “end”—the quotation marks indicating that, in reality, nothing ever ends; there is only continual change in form.

This is not an encouragement to inaction in trying times but a reminder that we are not the “star of the show” or in control of as much as we think. Kobun Chino Roshi reminds us:

Desires are infinite; they will reach an end by themselves.

Dogen Zenji, writing from a complimentary point of view in Shobogenzo Inmo (Treasury of the True Dharma Eye, Thusness), describes us as an “accouterment that exists in the entire world of the ten directions.”

And as things “reach[ed] and end”—or, if you prefer, transformed into something else—and I settled once more into my particular place, that near-suffocating fear I felt lifted all on its own and quickly. Then compassion filled the vacuum coupled with understanding, the sort of understanding that is expressed in the slight nod of the head while listening to someone share their struggle, graced by a soft smile that sits below gentle eyes, which see straight to the heart of things: that there is change and there is suffering; that, at times, this is frustrating and overwhelming and upsetting whether we are in the center of it or somewhere toward the periphery; that it will pass if we let it; and that we can support others who are in caught in the throws of it, too.

Photo by BAILEY MAHON on Unsplash

For two years now, I have led a weekly Recovery Dharma meeting. I celebrate the program, especially its gathas (short verses, prayers), which offer opportunities for pause in the middle of the hustle and bustle. My favorite lately is:

I am here.
This is the way it is right now.
This is a moment of suffering. May I give myself the care I need at this moment.
May I accept this without struggling, but also without giving up.

Acceptance without struggle. Acceptance without struggle and without giving up. Continually moving toward that ever-shifting middle between these two extremes requires fearlessness, a quality that manifests not as the absence of fear but in remaining present and holding one’s place when there is fear—even near-suffocating fear.

From where comes this quality of fearlessness?

In a Dharma talk by Shunryu Suzuki Roshi titled “Supported from Within,” which I read and quote often, the response is “strong conviction in our practice.”

When we have strong conviction in our way and do not expect anything, we can recite the sutra with a deep calm feeling.

We can meet whatever arises with “perfect calmness.” From strong conviction, “we create the feeling of non-duality” and understand that we are “firmly protected from within.”

As I sat with Suzuki Roshi’s response these past few weeks, I found myself asking:

What is “practice”? What is “our practice”? What is “my practice”? What is that from which, when there is strong conviction, creates fearlessness in its many forms?

You hear time and time again in Zen circles talk about practice. The only person to speak about practice more is Allen Iverson. But what is it? What is this thing, seemingly prized so highly, called “practice”?

It is your life. It is you.

There was a time when I thought practice was something “out there,” a sort of free-floating, yet not confined within the fuzzy boundaries of space and time, and yet still intelligible, thing. If I sat on cushions in a certain way, chanted certain sounds in a specific tone and with a particular rhythm, and wore the right sort of clothing—and whatever else; you can include a lot on the list if so inclined—then I would be “practicing Zen.” I would, as Plato might say, “instantiate the form of Zen practice.”

Spending lots of time reading scriptures and sutras and even the latest book on Zen from your local independent bookstore can encourage this point of view. It can lead to judging how you sit, chant, dress, read, write, and whatever else as “right” or “wrong,” “good” or “bad,” or that you do it “well” or “poorly” against some standard that may not be appropriate or wholesome for where you are.

I do not mean to dismiss the long history of the different Buddhist traditions, their customs and forms, and the importance of honoring them as we continue to turn the Dharma wheel. I want, however, to remind us that we are continuing to turn the Dharma wheel right here and right now.

Dogen writes in Shobogenzo Genjokoan:

Here is the place; here the way unfolds.

Not one thousand years ago, one hundred years ago, ten years ago, or even yesterday. Here—within and throughout this very body-mind, within and throughout this very heart-mind—is where the Buddha’s teachings are alive, breathing, and pulsing moment after moment. We are not imperfect copies or mere participants through some mysterious metaphysical relation. Our life is Buddha’s life. Our bodily actions, speech, and thoughts are manifestations of the Dharma. And collectively, we, together with all beings, are the great Sangha, nourishing each other.

Strong conviction in our practice is nothing other than strong conviction in ourselves. Strong conviction in our way is great trust in ourselves and others whom we support and who, in turn, support us as we meet and respond to what arises from a place of wisdom and wonder. And from that strong conviction in ourselves and others, we create fearlessness and we can just keep going.

Finally, present are thoughts about waves. And by “waves,” I do not mean the hand gesture and its varying forms—though I am waving goodbye to many people, places, and things—but something closer to ocean waters’ incessant and steady movement.

Elsewhere, I write about “mind waves,” an expression that often refers to the feelings and thoughts, emotions and judgments, and other such “things” that occupy much of our awareness. I frequently encourage not being bothered by our minds’ waves, in the same way that Chinese Ancestor Shitou Xiqian described a pivotal point of Zen practice as “The wide sky does not obstruct the white clouds drifting.”

The same sentiment is also present in these lines from W. H. Auden:

It was Easter as I walked in the public gardens
Hearing the frogs exhaling from the pond,
Watching traffic of magnificent cloud
Moving without anxiety on open sky—

Yet mind waves, unlike ocean waves, are intangible. But that does not prevent them from affecting us, others, and the world with which and through which we move in tangible ways, just as ocean waves do.

At present, then, I am focused on the incessant, intangible, and steady waves that shape our lives and with which we must learn to ride as though we are surfers who use their bodies or a well-crafted and waxed board. And all of this is because I am sitting with questions about the waves that move through communities.

The teacher of another teacher of mine encouraged her students to “not get involved” where they served. What could this mean? Perhaps more importantly, how is it possible to not get involved where and with those you serve? At first brush, the instruction feels downright chilly.

This other teacher of mine suggests that “do not get involved” means “do not make waves.” Where you are called to serve, you respond and serve in the way appropriate to that call. If you cannot, express your concerns privately to find a mutually agreeable resolution. But if such a resolution cannot be found, leave peacefully and quietly—once again, do not make waves.

Yes—and yet …

How can I not make waves, wherever I am? I cannot predict what sort of waves will flow from my decisions and actions, whether they will be large or small, rise and fall in haste, or how they will affect that with which they meet. But I am sure that there will be waves, as my activity is no different in this respect from the mind’s activity, no different in this respect from the activity of ocean waters. At times tangible and at times intangible, and in both ways contributing to constant change in all things while also continually changing itself.

If there is something to this, then it is not quite right to say “do not make waves.” So, I offer what I trust this teacher implies: do not make unwholesome waves.

Sometimes, our waves are big and bring a lot of change in short periods. That is all right, and when it is necessary to move in that way, we do so. Other times, they are small and change happens gradually. That is all right, too. Most of the time, we are somewhere in between these two extremes. And that is also all right. It is not about what is right or wrong, good or bad, but what is needed at that place and time.

And wherever we are, we are determined not to dominate a space and impose our will upon it, as carrying the self forward in an effort to illuminate the myriad things is deluded activity. Instead, we endeavor to move with the world and respond appropriately to ever-changing circumstances, for letting the world come forward and illuminate this self is awakening, which unfolds moment after moment, and is no different from waves continually arriving on the shore.

If you benefitted from this offering, you might consider these others:

The Instant

Mahakasyapa Transmits To Mahakasyapa

Being Peace