Anxiety, Trust, and Problems

“Some of the worst disasters in my life have not yet happened.”  Mark Twain

I’m anxious because I am starting a new life when I retire.  My son is anxious because he is starting a new life, because he just left the Marine Corps.  His fiancée just graduated from college and is starting a new life.  She may be anxious too, but I have not specifically asked her, since it doesn’t seem cool to ask somebody about their anxiety. 

Suzuki Roshi says some pretty incredible (in the actual sense of not being entirely believable) things about problems and trust:

Whatever the problems are, they are just enough.  If these are not enough problems, Buddha is ready to give you more, just so you can appreciate your problems.  If you have nothing to cope with, your life feels empty.  So I think you should trust Buddha.   [Not Always So pg 143.] 

Trust the Buddha?  Trust God?  What does that mean?  We usually equate trust with a positive outcome: I trust the car won’t veer over and cause a head-on collision; I trust the food I am eating is not poisonous; I trust the sun will come up in the morning.  Well, there are some things you can trust – like the sun rising– but cars do veer over, and food is sometimes poisonous.  And people who have trust and faith in God do lose their children. 

I think faith is different from trust.  I have faith that life is precious.  I have faith that love is the most important thing.  My faith is more open-ended.  Not so much faith in a specific being or thing, but faith that Being is fundamentally beautiful.  Faith does not require an outcome.  Just an attitude of joy and gratitude.

I have not yet, however, made the leap of faith that whatever one’s problems are, they are just enough.  Yes, I am managing my problems pretty well, but there are a multitude of sick and oppressed people in the world for whom the problems are too much.

My Zen teacher Norman said “trusting that everything will work out as it must.” I don’t know exactly what this means and why this would be a good thing.  I will have to think about this.

But I like the following quote of Suzuki Roshi:

Before you accept the problems you have, the position you are in, you cannot accept yourself as you are.

Our problems are ourselves.  We cannot accept our life or ourselves unless we accept that problems and living are synonymous.  

Spiritual Growth and Gender

I have been thinking about the relationship between a female student and a male teacher.  Are we peers or not?

Clearly there is a hierarchy within Zen, as with any other religion, and any hierarchy implies levels of power.  The hierarchy is important in Zen in terms of  the role of priests: giving lay and priest ordination, choosing a shuso, authorization to teach, etc.  This is necessary.  The issue of gender, of course, comes into play in the historically disproportionate role of men in positions of power.  But we all know this!

What really interests me is the heart-to-heart meeting between teacher and student.  Buddha meeting Buddha. The attitude I bring to a male teacher - Norman in this case - has the most profound effect on my psyche and spiritual growth than any other practice.

Every spiritual tradition assumes that the teacher has more wisdom, and, of course, many assume that the true master is enlightened.  I find it interesting that Zen seems to disclaim enlightenment as any state a person could possess, and Dogen’s “practice-enlightenment” seems pretty Equal Opportunity to me. And yet, all the koans and the roles of the priest imply that the teacher has some advanced knowledge that the student hopes to attain.

After a lifetime of practice, I don’t think a teacher has a special state of knowledge that – if I tried hard enough – I could possess. And yet I am deeply and sincerely seeking.

I actually don’t know what goes on between teacher and student.  It seems to be immensely important, but I am not sure why.  Maybe the teacher is just a really good mirror, or as Socrates says, “A midwife to the Truth.”  Maybe a student allows an open vulnerability, a defenselessness, that somehow allows the truth within herself to emerge.

I have learned, however, that the gender attitudes I bring to a male teacher are detrimental to me and my spiritual growth.  All those conditioned attitudes: subservience, handing oneself over, sexual dynamics, and the subconscious, pathetic assumption that men actually “know best.”

All this stuff gets in the way of true spiritual maturation.  So, this is what I need to examine.

Living in Defenseless Ambiguity

For better or worse, my enactment of my relationship with God – or the Buddha or the Nameless- has been through my relationship to the teacher.  For me, this enactment has often been wounding, a struggle.  There is the transcendent joy along with the pain and confusion inherent in being human.

In Zen primary importance is placed on the meeting between student and teacher, and all koans are based on this meeting.  I have thought of my relationship to my teachers as my life koan.  But the word koan suggests that there is a problem and a solution.  But there is no solution, and maybe there is also no problem.

Maybe we accept (as joyfully as possible) living in defenseless ambiguity.

My relationship with the teacher is like two hands rubbing together, producing heat through friction.  After decades of this confusion and friction, I see that the expression of all this is love.  When I walk into the zendo, when I see my brothers and sisters in the dharma, there is a spontaneous out-flowing of love.

My husband Brad said that the precepts come down to having a soft and open and gentle heart.  I see this heart of the precepts in both Brad and my teacher.  Since we are so quick to disclaim anything good about ourselves, they both would probably deny this.  But, nevertheless, it is so. 

What a wonderful outcome this would be: to have a soft and open and gentle heart.

Retirement: Jumping off the 100 ft. Pole

I did it! I just gave notice at my job that I will be retiring.  It feels like jumping off a 100 ft pole.  For a long time I have anxiously considered early retirement. “Shall I jump?”

As I entered our little zendo last week, I prayed for clarity.  I bowed, sat down, and heard, “Jump!”

The metaphor of the 100 ft pole is from a Zen koan.  If you think you are enlightened or have attained something, you are stuck at the top of the pole.  So, the idea, I guess, is to jump.  But Suzuki Roshi said, commenting on this koan, “Actually there is no top of the pole.  The pole continues forever.  So you can’t stop there.”

I am aging and feel insecure.  I want to stay at the top of the pole with my nice, secure income.  But the metaphor probably means all the times I am stuck: thinking I should improve myself; thinking that my body shouldn’t really be aging; not realizing that everything is changing every single second.

Of course, one does need to consider income and one’s mortgage and financial responsibilities.  One needs to consider that a Social Security benefit is basically small change.  But I cannot remain stuck at the top of the pole.

When I returned home the day I had given notice, I opened my email, and my friend Jennifer Block wrote – not knowing that I had just announced my retirement – “When you jump, the net will appear.”

Nice, huh?

A Sacred Thread

Yesterday I threw up my arms and said, “Oh Universe, take me!”  My husband laughed and said, “The Universe took you a long time ago!’

Thirty years ago, when I traveled with Swami Muktananda (Baba), I had a deep, passionate, loving relationship with him in my heart.  When my father came to Miami Beach to meet him – with the intent of rescuing me from a cult – Baba said, before my father could even speak, “She’s my daughter.”  And such was Baba’s presence, that all my father could do was to nod his head in agreement. 

What is this sacred connection?  Why is it that I have always felt that I have a special relationship with my teacher, even though clearly he/she has hundreds of other students? 

There is a famous Hindu story – the Rasa Lila.  Rasa means “nectar,” and lila means “dance.”  Krishna is the Lord of Love, and he always lives near his gopis.  The gopis are the cow-herders who passionately love Krishna’s form.  Whenever he plays his flute, they come running.  If she is nursing a baby, she throws it on the bed and runs to Krishna.  If she is half undressed, she rushes out the door with her sari flying.

And this is the good part:  Krishna manifests himself for each gopi and dances with her.  Each one believes she has the one special relationship with Krishna, as she ecstatically dances with him. 

I have always felt a sacred thread connecting my heart to the heart of the teacher – even in the Soto Zen tradition.  This can be confusing and disconcerting unless one realizes that it is beyond gender.  That the relationship is sanctified.  That it is the relationship between those who have dedicated their lives and being to the dharma.  Who belong to each other in the dharma.  Perhaps lifetime after lifetime.

The Copulation of Shiva and Shakti

There is a little room where I wait before I have a meeting with my Zen teacher.  On the wall is a tantric picture – not at all a Zen picture – of Shiva and Shakti.  Shiva is all blue and sits immobile, facing front.  Shakti is all white and is straddling Shiva, sitting on him, her back to us, with her legs around his body.

In addition to the very Eastern idea that the explicitly sexual is totally appropriate in religious iconography, I find the idea of Shiva and Shakti relevant to teachers, even in the Zen tradition.

According to Shaivism, Shiva is transcendent consciousness – the absolutely calm yogi, uninvolved with the world.  Shakti, his consort, is the immanent – the energy of creation.  He is the thought-free state of meditation.  She creates and plays in the world. 

I find this interesting because I think of two Zen teachers that I love.  The man will listen to your everyday woes, of course, but he is much better at coursing in the absolute, in emptiness.  [And then it is very possible that he will forget the mundane details.]  The woman, on the other hand, listens with the body and heart of compassion.  She understands the nuances of words and actions.  She comforts and heals.

Of course, a man and woman teacher can do both.  But each has his/her essentially different approach.  And we become intimate with and need both.

Traditionally we practice with one teacher.  Practicing with a man excludes the feminine.  Practicing with a woman excludes the masculine. 

Do you think it would upset hundreds of years of Zen tradition if we studied with both?

Express Yourself!

My root yoga guru – Swami Muktananda – had a great story.  Two swamis were travelling in India and had no place to sleep.  They found a home of a business man, and, in the middle of the night, entered an empty bedroom. The elder swami advised the younger, “Whatever you do, don’t become anyone.”  That morning the owner discovered them and started shouting at them, “What are you doing in my home?”  The younger swami was outraged and said, “I am a swami!!”  The owner beat him and threw him out the door.  The elder swami said nothing.  The owner said, “Clearly this man is a fool.  Get him out of here.”  The younger swami was bruised and bleeding.  He said, “How come he beat me and not you?”  The elder swami said, “I told you not to become anything!”

Chapter Two of Suzuki Roshi’s book Not Always So, is called “Express Yourself Fully.” Suzuki Roshi says, “Trying to become someone else, you lose your practice and lose your virtue.”  I often object, thinking, “How can you ever be anyone but yourself?”

Soto Zen is famous for its austere forms:  sitting meditation facing a wall (zazen); formal walking (kinhin); bowing together; even eating meals in a highly formalized way (oryoki).  I actually love this kind of practicing together, but I can definitely see why many Westerners object.  We think we are preserving our identity and authenticity by being  original and unique.  And yet, Suzuki Roshi says that he could see each person’s unique nature, when everyone was sitting in the exact same unmoving position facing a wall.

I think back to the national sprint bicycle championship in the 1970’s – a time when one would think I was most uniquely and specially expressing myself.  On the qualifying round to put me in the top three, my foot came loose from the pedal.  While I went around the track with my foot helplessly pulled up, and the cranks going round and round (a sprint bike has a “fixed gear”), I could hear my teammate cheering me on.  Afterwards, instead of humiliation and despair, I just laughed and laughed.  Not just because it was funny, but because I could see that that had nothing to do with who I really am.

Last December I was at a week-long Zen retreat in Mexico.  It was in silence.  Even if it were not in silence, I can’t speak Spanish.  We moved and walked and chanted in formal unison.  At the end of the week, I had such love for each person.  I felt at some mysterious level I knew them better than my co-workers in the law office where I have worked for twelve years.  Real and deep intimacy with each different person.

So maybe fully expressing ourselves is fully experiencing the love that is always so.