Is Zen really a male practice?

It seems that in American Soto Zen a lot of progress has been made in terms of awareness of gender inequality, and also progress in terms of having female priests, role models etc.

But I have been thinking of how gender differences may deeply inform our view of Zen practice itself.   Without having to turn to social or psychological theory, it is clear to me that in our EDZ practice, the women are more social.  The women's retreat is huge and there seems to be no need for the men to have their own retreat.  This warmth and desire to connect may reflect the proclivities of our female gender.

Obviously Soto Zen comes from a male dominant Japanese culture. I would suggest that the very spirit and energy of our practice reflects that gender difference.  Zen is considered cool, unemotional, and controlled. These traits are generally considered male.

Although women can fully practice in this manner - and it is a beautiful practice - our desire for warmth and connection has led to what many of we women call "warm hearted zen."  And this is the practice that most strongly appeals to me.

So I am suggesting that we deconstruct how we view Zen practice itself, based on gender difference.

Do women experience greater distractions?

In the Diamond Sutra, chapter two, the Buddha answers Subhuti’s question about how a “noble son” or “noble daughter” should act as they embark upon the path of the bodhisattva.

In the edition translated by Red Pine, there is a quote by Chiang Wei-nung that says:

In Buddhist sutras it is sometimes said that women experience such great distractions that they cannot become buddhas, but must first be re-born as men.

Wei-nung then goes on to say that the Buddha did not see male or female and that the dharma is shared by all.  However, he makes an interesting distinction between love and compassion, which supposedly explains why women are so easily distracted:

Still the distractions of women are great.  First is the distraction of motherhood.  Second, they frequently confuse love for compassion.  Compassion is impartial.  It knows neither direction nor degree.  Love, meanwhile is a river of life and death, of endless rebirth.

Of course, being a 21^st century American woman, the idea that a man is more suited for spiritual practice is outrageous to me.  It does seem like a very old idea that has certainly pervaded religions for thousands of years.  [An example is the attitude toward women found in the ancient Upanishads, where women are likened to cows, and where re-birth as a man would definitely be an excellent idea!] 

I wonder about the impartial “compassion” of the supposedly great Zen teachers such as Genpo Mertzel and Eido Shimano, who had to dis-robe due to sexual predation.   Perhaps there are female sexual predators, but this seems to be the domain of men – the ones more suitable for the bodhisattva path – or so it is said.

But as I was reading this while parked at Linda Mar beach, I was somewhat startled to see that I am easily distracted, certainly by love.  I have a deeply devotional nature and have loved my two gurus and now my Zen teacher.  Although this love has inspired me all my life to dedicate myself to meditation, reading, service, etc, it has been painful, and it has been a distraction.  After a lifetime of inspiration and terrible disappointments, I think that it might be a good idea to be impartial in my love and compassion.

Well, that sounds good.  It sounds like some kind of spiritual maturity.  But is it?

We have idealized impressions of Buddha’s disciples as leading a life of absolute discipline.  We have impressions of monks living in their cells, undisturbed and undistracted by human emotions such as anger, lust, boredom, attachment, and doubt.  We have this idea that with enough practice and resolve, we also can be free of these distracting [and degrading] human emotions.

I think that this is not possible nor even desirable.  Although we can witness our emotions in meditation and can gradually move to some peace of mind, and although we can step back for a few blessed minutes in zazen, we are human, and it is good to love and be attached and passionate about our lives.

It is difficult for me to imagine compassion devoid of deep, painful human experience and suffering.  How helpful would a friend be –how compassionate could she be – if she had not also suffered the attachment and the confusion that can often be found in loving another?

I suppose there must be a middle way between being thrown about by human emotions, on the one hand, and being completely detached from emotions, on the other.  And I suspect that applies to men and women alike.

The Unoccupied Mind

When Brad and I and Laurence were in Rome many years ago, we went to a Mozart Requiem, performed in a non-denominational, plain church.  We sat in the balcony that had a broad walking space that ran around three quarters of the rectangular space, high above the congregation.  During a particularly sad part of the requiem, a young girl was dancing and swirling up and down the passage.  Such freedom!  Delightful!

Last week I was at Kaiser.  A young physical therapist was explaining in detail all the movements I would have to avoid after a left hip replacement.  I hadn’t given the details much thought; the descriptions of the pain and how I might dislocate the artificial joint were disturbing. 

“Do you have any questions?” he asked.

 “Yes.  What is your fundamental nature?” I spontaneously asked. [I had been giving a lot of thought to this matter.]

 He paused only a second, and then he said, “To help.”

“That’s fantastic!  That’s great!”

I was impressed that he did not think my question strange (which it probably was considering the circumstances).  He had answered spontaneously from his heart.  To help!  The bodhisattva’s vow spoken without philosophical analysis.  Such freedom!  Delightful!

I wonder if I could ever answer a question about my fundamental nature now that my mind is so full of Zen words and concepts.  I am reading (of course) a book about the Zen ancestors, and they all warn against the trap of words.  Zen master Deshan Xuanjian said,

If you have no affairs in your mind, nor mind in your affairs, then you are unoccupied yet animated, empty, and wondrous.  But if you allow yourself to stray from this upright state, all words will deceive you.

Of course, the obvious irony is that all these Zen masters talk about not talking.  But I guess they have to, because we love words.  I love words.  Somehow we need words.

What is this tightrope between reading the dharma and being free of the dharma?  Free like the young girl dancing, not knowing this was a requiem.  Free like the physical therapist, who could answer what might be perceived as a difficult dharma question with just a moment’s pause.

Is it too late to be innocent?  To go back to a clean slate?

On Practice

I am listening to the opening Kyrie in Bach’s Mass in B Minor.  I recommend cranking up the volume, because that first ecstatic Kyrie lifts you right out of your body, right out of your chair. 

Maybe it is the elevating nature of this music, but I feel really strong and grateful for my practice.  But what is my practice exactly? One usually thinks of specific practices like meditation, chanting, or reading the sutras.

But it is clear to me that my practice is much more than that. It is my whole self, not some separate thing that I do.  Suzuki Roshi gives the analogy of walking in the fog.  You don’t notice the fine water drops, but when you get inside, your coat is drenched.  All those years of my practice, and I feel as if my coat is drenched. 

This is really difficult to explain.  To use another analogy, I have been looking for and seeking the light for so long that the light has filled my body without my knowing.  By light I do not mean some spiritual or “holy” light from outside myself.  I don’t really think in those terms.  I mean that it is my own light, my own love, and that it has taken permanent residence.

My teacher Norman often says that practice is not a self-improvement course.  Recently he said,

"We do practice not to improve ourselves or fix ourselves.  Nothing needs to be added; nothing needs to be improved.  We practice exactly because of the appreciation for our lives, and we know that being what we ae, we want to do that.  That's our true expresseion and makes us whole."

It is almost impossible to believe that we don’t have to fix ourselves, but the spirit of his words, for me, is that practice is my expression of who I most fundamentally am.  The person I am both includes, and does not include, disease.  I feel strong and grateful for the “not disease” part.

So I am grateful for my life of practice.

Friendly Beings

Monday I took my second dose of Methotrexate, my weekly dose of poison to retard rheumatoid arthritis.  I have a new friend in the Everyday Zen sangha, Nancy Welch, who has had RA most of her life.  It is a great testament to her character that she is a very funny person.  In reference to the whole buffet of semi-toxic meds, she said, “As Dorothy Parker once said (and I recall this every time I have to try something else) ‘What fresh hell is this?’  But hey, without Zen, I'd probably be quoting Sylvia Plath--so I consider myself on the up side of pessimism, ya know?”

The day after taking this dose, I am in bed most of the day with deep fatigue.  Lying in bed doing nothing, not sleeping, is new for me.  After all, when you are in bed, aren’t you supposed to be sleeping or at least messing around?  So boredom sets in.  Finally, as a last resort, I actually decide to do some practice.  There is a line in the Metta Sutta that says, “Standing or walking, sitting or lying down, during all one's waking hours,practice the Way with gratitude.”  So I lie there following my breath and sometimes thinking of the millions who will not ever get out of bed.

I also do a visualization from a tape that has a guided meditation for those with RA.  There is imagery of friendly beings above you, sending you love.  They drape you with a soft blanket of healing.  Now, I listened to this tape pre-RA, and I was kind of cynical, not being a person to imagine friendly beings draping things.  But now, I will take all the help I can get.  I imagine the smiles of my friends, most especially that of Chris Fortin, who smiles with her whole face.  It really is quite wonderful, and it does feel healing.

I feel the intentional sending of thoughts of well being from my teacher and sangha.  So, here, now, I wish to express my love for all the friendly beings who are practicing with me, side by side, wishing me well.

The Gift of Momentary Seeing

In the last few days, there have been moments when I am seeing things differently.  I looked across the street, and the arms of the evergreens were crisscrossing and swaying to the rhythm of the song I was listening to, Chambermaid Swing.  Not just uniformly swaying in the wind, but actually dancing to the rhythm.

This morning the leaves on the trees outside the zendo were vibrating with white lights.   Near the zendo door, on the tallest stalk, was one pink rock rose facing the sun.  It was a ray of enthusiastic light leaping out to me.  It was saying, “Good morning!  Here I am!” 

This kind of seeing is almost hallucinatory.   These lights and visions are like a flash and then gone.  I don’t know why this is happening – maybe an unknown side effect of Methotrexate.  But whatever the cause, it really is grace.  It is the grace of a moment of beauty that pierces through the truly gloomy and dark experiences of being sick with active rheumatoid.

I think that these flashes of dancing in the trees, the brief piercing beauty of the rock rose, are possibly glimpses of things as they actually are – of thusness.  For me they feel as a gift, somehow, given hand-in – hand with the suffering.  

Gratitude to be Alive

Last night I held four, small, purple pills in my hand – my first dose of Methotrexate to treat my rheumatoid arthritis (RA).  I knew I had to take them, but I was frightened, because it is a very potent drug, used only in very serious conditions like RA and cancer.  I went online – not always the best thing to do – and I saw that it can cause death, lymphoma, kidney or liver failure, and so on.  There should be a label on the drug with skulls and crossbones, which says, “For God’s sake!  Don’t take this medicine!”

Why would I do this?  It always comes down to no other choice.  One morning I woke up, and I was like a stone woman.  I could not get up or down from a chair or walk without involuntary cries of pain.  I was shocked that my right hand did not work, and I could not hold a piece of toilet paper.  My body was no longer my own.

The week before, when I could feel the RA coming on, I told my Zen teacher, Norman Fischer, “I am not suicidal, but sometimes I think death wouldn’t be that bad.”  For the first time I thought that death was not a tragedy.  Such is the wonderful relationship between teacher and student, that Norman inserted a little message about gratitude for being alive in the middle of his talk on forgiveness that he gave yesterday. 

When you think about life in a dispassionate way, what a fantastic thing it is to be alive in the world!  It’s a beautiful world.  The sun shines.  All these little details that are so bright and pure and beautiful…Of course there are problems and things happen that we don’t like, but at least we are alive to feel all that.  That itself is a fantastic thing, that we could feel joy and sorrow, happiness and sadness.   This is a fantastic thing, that if any one of us thought about it, we would be celebrating every minute.

This morning in zazen I felt sick and discouraged.  As I followed my breath, I deliberately focused on how great it was to take the in-breath after the long exhalation.  When you are dead, well, there is no in-breath again.  How deeply, deeply precious it is to take the next breath.  A fantastic thing, really.