There really is nothing to stand on

The Perfection of Wisdom teachings say, over and over again, that a bodhisattva must be fearless. This is a liberating, but daunting, theology. 

[Caveat: what follows may be difficult to hear, and you might not want to read further.]

The jubilant side of the Perfection of Wisdom teachings is that if there is nothing to stand on – no teacher, no teachings, no doctrine – we are free. If the formations of our mind, rising and falling, have no own being, then the mind can, indeed, be far beyond hindrances and fear.

Starting with yogic gurus in the late 70's, to the present time of studying with Zen teachers, I have had great devotion and also, I suppose, high hopes. But, in general, gurus and roshis have often betrayed us with sexual crimes or abandonment. Teachers, like all of us humans, seem to be just as broken and as full of suffering, as I am. So it is with great doubt that I now question whether anyone can actually guide me or teach me or help me.  Or do anything more than point at the moon. (And I do see the moon.)

Recently, when I realized, with some flash of clarity, that “teachers” have nothing to stand on, that they are one more “karmic construction,” I felt liberated. With no clinging to this deep seated need to be pulled up to a higher plane by another, I felt free. “Yes! It is over, I thought.” This decades-long entanglement with gurus and teachers.

But the shadow side to the Perfection of Wisdom teachings is the realization that there is actually nothing to stand on. Instead of the fuzzy feeling of interconnection, we are ultimately alone, in the same way that when we are dying, we are ultimately alone. We may have dharma friends who offer love and consolation and support – to the extent possible – but ultimately we are alone. We may care deeply for each other as spiritual friends, but, in the end, we are alone.

And that is very scary. That is why the Perfection of Wisdom teachings say, over and over again, that a bodhisattva must be fearless. This is a liberating, but daunting, theology.

“Ryushin Sensei stepped down as abbot of Zen Mountain Monastery after it became known that he had been committing adultery for the previous six months.”

A response from a priest friend of mine was “Shit. Another one.” And mine has been “Why does this keep happening over and over again?”

I am beginning to think that “spiritual bypassing” may be a root cause of the rash of sexual misbehavior in Zen communities. It occurs to me that this tendency in all of us may contribute to priests breaking the precepts and our unwitting perpetuation of this problem. I highly recommend the book, Spiritual Bypassing: When Spirituality Disconnects Us from What Really Matters by Dr. Robert Augustus Masters.

Spiritual bypassing is defined by Dr. Robert Masters as “the use of spiritual practices and beliefs to avoid dealing with our painful feelings, unresolved wounds, and developmental needs… Because this preference has so deeply and thoroughly infiltrated our culture that it has become all but normalized, spiritual bypassing fits seamlessly into our collective habit of turning away from what it painful, as a kind of higher analgesic.”

It is a kind of “metaphysical valium.”

As I read a Facebook string based on the announcement of Ryushin’s stepping down as abbot, I see that there are several comments to the effect that we shouldn’t judge him, the implication being, I think, that judgment is not spiritual. One comment, ironically, judged the judgers: “Underneath any holy vow there is just a person. The judgment being held against those who break their vows for one reason or another is as scary as what they are accused of.”

When one judges within a spiritual community, one risks being censured for being unspiritual. Spiritual people should be compassionate – and I agree! – but the underlying belief is that compassion is incompatible with judgment. But we do judge, and we should call out wrongdoing. Yes, judgment can have the negative aspects of condemnation or moral superiority, which we should eschew, but we should name behaviors we know are wrong: adultery, betrayal, lying. I think compassion and naming wrongdoing go hand in hand. They are not mutually opposed to one another

On the subject of judgment, Dr. Masters says:
“Much of this behavior (spiritual bypassing) has to do with the popularized notion that we shouldn’t judge others. There are some very serious problems with this kind of thinking: First of all, we do judge others. To make it wrong – that is, to judge our judging – only drags us into guilt’s domain, splitting us into “good” (read: not judging) and “bad” (read: judging) factions.

The second problem with the notion that we shouldn’t judge others is the fact that judgment per se is not necessarily a negative phenomenon. Strip away the hostile, condescending, or mean-spirited elements that often characterize judgment, you may find a kernel of valuable insight. Judgment is not necessarily equivalent to condemnation!

For in not bringing people face to face with the consequences of their actions, we are actually depriving them of something they might sorely need. Furthermore, in letting them off the hook, we are doing the same for ourselves.”

Since we are interdependent and co-create ourselves, especially in religious groups, we are all responsible for our collective habit of bypassing what is painful, of spiritualizing or ignoring our shadows. And we are all responsible for all the group dynamics that contribute to the confusion a teacher might feel when confronted with his or her very human behaviors – sexual or otherwise. It's bad enough when we do spiritual bypassing vis a vis our own problems, but it can be really destructive as a group mentality.

If we were all – priests and lay people alike –supported and encouraged to honestly examine our shadows like lust and greed and anger, we would have healthier selves, healthier sanghas, and we wouldn’t read, “…after it became known.”

We need, of course, to be gentle with our spiritual bypassing. Understanding our tendencies to do this can only deepen and mature our practice.

Upaya practice period with Norman and Kaz

Upaya Zen Center, outside of Santa Fe, is in a high valley at 7000 feet, surrounded by dry hills that are covered with high desert bushes and trees. Every hot afternoon, there was the mercy of high cumulus clouds and thunderstorms, accompanied by a celestial game of Buddhas Bowling, with thunder balls rolling down the valley.

The zendo is in an adobe structure and is an exquisite combination of Japanese woodworking and Southwest design. There are soji screens along one wall, and the remaining three sides are held up by giant grey tree trunks. A picture of Green Tara covers almost entirely one wall. The floor is a dark brown. The altar looks as if it could have been a Hopi Indian work table. Everything was cool and beautiful – all an expression of Roshi Joan’s aesthetic and attention to detail (and love of female bodhisattvas).

Eva B and I were roommates in the beautiful Upaya House, along with Norman and Kathy. I rarely saw Norman, but every morning at 5:30 am, I made coffee for them. And every morning Kathy and I bowed to each other in a way that is the Bowing Prayer: the bodies of bower, the bowed to, and coffee are one.

The following is very difficult for me, but I feel compelled to express my concern about the “scene” around Joan Halifax, or “Roshi” as she is called. For many years I was intimately connected with the guru scene around Gurumayi Chidvilasananda. Gurumayi lived like a queen, while young people worked 12 hour days, with no pay, to anticipate her every wish. Apparently Joan has “retired.” She is doing important work, but the resident students at Upaya have no teacher. Based on what students shared with me, she inspires awe and actual fear. She has people preparing her lunch, doing her laundry, and one young, handsome man appears to be her constant companion, which was the most disturbing observation of all.  I don’t really know the whole story, and I am probably coming from my own pain around the issue of celebrity, genius, abandonment by my teacher, and the exploitation that I have experienced in my own life.

For the first time, to my knowledge, Kathy came forward to take the dharma seat. She gave talks that subtly used her knowledge of amoebas, sea stars, and sharks to illustrate the dharma. She gave dokusan along with Norman, and as people discovered her great kindness and charm, the list for Kathy quickly filled up to capacity. And because the Upaya students are desperate for a teacher, many wished to become Kathy’s students.

So, every morning, I woke up at 4:30 and drank coffee until the first birdsong at 5:13 am, and then walked to the zendo in the early morning light. I often stopped at a stone bench, surrounded by wildflowers. For the first meditation, we all sat facing inward. I love the way that Norman so nobly enters the zendo, and I would always think, “Good morning, beloved friend.” When he did the three bows, it was clear that he was bowing to the altar, to us, and the great boundlessness.

Upaya has different versions of the chants. Norman says they have been “kaz-ified”

Creations are numberless; I vow to free them

Delusions are inexhaustible; I vow to transform them

Reality is boundless; I vow to perceive it

The awakened way is unsurpassable; I vow to embody it.

The schedule was rigorous and was pretty much the same as that at Zen Center at sesshin. It took me almost two weeks to acclimate to the altitude, and because I have residual pain and fatigue due to rheumatoid arthritis, I had a difficult time physically. By the third day I was in tears and told Norman, “I can’t do this practice.” He gave me permission to rest during a period of zazen (although I ended up doing all zazen sessions except the late evening sits.) I was reminded that my practice is my practice. How could it be otherwise?

The three weeks was a wonderful way to practice with Norman in a monastic setting. And this practice for me is more than “just sitting.” It is sitting with sangha and is practicing with our teachers and listening to the dharma. Just practicing together, doing our best, knowing that in some mysterious way, it is the most important thing.

Ordination: The great offering of ancestors and teachers

This calling to be ordained – to give myself completely to the dharma – has been present for thirty-two years, or, maybe, it has always been so. Long ago in India, I stood outside a small room in the jungle, listening to the chanting of those taking the vows of sannyasa, monkhood in the yogic tradition. I cried, knowing that I could not take vows of celibacy. [And if I had, I never would be married to the kind and gentle seeker of the truth – Brad, my life companion and friend and husband.]

Due to the love and grace of Hoka Chris Fortin, I was given permission to sew an okesa, Buddha’s robe. She said, “I see your shining priest heart.” So began a year of the joyful, but arduous path of sewing an okesa, a rakusu, and a bowing mat. Each stitch taking refuge in the Buddha. The robe itself became the Buddha, the offering of myself to the dharma. It was literally a year of blood, sweat, and tears: doing a long row of stitching, only to discover that I had sewed the wrong side of a panel to the border, having to remove the stitches, and sew the row all over again.

When I contemplated being a priest, I had one fear: that I would think I had become someone special.  Humility is the essence of priesthood, along with seeing the Buddha in everyone, and a desire to serve all beings. I just didn’t – and don’t – want to take myself too seriously, while taking the vows themselves very seriously.

The day before the ordination, several friends helped me and Mary Ann shave our heads. I had an overwhelming sense of disorientation and a kind of confusion. I didn’t know who I was. Deep in my heart, I knew that I didn’t really know anything.  Such a gift: beginner’s mind – immeasurably deep and profound, as the ordination ceremony says. The fear that I would take myself too seriously lessened.

The night before the ordination, I had a remarkable dream. I was a passenger in a Ford Explorer. We were on a road, stopped at a river. The river looked deep and flowing. I knew we had to proceed through the river, but I was scared. I knew that I had to trust the driver. 

During the ordination ceremony, I was in a state of deep concentration and inward focus. It felt like a powerful form of zazen. I felt still and quiet. It was a backward step, an inner deep return to myself. During the entire ceremony, I was never aware of the large number of people attending. I saw and heard only what was right in front of me.

I saw Chris’s radiant smile as we bowed to each other, and she offered me my name, a sitting robe, a rakusu, a bowing mat, and finally the okesa. Every time I received a gift, our fingers intertwined as she released it to me. So tender and beautiful!

Apparently I kept sitting down on my robe, and every time I stood up, it would pull apart. Three times I stood up and turned to Arobin, who tucked it back in again. The third time, Jeff Bickner whispered to me, “Don’t sit on your robe.” To credit the robe itself, I remained quiet and still as my robe was put back on. [Norman had spoken to me a few years ago about wearing the robe with the quiet dignity of a buddha.]  I was embarrassed, though, and I am sure my face was flushed. But this is good! So much for taking myself too seriously! Hard to do, when your robe keeps falling off!

The language of the ordination ceremony is a great promise of freedom from karmic bonds. It is a promise of liberation and enlightenment. We vow to live a life of enlightenment. I think, “What if this is true? What if I am really freed from my karmic formations?” Now, a few days later, I think it is not that the seeds of karma are exterminated; it is that we can see them through a new lens. My relationship to them could change. May it be so!

More than this, I vow to act and speak from the ground of the precepts. I vow to have love for others and service to others, as my only desire.

Gratitude to the ancestors and lineage of teachers, handing the dharma to me this day.

This is really the essence of what I wish to say: thank you.

Can we wake up (or not)?

We Zen practitioners use the words “wake up” as if we actually understand what waking up is. One can even buy coffee cups and tee shirts with the words, “Wake Up!”

The historical Buddha said, “When one person [italics added] opens up reality and returns to the source, all space in the ten directions disappears.” Pre-Mahayana literature describes this as an act of awakening that happens to a practitioner after rigorous practice over many lifetimes. [I won’t discuss here the confusing paradox that there is no-self to wake up!]

With the Lotus Sutra, and its emphasis by Dogen, awakening is a liberative function of all time and space.  Thousands of bodhisattvas emerge from the earth, and the Buddha has an inconceivably long life span.  Quoting from Dan Leighton’s wonderful book, Visions of Awakening Space and Time, “But Dogen’s own version of this utterance [the words of the Buddha] expresses a deeper appreciation for the vitality of the spatial environment and for the actual spiritual potency and capacity of the world to manifest awakening.” [I like to visualize Kogen in the fields of Green Gulch Farm!]

Important to note, I think, is that Mr. Leighton does not say here the capacity for one person to wake up. And this gets to my question: can one person wake up?  According to the Soto Zen view, as I understand it, there is no final state of enlightenment, as in one moment you are deluded, and then you wake up and are enlightened. “Practice enlightenment,” as described by Dogen, is ongoing, continuous practice.  In fact, great teacher Norman Fischer said in a talk recently that for Dogen,

Awakening was a kind of metaphysical reality, not a mere psychological achievement. Awakening existed in its fullness, always, and everywhere. It was not something produced by a little person’s little activity. ~ from Introduction to the Precepts

Ouch! “A little person’s little activity.”  I do love this idea of a metaphysical reality. But I don’t want to limit myself, to say that I, personally, cannot wake up or experience waking up.  I don’t know what to call them exactly, but I have had glimpses of a kind of non-dual reality, and always in the context of nature. At risk of sounding like some hippie-dippie person, I recently had an experience of the unity of all things.  I was walking kinhin outdoors and came across a radiant, golden poppy. For a moment, I did feel that I was actually that flower…until my mind kicked in and obscured and negated the whole experience.

Again quoting Leighton, “According to Dogen, there is clear and beneficial mutuality in the inter-relationship between the practitioner and the environment.” So that seems to validate my experience.  But do I need Dogen – or any teacher – to validate real experiences of spaciousness and love and the unity with all things?  No, I hope not!

The best language might be to change the verb tenses.  Instead of the past tense of “she woke up,” you could use the present participle, “she is awaking.” Instead of “enlightenment,” use the sense of “enlightening.”

However it is talked about, I have faith in the mystery that is always available to all of us and to have faith in my own experience.

Buddha's sorrowful and joyful rainbow body

Last week-end I attended the Rohatsu retreat held by Chris Fortin and Bruce Fortin.

In some traditions, the pilgrimage is as important as the sacred site, or, in this case, the shared intention to sit together at the important time of the Buddha’s enlightenment.

For me, the trip to St Dorothy’s Rest, the retreat site outside Occidental, was upsetting and even scary.  I left at 2:15 pm, allowing almost three hours to drive up through San Francisco and up highway 101. On 19^th street, in San Francisco, I saw a somewhat demolished motorcycle and worried about the driver, who was no longer present on the street.  I hit snail traffic at San Rafael.  I get claustrophobic in this kind of traffic, so I decided to exit at Lucas Valley Road and drive up the coast.  It began to rain and get dark. 

On the climb up Lucas Valley road, I pulled over so that a car – the driver was in a big hurry – could pass me.  A few minutes up the road I could see that he had side-swiped a car, and both cars both were limping off of the road.  I had no map, and I have refused to get a smarty-pants phone, so I didn’t know the way to Occidental.  I periodically made wrong turns and had to call Brad for instructions.  I reached Occidental in the dark.  The redwoods were dark and rainy.  I got lost on the way up to St. Dorothy’s and found myself on a one lane road, high in the redwoods, with no side rails. I arrived in tears.

Usually people talk about the difficulties of meeting oneself “on the cushion.”  I have now reached the point in my practice where zazen is actually restful.  Often the “bliss and repose” that Dogen described. The retreat itself was very quiet – practicing alone and together.

I meet the longing and sadness and anxiety in my life off the cushion. When I listened to various people at the retreat share their own grief and physical pain, I thought that this suffering has to be the fabric of our lives, and there will never be some mystical, end-point enlightenment.

At the moment, I am sewing a black okesa.  I hold it in my hands and wonder, “What is this?”  It seems dark and beautiful and sacred, but somehow “other.”  At the retreat I had a vision of the actual Buddha’s robe: it is made of shimmering, translucent fibers of silver and gold and pinks and blues.  It is the robe made of the beautiful and sorrowful and ever-changing patterns of human existence.  It is my skin and the skin of others.  It is actually “wearing the Tathagatha’s teaching,” as we say in the Robe Chant.

On the way home, I decided again to drive down the coast, but this time it was a low light, golden winter day in California.  I stopped at a seafood restaurant at Tomales Bay that had once been a kind of shack, but had now become upscaled.  A woman at a table next to me said, “If I drink one more Napa Chardonnay, I’ll scream.” I felt sick at heart.  On the way home, there was bumper to bumper traffic approaching the Golden Bridge.  It seemed early in the day to be so slow.  People had slowed to watch a man, who was perched on the rail of the bridge, while police were “talking him down.”

I can’t actually ordain with the robe I had imagined.  But I think I will go to Britex to find this fabric and make my own, special robe: Buddha’s rainbow body: car accidents and ice cold rain and getting lost and peaceful zazen and suicides.  And love.

All is Lost - Robert Redford

What do you believe?  Is there a divine rescue, or is all lost?

Okay - if you plan on seeing this movie, don't read any further, unless you want to know the ending.

This movie's only actor is Robert Redford, who is sailing a small sailboat somewhere in the Indian Ocean.  This is how he loses everything:

• A steel cargo container, floating in the ocean, rams a whole in the side of his boat
• Redford manages to patch the hole.
• Finally he finds the radio (and we have been wondering why he has taken so long), but he can only get vague crackles
• There is  a huge storm, and the mast is broken.
• Water is a few inches deep in the boat, but overnight it is filling rapidly
• He inflates and boards the life raft
• The boat sinks. 
• His potable water is contaminated
• The one fish he could catch was snatched away by a shark.
• Two ships pass him by and dont see the flares.
• He is near death, but sees a boat
• He makes a fire, but soon the whole raft is aflame
• He falls into the water, falling peacefully deeper and deeper.
• All is indeed lost.
• But not really! A light shines down, he swims upward, and we see an arm pulling him up.

So it is clear to me that this is an allegory of a man approaching death and dying. [Redford at age 77 surely must be thinking of these matter.]

I liked the image of him peacefully passing away.  I was really angry at the ending!

Not that I wouldn't wish the imaginary best for the character he is playing, but it is too deus ex machina.

One could respond that this is Redford's vision of the ultimate: a benevolent arm pulling one up to the light.

I think a lot of people have this image or love this image.  My own opinion is that it ruins the truth of what we actually know: that when you die, you lose everything.

There is part of me, however, that wishes I could believe in the divine rescue.  I just don't.  Ever since I was a child I have thought that one should not believe something because it is a beautiful story.

Maybe buddhist practice is here, right now, losing everything.