The secret of Soto Zen is just two words: "Not always so." Oops -- three words in English. In Japanese, two words. "Not always so." This is the secret of the teaching. It may be so, but it is not always so.
- Suzuki Roshi
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Calmness of Mind
Shikantza our zazen, is just to be ourselves. When we do not expect anything we can be ourselves. This is our way, to live fully in each moment of time. This practice continues forever
We say, "each moment," but in your actual practice a "moment" is too long because in that "moment" your mind is already involved in following the breath. So we say, "Even in a snap of your fingers there are millions of instants of time." This way we can emphasize the feeling of existing in each instant of time. Then your mind is very quiet.
So for a period of time each day, try to sit in shikantza, without moving, without expecting anything, as if you were in your last moment. Moment after moment you feel your last instant. In each inhalation and each exhalation there are countless instants of time. Your intention is to live in each instant,....
...So we have enjoyment, we are free. We feel free to express ourselves because we are ready to fade into emptiness. When we are trying to be active and special and to accomplish something, we cannot express ourselves. Small self will be expressed, but big self will not appear from the emptiness. From the emptiness only great self appears. This is shikantaza, okay? It is not so difficult if you really try.
Thank you very much.
- Suzuki Roshi
"Calmness of Mind"
Not Always So
We say, "each moment," but in your actual practice a "moment" is too long because in that "moment" your mind is already involved in following the breath. So we say, "Even in a snap of your fingers there are millions of instants of time." This way we can emphasize the feeling of existing in each instant of time. Then your mind is very quiet.
So for a period of time each day, try to sit in shikantza, without moving, without expecting anything, as if you were in your last moment. Moment after moment you feel your last instant. In each inhalation and each exhalation there are countless instants of time. Your intention is to live in each instant,....
...So we have enjoyment, we are free. We feel free to express ourselves because we are ready to fade into emptiness. When we are trying to be active and special and to accomplish something, we cannot express ourselves. Small self will be expressed, but big self will not appear from the emptiness. From the emptiness only great self appears. This is shikantaza, okay? It is not so difficult if you really try.
Thank you very much.
- Suzuki Roshi
"Calmness of Mind"
Not Always So
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Monday, February 9, 2015
Fields of Silence
Each day here at the temple begins with long swaths of silent sitting and walking, and is often the most quietly focused part of the day. There are exceptions of course to this quiet. Part of my role as Shuso is to wake up before everyone else and ring the wake-up bell. It is a ceremony, just like most things here. I hit the han (the wooden block outside the meditation hall) to announce the ceremony is beginning, and then enter the zendo. There are bows that follow, different kinds of ringing (cascading rings at certain altars, and just a wave of sound otherwise as I run through the building), more hits on the han, and more bows. People bow as I run past because in zen the wake-up bell is considered a "procession," which I always found fascinating. Usually a procession means the Abbot or Practice Leader and their attendant, and the Tanto and their attendant, etc., and usually they are stately and ceremonially walking, on their way to open the hall by offering incense or on their way out. But in this case it's just the Shuso, and a loudly ringing bell, flashing by at full speed. In fact the bell is so loud that people often bow at the waist with their fingers in their ears, attempting to be both respectful and nonchalant, that happens fairly often. And I know how they feel. The activity of running non-stop through every corridor of the building first thing in the morning (4:50 am), combined with the volume of the bell (and yes it is supposed to be loud, the whole point is to wake up) can feel a little jarring. My ears ring with a foggy trace of the sound for a good while after.
And then moments later we are all sitting so quietly in the zendo together. I noticed this morning how the contrast from the sounds to the silence help me somehow appreciate the quiet more, notice it more. It's usually still dark. And the city outside is still easing into the day, light traffic on Oak street a block away. Sometimes bird songs are even the dominant call from the world outside these walls. But inside it is so quiet. And our minds range over the full possibilities of human life and thought; some days we're more awake to our surroundings, some days we're lost in some inner turmoil. Yet, whatever our experience on the cushion, it takes place in this palpable quiet, in the feeling of warmth that there are others here with us, supporting us with their presence. I think to be with others in this way is so unique in our modern city life.
At the end of the second sitting the silence is finally broken by human voices for the first time of the day with the Robe Chant. It's always been my favorite chant in the zen liturgy, probably because it seems to grow naturally out of this period of quiet - and that it is a unified voice of everyone in the room, confirming what our quiet presence had been hinting, yes, we are here, we are here together. The chant is three verses. The first two are in transliterated japanese :
dai zai ge da pu ku, mu su fu ku den e, hi bu nyorai kyo, ko do sho shu jo (x2)
Followed by an english poem that I now understand is only the very loosest of translations of the japansese line above:
Great robe of liberation
Field far beyond form and emptiness
Wearing the tathgatha's teaching
Saving all beings.
In practice this chant is done with the buddha's robe (either okesa - priest robe, or rakusu - lay robe) placed on one's head, but still sitting in zazen posture, so it is a continuation of the period of meditation. On this one level it is a ceremony of dedicating our robe as we begin the day. But even before I sewed a lay robe or rakusu, i always loved this chant. I didn't have anything on my head to dedicate, but I knew or felt this "robe of liberation" was actually our practice. A formless robe we were weaving by our sitting. And not that "we," ourselves, are exactly doing anything to weave it. Maybe it felt more like we are this robe, and we sit to actualize that. The term "field" in the english verse alludes to the fact that the pattern that both the okesa and the rakusu (they are the same, just different sizes) are sewn into was designed by the Buddha, and was meant to look like a rice field - square shapes like seedling beds crisscrossed by the lines of canals. So, we wear this robe, but also the earth itself is this robe. There is no place where this robe is not. That is the feeling of connection these words can sometimes bring.
When Suzuki Roshi first had American students, and I'm assuming before the addition of the 3rd verse in English, one of his students once asked him, "What is the meaning of this chant we do at the end of morning zazen?" What are we actually saying when we repeat these Japanese syllables? The way that I've heard this story is that Suzuki Roshi paused, like perhaps he was thinking of explaining it, or maybe mulling over a translation on the spot, and then he just said, "Love. It means love."
And then moments later we are all sitting so quietly in the zendo together. I noticed this morning how the contrast from the sounds to the silence help me somehow appreciate the quiet more, notice it more. It's usually still dark. And the city outside is still easing into the day, light traffic on Oak street a block away. Sometimes bird songs are even the dominant call from the world outside these walls. But inside it is so quiet. And our minds range over the full possibilities of human life and thought; some days we're more awake to our surroundings, some days we're lost in some inner turmoil. Yet, whatever our experience on the cushion, it takes place in this palpable quiet, in the feeling of warmth that there are others here with us, supporting us with their presence. I think to be with others in this way is so unique in our modern city life.
At the end of the second sitting the silence is finally broken by human voices for the first time of the day with the Robe Chant. It's always been my favorite chant in the zen liturgy, probably because it seems to grow naturally out of this period of quiet - and that it is a unified voice of everyone in the room, confirming what our quiet presence had been hinting, yes, we are here, we are here together. The chant is three verses. The first two are in transliterated japanese :
dai zai ge da pu ku, mu su fu ku den e, hi bu nyorai kyo, ko do sho shu jo (x2)
Followed by an english poem that I now understand is only the very loosest of translations of the japansese line above:
Great robe of liberation
Field far beyond form and emptiness
Wearing the tathgatha's teaching
Saving all beings.
In practice this chant is done with the buddha's robe (either okesa - priest robe, or rakusu - lay robe) placed on one's head, but still sitting in zazen posture, so it is a continuation of the period of meditation. On this one level it is a ceremony of dedicating our robe as we begin the day. But even before I sewed a lay robe or rakusu, i always loved this chant. I didn't have anything on my head to dedicate, but I knew or felt this "robe of liberation" was actually our practice. A formless robe we were weaving by our sitting. And not that "we," ourselves, are exactly doing anything to weave it. Maybe it felt more like we are this robe, and we sit to actualize that. The term "field" in the english verse alludes to the fact that the pattern that both the okesa and the rakusu (they are the same, just different sizes) are sewn into was designed by the Buddha, and was meant to look like a rice field - square shapes like seedling beds crisscrossed by the lines of canals. So, we wear this robe, but also the earth itself is this robe. There is no place where this robe is not. That is the feeling of connection these words can sometimes bring.
When Suzuki Roshi first had American students, and I'm assuming before the addition of the 3rd verse in English, one of his students once asked him, "What is the meaning of this chant we do at the end of morning zazen?" What are we actually saying when we repeat these Japanese syllables? The way that I've heard this story is that Suzuki Roshi paused, like perhaps he was thinking of explaining it, or maybe mulling over a translation on the spot, and then he just said, "Love. It means love."
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Settling
It's hard to believe, but tomorrow will mark two full weeks since the practice period began. It has felt like the typical whirlwind of activity that starts a practice period. There's little time to process or worry about what we are getting into. We just jump in, and try to take each ceremony, each activity, each period of sitting as the completeness of our life, as what is happening now. We try to give it our care and attention, and try not to get too far ahead of ourselves. I think the schedule is designed to help us with this. The first Saturday we had an all-day sitting, from 5:15 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. It was open to the general public as well as the local practice period participants. Sitting in the pre-sunrise dark of the zendo with 80 or so others, I was kind of in awe of just how quiet and still such a large group of people can be. It was heartwarming. There is so much activity, busyness, and noise to our city lives sometimes, and yet here we were filling every seat in this vast room, and it was really silent.
Last Wednesday I was officially installed as the Shuso for the practice period in a ceremony in the zendo, after morning sitting. It is a completely scripted ceremony, and very japanese, I'd almost call it stilted :). And yet it is also what you make of it. What i admire about Paul as a teacher, is he always brings the fullness of his practice to these moments, something playful in him shines through the stilted script. At one point as I repeated my lines about not being ready/ worthy of this role, he said something fresh about how when we step forward the universe, the moment, steps forward to embrace and support us. I felt his trust, both in me, and in his own experience of practice, and I smiled. Also, an old friend of mine here recently gave birth to son, who i had not yet met. And in the midst of reciting one of my lines to Paul, I heard a baby chortle, and knew they were in the room. That brought a smile too.
That evening I gave the public Wednesday night talk here for the first time. For those in the online practice period, the link to the audio should now be available on the website. It was a "way-seeking mind talk" and so I shared my thoughts on how it is that i ended up in this practice life, and just how we get to see or conceive of our "way-seeking mind." A further thought on this came to me this morning as I was reading Dogen's, Continuous Practice. In the passage that follows he speaks directly on the relationship between "continous or sustained practice" and "aspiration or 'way-seeking mind.;":
"The effects of such continuous 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."
So, sometimes we feel, notice, and are inspired by our way-seeking mind, our mind of connection. And sometimes it feels like it is not there, no longer apparent, and we feel lost. But even then it is not "hidden," Dogen encourages us. So then what is happening when it feels like we are disconnected from it? He continues:
"As it is not stained by what is hidden, apparent, existent, or not existent, you may not notice the causal conditions that led you to be engaged in the practice that actualizes you at this very moment of unknowing. The reason you don't see it is that becoming conscious of it is not anything remarkable. You should investigate in detail that it is so because the causal conditions [the aspiration - or 'way-seeking' mind] is no other than continuous practice, but continuous practice is not limited by the causal condition."
What our aspiration or way-seeking mind is, is so intertwined with this larger aspect of "continuous practice" or the practice of the universe, that sometimes we are not able to differentiate the two as separate. This is such a hopeful reading of our moments of being lost it astounds me. But it also inspires me. In it I feel Dogen's great faith in the okayness of everything, that everything is truly alright, truly acceptable, even feeling lost. Plus, I love the phrasing that this larger aspect of continuous practice is actually working on us, through us, even "at this very moment of unknowing." What we don't understand, is not hindered by our not understanding. Ha! What a relief!
Anyway, the ceremonies and talks are not coming so fast and furious now, and I can feel myself settling into the rhythm of daily life here. I hope to start writing here every other day or so, and sharing with you more of what is going on here. Please feel free to send me any feedback about what you would like to hear about.
In Gassho,
-Tim
Last Wednesday I was officially installed as the Shuso for the practice period in a ceremony in the zendo, after morning sitting. It is a completely scripted ceremony, and very japanese, I'd almost call it stilted :). And yet it is also what you make of it. What i admire about Paul as a teacher, is he always brings the fullness of his practice to these moments, something playful in him shines through the stilted script. At one point as I repeated my lines about not being ready/ worthy of this role, he said something fresh about how when we step forward the universe, the moment, steps forward to embrace and support us. I felt his trust, both in me, and in his own experience of practice, and I smiled. Also, an old friend of mine here recently gave birth to son, who i had not yet met. And in the midst of reciting one of my lines to Paul, I heard a baby chortle, and knew they were in the room. That brought a smile too.
That evening I gave the public Wednesday night talk here for the first time. For those in the online practice period, the link to the audio should now be available on the website. It was a "way-seeking mind talk" and so I shared my thoughts on how it is that i ended up in this practice life, and just how we get to see or conceive of our "way-seeking mind." A further thought on this came to me this morning as I was reading Dogen's, Continuous Practice. In the passage that follows he speaks directly on the relationship between "continous or sustained practice" and "aspiration or 'way-seeking mind.;":
"The effects of such continuous 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."
So, sometimes we feel, notice, and are inspired by our way-seeking mind, our mind of connection. And sometimes it feels like it is not there, no longer apparent, and we feel lost. But even then it is not "hidden," Dogen encourages us. So then what is happening when it feels like we are disconnected from it? He continues:
"As it is not stained by what is hidden, apparent, existent, or not existent, you may not notice the causal conditions that led you to be engaged in the practice that actualizes you at this very moment of unknowing. The reason you don't see it is that becoming conscious of it is not anything remarkable. You should investigate in detail that it is so because the causal conditions [the aspiration - or 'way-seeking' mind] is no other than continuous practice, but continuous practice is not limited by the causal condition."
What our aspiration or way-seeking mind is, is so intertwined with this larger aspect of "continuous practice" or the practice of the universe, that sometimes we are not able to differentiate the two as separate. This is such a hopeful reading of our moments of being lost it astounds me. But it also inspires me. In it I feel Dogen's great faith in the okayness of everything, that everything is truly alright, truly acceptable, even feeling lost. Plus, I love the phrasing that this larger aspect of continuous practice is actually working on us, through us, even "at this very moment of unknowing." What we don't understand, is not hindered by our not understanding. Ha! What a relief!
Anyway, the ceremonies and talks are not coming so fast and furious now, and I can feel myself settling into the rhythm of daily life here. I hope to start writing here every other day or so, and sharing with you more of what is going on here. Please feel free to send me any feedback about what you would like to hear about.
In Gassho,
-Tim
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Beginnings
We're underway! The winter practice period began last Wednesday morning with the opening ceremony, and the Ino, Djinn, striking the wooden the tsui -ching in the zendo. The daily rhythm of waking around 4:45 feels easy at first, bouyed by the excitement and anticipation to begin.
...
My idea for this space in the coming months is twofold: first to give updates regarding life here at the temple during practice period, and second to note, quote, and comment on the two Dogen Fascicles titled Continuous Practice, which Paul has selected as the theme for this practice period.
The first fascicle opens with:
"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."
(Kaz Tanahashi trans.)
The other morning as I sat in the cold and dark early morning in the cavernous zendo (meditation hall) here, I watched as my mind became fascinated with the phrase "circle of the way." The word "way" is quite common in zen literature. It is in some ways interchangeable with the word "path," which we hear in the Pali Cannon, the earliest words of the Buddha. But the term "way" became more popular when Buddhism entered China, perhaps as the Chinese translated Buddhist terms into a language they were more familiar with, that of the Tao, or "Way." Most of us today carry some notion of a "spiritual path." And I think most often it feels to us like a path through the woods, or a path through time. I start here and I went to get over there. What my mind became entranced with was the idea that this path is actually a circle, that as we travel this path, we are making our way back to the start.
There is an old zen phrase about our practice as, "single iron rail extending ten thousand miles," which along with bringing forth the stricter, single-minded side of zen, also fits our more usual perception of our life's journey - I'm here and I'm trying to get to there, so I head out in that direction. But this notion of our path, our journey, being round suddenly felt to me more complete, more satisfying. Is each lifetime like an orbit around the sun? Perhaps even each moment? Does it feel like coming back home to return to where we started? Maybe so.
I can remember when I was younger how each interaction each scene of life felt so new and intriguing, "I wonder what is going to happen here, where will this lead?" And more often as I get older I get to see the same thoughts arise in my mind, the same disgruntlements get replayed, I think a lot of people have this experience in zazen, especially on longer retreats. Or I see the same (or similar) relationship dynamics appear, and I think, "haven't I played this one out before?" So, one implication of the way being a circle, is that even in these moments of repeating, practice is there. Not only practice, but as Dogen puts it, when practice is there, then aspiration, enlightenment, and nirvana too. As we play out and discover something new about these cycles and habits in our life something very fundemental is there too, something shared by us all, and that can be our comfort. We are not doing this alone.
"We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.": - T.S. Eliot
...
My idea for this space in the coming months is twofold: first to give updates regarding life here at the temple during practice period, and second to note, quote, and comment on the two Dogen Fascicles titled Continuous Practice, which Paul has selected as the theme for this practice period.
The first fascicle opens with:
"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."
(Kaz Tanahashi trans.)
The other morning as I sat in the cold and dark early morning in the cavernous zendo (meditation hall) here, I watched as my mind became fascinated with the phrase "circle of the way." The word "way" is quite common in zen literature. It is in some ways interchangeable with the word "path," which we hear in the Pali Cannon, the earliest words of the Buddha. But the term "way" became more popular when Buddhism entered China, perhaps as the Chinese translated Buddhist terms into a language they were more familiar with, that of the Tao, or "Way." Most of us today carry some notion of a "spiritual path." And I think most often it feels to us like a path through the woods, or a path through time. I start here and I went to get over there. What my mind became entranced with was the idea that this path is actually a circle, that as we travel this path, we are making our way back to the start.
There is an old zen phrase about our practice as, "single iron rail extending ten thousand miles," which along with bringing forth the stricter, single-minded side of zen, also fits our more usual perception of our life's journey - I'm here and I'm trying to get to there, so I head out in that direction. But this notion of our path, our journey, being round suddenly felt to me more complete, more satisfying. Is each lifetime like an orbit around the sun? Perhaps even each moment? Does it feel like coming back home to return to where we started? Maybe so.
I can remember when I was younger how each interaction each scene of life felt so new and intriguing, "I wonder what is going to happen here, where will this lead?" And more often as I get older I get to see the same thoughts arise in my mind, the same disgruntlements get replayed, I think a lot of people have this experience in zazen, especially on longer retreats. Or I see the same (or similar) relationship dynamics appear, and I think, "haven't I played this one out before?" So, one implication of the way being a circle, is that even in these moments of repeating, practice is there. Not only practice, but as Dogen puts it, when practice is there, then aspiration, enlightenment, and nirvana too. As we play out and discover something new about these cycles and habits in our life something very fundemental is there too, something shared by us all, and that can be our comfort. We are not doing this alone.
"We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.": - T.S. Eliot
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