Koans that kick butt (and those that don’t)

Jeff

 

Hakuin Ekaku, the 18th century Zen master who brought the Rinzai school back to life, grouped all koans into five categories.  He dubbed eight “nanto,” which means something along the lines of “difficult to pass through” (a/k/a really frickin’ hard).  As James Ford and Melissa Blacker note in The Book of Mu, these seem to be the koans Hakuin personally experienced as difficult.

 

Those particular koans may or may not seem difficult to you or me, but most students experience some koans as more difficult to pass through than others, and some of these as especially difficult.

 

Here’s one that kicked my butt, for example, Muzhou and the Thieving Phony (Case 10 from the Blue Cliff Record):

 

Muzhou asked a monk, “Where have you come from?”

Instantly, the monk shouted.

“That’s a shout on me,” said Muzhou.

The monk shouted again.

“Three shouts, four shouts, what next?” asked Muzhou. The monk did not answer.

Muzhou gave him a blow with his stick and cried, “Oh, you thieving phony!

 

Muzhou’s opening question is an old Zen teacher’s trope.  In Case 15 of the Gateless Gate, for instance, Yunmen asks his student Tung-shan, “Where were you most recently?” (The Gateless Gate is a collection that precedes the Blue Cliff Record in the Harada-Yasutani tradition in which BoWZ participates).  Tung-shan replies, to his teacher’s disapproval, that he has just returned from the village (or some such).

 

Yunmen was looking for a different answer, which I knew by the time I met Muzhou and his shouting student.  When Muzhou asks the question, however, his student’s response seems to come from left field.  And Muzhou doesn’t exactly disapprove of it – at least not initially.  Muzhou’s early reactions are more descriptive and curious.

 

What’s going on?

 

(I’m not going to say, of course.  A joke explained is not funny, as Shakespeare observed.  A koan exposed by others is not your koan – and it is your koan, after all.)

 

Anyway, I tend to learn a lot about myself – often about my own less reflective, default orientations to the world – when a koan kicks my butt, as this one did.

 

Koans aren’t riddles.  I think of them as little slices of life: sightlines, from varying angles, on this experience of living and dying.

 

When a koan exposes a sightline that is new to me, however, it sometimes can feel much like a riddle, and I may experience it as challenging (even to the point of being maddening) in all the ways a good riddle can feel challenging.

 

In time, difficult koans that have this riddle-ness feeling invariably help me see that the riddle is my life, and that there is a way beyond the riddle-ness, a way to meet the challenge.  They shock or prod me out of some unexamined or habitual way of knowing and being.

 

Then there are koans that one doesn’t experience as particularly challenging.

 

It’s too easy – at least it was too easy for me for a time – to appreciate them, to even be inspired by them in one way or another, perhaps even to be amused by them, but to think they don’t have much to teach, and even to feel a bit self-satisfied about passing through them.

 

As I reflect back on these koans, however, I see how much I’ve learned by encountering them (individually and collectively).

 

For starters – and this is just about me and my particular programming and neuroses – they’ve helped shine a light on the downsides of some of my Type A-ness; on a certain greediness, manifesting, in this instance, as a desire to achieve; and perhaps on my (very human) desire for recognition and approval.  Certainly they’ve shined a light on my grasping for an anchor and shown me that being rooted in the rootless rock-solidness of the here-and-now ultimately offers more security than any other anchor I might imagine to exist.

 

One soon learns that the practice of presenting koans to a teacher is not about recognition and approval – at least not in the sense of seeking and receiving pats on the head.  In my experience, it’s more about recognition in the sense of offering two people – indeed, teachers and students throughout time and space, and, more broadly, all of us – the opportunity to encounter one another genuinely.  The koan provides the pretext and context for an honest and open look at, and mutual recognition of, some important feature of human experience.

 

Besides, there are so many koans in the Zen tradition.  We use something like 500 of them in our little branch of the family.  If one does the math, it quickly becomes clear that it will take many years to pass through them all, even if one is living in a monastery and has multiple opportunities to meet with a teacher each week.  (I’m not, and I don’t.)  So, why not focus on enjoying the ride instead of the brass ring one imagines to be dangling at the end of the line?

 

There’s no brass ring anyway, and, as Melissa once said to me with a wry smile, there always are more koans.

 

Whether one experiences them as easy or hard, koans offer us something more precious than a brass ring:  a gold mine of insight and potential for transformation.

 

Lunch

Jeff

 

Crazy day.

 

I left my office around 12:30 to get something to bring back to my desk to eat.

 

Stopping for plastic utensils and a paper napkin before leaving Au Bon Pain with my soup and sandwich, I thought, “I need this spoon, but do I need a fork?  I shouldn’t take it if I don’t, but maybe my sandwich will disintegrate.  Better take it.  I’ll stash it in my desk for future use if I don’t need it.”

 

I unpack my lunch sack back at the office to find . . . two plastic forks (and no spoon).

 

Ugh.

 

I open my desk drawer to deposit one of the forks, only to find . . . seven plastic forks living there already.  Guess I’ve been here before.

 

Ugh.

 

Monkey mind.

 

Taking Refuge: Nowhere to Hide

Jeff

 

This post is based upon a Dharma Talk (my first) that I gave on October 25, 2011.

I take refuge in Buddha

I take refuge in Dharma

I take refuge in Sangha

The Three Refuges we chant during our Zen liturgy seem to me to be the closest thing we have to a creed in this non-creedal religion. Creeds are statements of belief. In some religions they are the litmus test for “true believers.” They often require one to submit to improbable metaphysical claims and rigid authority structures.

I was a questioning Catholic 20 years ago when I first encountered Buddhism and the refuges.  Elements of the Nicene Creed, which Catholics recite, always have been hard for me to swallow; certainly in any literal sense. Creeds of any kind – even the UU Covenant – tend to press my buttons to some degree.

I know from talking to other members of our sangha that I’m not the only person who has been agitated by one of the traditional Zen forms. Bowing. Chanting. The Four Vows. Whatever. For me, it was the Three Refuges.

But, here they are. We chant them every week. And, though we don’t make much of “being Buddhist” the way some religions do – there’s no salvation, spiritual or otherwise, in simply self-identifying as a Zen practitioner – “taking refuge” by reciting and embracing the Three Refuges is the traditional way Buddhists the world over signal their commitment to this path.

I had little choice but to sit with my agitation and get to know it. Why this discomfort?

I ultimately concluded that my agitation stemmed from two sources.

First, the very idea of “taking refuge” offended me. I’ve tended to think of myself as autonomous and self-reliant. Taking refuge seemed like submission. I’ve tended to think of myself as strong. Taking refuge seemed like an admission of vulnerability, of weakness. I’ve tended to think of myself as engaged and action-oriented. Taking refuge seemed like hiding.

Second, my early ideas about what Buddhists must be taking refuge in troubled me.

What’s Buddha? Another messiah? Hmm.

What’s Dharma? Did I hear doctrine? Dogma? Forget it.

What’s Sangha? Another exclusive community? Only true believers are saved? Can’t go there.

These reactions were conditioned, of course. I’m a product of western culture, in which values like autonomy, self-reliance, strength, action and the like tend to be privileged over values like interdependence, connection, community, vulnerability, and introspection. Then there’s that Roman Catholic upbringing. There’s so much that’s rich and beautiful about Catholicism, and also much I can only relate to in a mytho-poetic way. Perhaps my reactions also were gendered to some degree.

My early encounters with Buddhism actually helped me discover the Christian contemplative tradition. D.T. Suzuki sings the praises of various Christian mystics in one of his books – names that were unfamiliar to me when I encountered them there 20 years ago. I soon learned that a form of sitting practice that’s often called centering prayer today was developed and preserved in Christian monastic communities through the ages, and that there was a budding lay movement (catalyzed by monks) that embraced it.

I sat in that tradition for many years, and I think my sitting practice ultimately contributed to the disintegration of my Christian religious worldview. (This doesn’t happen for most who sit in that context, and I’m not saying it should, but this was my experience then.) I continued to sit alone for 10 years before making my way to Zen.  And, Zen ultimately helped me appreciate the contemplative strain of my birth tradition in new ways.

I decided to take refuge on this Zen path, in part, because I began to feel that what I was looking for wasn’t to be found in solitude, at least not in my case. I wanted a supportive context, open and devoid of dogma, and I sensed I would find kindred spirits along the Zen path.

I’ve ultimately come to think of the refuges much differently since the time I first encountered them. Those old notions have been turned on their head.

These days, I take refuge from the illusion of complete separateness that seems to be the lens through which so many of us see things – our default mode, if you will. It’s the source of endless personal and collective suffering. I take refuge from my narratives and mental constructions that indulge this illusion.

I now think of this taking refuge from as more of an opting in, than as an opting out. I’m choosing to opt into life as it really is. It includes this illusion of complete separateness and all of my narratives and habits that indulge it, but the whole of life isn’t defined by that illusion, even if my subjective experience sometimes seems to be.

We are distinct, but there really is no sense in which we are separate. We’re immersed in it all. We’re of it all.

What do I choose to opt into?

Buddha signifies a couple of things for me.

It’s our potential to awaken to the reality that we’re not separate from the rest of this universe and everything else in it – we’re not a sort of two-dimensional, Flat Stanley sort of sticker of a human being laid over a flat, background universe. Buddha is oneness, and our capacity to experience this oneness – not just to intellectualize about it, but for this background reality to become our new foreground. Our new ground and no-ground.

But we’re also reminded time and again that we’re Buddha just as we are now, however we are. That each of us embodies and reflects this oneness at this very moment. So Buddha – or Buddha nature – must be me, with all of my foibles and failings, my doubts and insecurities.

Buddha when I snapped at my wife about something senseless the other day. Buddha when I apologized after 15 tense minutes had passed.

Buddha as my mind wanders on or off the cushion, brooding about some perceived indignity, anxious about the demands of work and family life, plotting to better my lot, or whatever.

Dharma includes Buddhist texts and teachings, of course, but, more broadly, I see it as the 10,000 things: ants and sticks and grizzly bears, the steam rising from my teacup, that noxious pile of trash, my kid’s tantrum, you and me as distinct beings, and all the rest. It’s the diversity that exists within the oneness. It’s what each being and thing has to reveal to us.

One of the most profound experiences I’ve ever had was several hours spent sitting alone in the branch of an old tree on a moonlit night. The learning didn’t result from that experience; it didn’t consist of thoughts I thought while I was up there, or after I climbed down. The experience was the learning.

That experience and others like it help prod me beyond belief, beyond the false certainty of our creeds and fixed views, which come in so many forms in religion, in politics, in families, in one’s conception of oneself.

What could it possibly mean to believe in a tree? To believe in moonlight?

I’m reminded once again of Dogen’s lovely verse:

Entreat trees and rocks to preach,

and ask rice fields and gardens for the Truth;

ask pillars for the Dharma,

and learn from hedges and walls.

We engage texts and ideas with our whole being, holding them lightly even as we revere the better ones, but, just as importantly, we engage fully and openly with this universe and all that arises.

Sangha, for me, is our little sitting group and our broader Zen family, and it’s also the broadest community that’s the unity of Buddha and Dharma. The community of the 10,000 things, all of them Buddha, all of them Truth, all intermingling and utterly interdependent.

The tragedy of the human condition, in my view, is that too many of us believe and feel we are utterly separate, and so think and act in ways that reinforce those beliefs and feelings in ourselves and others.

There’s also blessing in this; there’s no doubt some evolutionary necessity to this illusion of separateness. But, we also have the capacity to experience not one, not two, and to make that the orientation from which we think and act, from which we express our distinctiveness.

The term spirituality is problematic even for theists, I think, and it’s doubly so for anyone who considers him- or herself non-theistic. I’ve come to think of it as a sense of connectedness to oneself, others, and the universe – and the felt quality of those connections. Sangha.

So, for me, the refuges have come to serve as a reminder that there’s nowhere to hide. We’re in the stew, and there’s no way out of the pot.

These days I try to take my refuge in:

  • The special mess that I am, including my fears, my insecurities, my shame, my greed, anger and ignorance
  • The 10,000 things, especially the 5,001 to which I’m particularly attracted or averse, and which therefore have much to teach me
  • My utter inseparability from, and therefore complete vulnerability to and dependence upon, all of this

This may all sound a bit free-form, and in an important sense it truly is. But these free-form thoughts can be stood on their head, as well. I also want to stress that I do experience Buddha, Dharma and Sangha in the more formal ways those terms are used – the historical Buddha’s teachings and example (and the example of our many other teachers), our Zen practices and texts, and our community – as a refuge. They form a context in which I try to summon forth and present “the better angels of my nature” with the support and companionship of others who are trying to do the same.

The question that agitated Dogen and animated his practice for years was, “If we’re already Buddhas, why must we practice?” There are many possible answers to this question. For my part, I take refuge on this path and in this community because I need to in order to do my best to show up to life in the way I truly want to show up.

I suspect the illusion of complete separateness never loses its attractive force. The trick, I think, is to see it as the doorway of compassion – compassion for ourselves, as well as for others. Buddha, Dharma, Sangha – they prod me toward that doorway, and help me find it again when I’ve lost sight of it.

I’ll conclude with a thought and an image.

The thought is about this word “creed,” which is from the Latin root for belief. “Credo” often is translated “I believe.” But, it’s apparently a modern definition. I’m told the ancient meaning of “credo” was something more along the lines of “I give my heart to this.”

I like that.

The image is this: A revered, ancient Zen teacher is said to have spent his final, dying days walking around a pole in his room, on which he had inscribed the words Buddha, Dharma, Sangha.

Buddha, Dharma, Sangha.

Buddha, Dharma, Sangha.

Buddha, Dharma, Sangha.

He clearly found his refuge there, all the way to the end. What a powerful image. What a powerful, final teisho for his community, and for all of us.

Buddha, Dharma, Sangha.

I can, and do, give my heart to that.

 

In the beginning . . .

Jeff

 

Rosh Hashanah marks the beginning of the new year, but it’s more broadly about creation, about origins.

 

Today’s class for little kids at our local UU Church (to which my family belongs) was about creation.  The big bang figured prominently in the lesson.

 

Which got me thinking about myth and science regarding the origins of our universe, and about the politics of all this.

 

When people relate to biblical and other creation stories as though they’re literally true, rather than myth and metaphor, well . . .

 

When people relate to scientific explanations of our origins as if a literally true description of the beginnings of the known universe can end one’s search for meaning and intimacy with and within this universe, well . . .

 

And so biblical literalists and secular materialists face off overtly about the facts of our origins as they talk at cross purposes.

 

Here’s the key thing:  It’s always the beginning.

 

Sitting with Koans and Life Choices

Jeff

 

I find koan practice immensely helpful on many levels.  Among other things, it has taught me a bit about discernment more generally – about how to chart my course in life.

 

When I try to force an answer to a koan I invariably miss the mark.  The traditional response ends up being something much simpler and more meaningful.  And, like hand and glove, it just fits.

 

Sometimes I try to rush to an answer, as can happen when one is working with a new koan and it’s one’s turn for dokusan.  This rushing to answer can be as much of a hindrance in life generally as it is in koan practice.

 

Most, but not all, of my big life choices that have led to some measure of unhappiness were rushed or otherwise forced.  I needed to sit with, and in, the situation that presented the question longer than I did, or differently than I did.

 

When I’m feeling stressed about something these days, I try to take that as a queue to slow down just a bit.  I know the discomfort I’m feeling likely has something to teach me.  I need to turn toward it, rather than turning away or trying to blast through it.

 

Often a good answer just emerges, without much doing on my part, if I just sit tight, rather than trying to force the answer into existence or jumping at a “solution” that has a hollow feel to it.  When something is right, it usually feels just right.  It can take some time for that feeling – that knowing – to arrive.

 

Sometimes swift decisions and actions are what’s needed and are likely to hit the mark. When the house is burning down, get yourself and others out.  When one knows the domain well, quick judgments may be spot-on 99% of the time.  After 25 years on the job, I make quick, good decisions at work all the time.  Sometimes the costs of more processing outweigh the likely benefits of searching for a “better” answer.

 

But life regularly presents us with koans, and sometimes we need to sit with them for a while.

 

Buddha, the first behaviorist

Jeff

 

Esther and I have been reading about the Kazdin approach to positive parenting.  (We have two really great kids.  We’re mainly hoping to train their parents.)  Kazdin, a Yale psychology professor, focuses on promoting desired behaviors – like picking up your messes and not whacking your siblings when they’re annoying you – with positive reinforcement, especially praise.

 

He’s a hardcore social scientist who has conducted hundreds of rigorous experiments over several decades.  The research demonstrates that his approach is better than punishment at producing good behavior, though Kazdin grants very gentle and brief forms of punishment – a mildly disapproving look, for example, or a well administered time out – a minor role in a program that’s otherwise all about encouraging and rewarding the “positive opposite” of undesired behavior.

 

Interestingly, some parents object to this approach out of concern that it somehow changes the “essence” of their child, even if they’re not thrilled about the way this “essence” is manifesting itself at the moment.  Other parents are skeptical for the opposite reason:  If you’re not getting to the “essence” of who my child is and what’s wrong with her, and if you’re not altering her essence, how could the behavior possibly change?  My child has become a bad kid.  You need to swap out some parts.

 

Kazdin observes that 100+ years of psychological theorizing and research (and, one might add, millennia of philosophizing about human nature prior to that) have yet to locate this elusive human “essence.”  There’s no empirically validated, consensus picture of a “thing” that corresponds to what we so casually, and confidently, refer to as the self.

 

Here I am, sure enough, but this self I refer to, on close inspection, is a stream of embodied functions, feelings, thoughts and actions.  There are reasonably distinctive elements and narratives that tend to persist (more or less) across time and contexts, but that proverbial god-in-the-machine I’m so sure is the “real, forever me” seems nowhere to be found.

 

Kazdin sidesteps this bottomless pit – this vast void – and focuses instead on shaping behavior; on how we present ourselves, whatever these selves may or may not be.  By doing so, he gets results that parents and children find deeply satisfying and which positively change their perspectives on themselves and one another.

 

Zen is both very different and not so very different.

 

Most people come to Zen practice mid-stream in a personal program of research into and theorizing about – a/k/a searching for – the self.  Zen meets us wherever we are in that process, at once taking it very seriously and making light of it.  Unlike Kazdin’s approach, Zen coaxes, cajoles and comforts as we explore the vast void.

 

Ultimately, we find ourselves in it, of it, and as it.  Distinct within, but not separate from, this vast universe we inhabit.

 

Our questions don’t get answered intellectually, but they do get answered experientially.  Intellectually, they simply lose their urgency, their attractive force.

 

That way of knowing and being is so meaningful.  And, it also brings us right back to Kazdin territory.

 

From this frame of mind, what matters is the here-and-now.  What’s here and now is conditioned by the past, of course, and our actions here-and-now partially condition our common future.  How we show up here-and-now matters.  It matters presently, and it matters to a future we hope to experience, and which we know others will experience.

 

From this perspective, our essence is nothing more or less than what we do, how we present, here-and-now.  We co-create this here-and-now.  So, as the Germans say, “mach es gut.”  This translates literally to “make it good.”  Figuratively, it’s more like “take care,” which is the same idea.

 

Some people who are new to Zen initially bristle at the odd rituals and chants that are part of the traditional liturgy, yet they’re a key feature of the “taking seriously and making light of ourselves,” of participating in/co-creating the here-and-now and making it good, and of transmitting the wisdom of all this temporally.  Same with the precepts.  Path and destination: one and the same.  We express and realize – we actualize – ourselves in/through/as these forms and practices, and as all we do.

 

Perhaps it’s more helpful to think of ourselves as doings than as beings.

 

I shared the condensed version of this thought-stream with Josh recently.  He smiled, nodded, and said, “Buddha was the first behaviorist.”

 

Fear of Falling

JeffLeave a comment

 

The priest Shih-shuang said, “How do you step from the top of a hundred-foot pole?”

 

Another eminent master of former times said:

 

You who sit on the top of a hundred-foot pole,

although you have entered the Way, it is not yet genuine.

Take a step from the top of the pole

and worlds of the Ten Directions are your total body.

 

(Shih-shuang: “Step from the top of the pole,” Case 46 in the Gateless Gate koan collection)

 

 

A friend of mine tried skydiving years ago.  At 10,000 feet, the instructor opened the door, barked an order over the din of the wind and engines, and gave the hand signal my friend had been told to expect.  People started filing out of the plane, becoming little specks that disappeared to the right in an ocean of sky.

 

When the others had leapt, my friend stepped cautiously to the door and looked down.  A long moment passed as his heart rate, and the sound of the instructor’s voice, rose rapidly.

 

“Jump!  Jump!”

 

After another half-minute of standing paralyzed in the doorway, my friend realized his fear wasn’t going away.  If he was going to jump, he had to jump into his fear.

 

He stepped through the hatch.

 

I don’t know what possessed my friend to go up in that plane and take that step.  He climbed Mt. McKinley around the same time, so I do think he was searching for the heights in his own way.

 

Many of us – perhaps most of us – do the same.  This is one of Zen’s foundational insights.  Dissatisfied with our experience, we try to get above or beyond it all.  We try to find a new vantage point on life.

 

Some of us turn to religion looking for that “above and beyond” experience, for the heaven-on-earth we imagine.  (There are endless alternatives, of course: thrill seeking, as we’ve seen; alcohol and other drugs; social climbing.  You name it.)  Most religions, including Zen, do tempt us with at least hints at the possibility of an ultimately different perspective, an ultimately different experience.

 

Falling images and metaphors have real power for me, both positive and negative.

 

When I was 15, I was present as one of my closest friends died in a mountain climbing accident.  We were part of a search and rescue team, and were out practicing that day.  My friend’s death was a horrific thing to witness, and a profoundly sad moment for nearly everyone in the little mountain town in Colorado where we spent part of my youth.

 

I was plagued by falling dreams for weeks.  They finally stopped when I let one play out to its logical conclusion:  I visualized my own death.

 

I saw at that age how there’s no pain more extreme than the pain of losing a child.  An aunt and uncle experienced that pain a few years later, when a cousin my age died in a car accident.

 

As I learned in the decades following my friend’s death, it’s possible to be on top of a 100-foot pole that’s inside a 200-foot pit.  Some of us also cling to experiences of hurt and loss, as I did in various ways.  Making too much of spiritual pursuits, experiences and insight – even privately – can be a strategy for turning away from our own suffering.

 

In fact, we’re avoiding something else when we’re up that pole: genuine happiness.  We have to embrace our vulnerability to be truly happy.

 

At the moment things changed for him, the person we now call the Buddha, Siddhārtha Gautama, supposedly asked himself, “Am I prepared to accept this happiness?”  Whether or not he said or thought this, there’s ample evidence he understood what true vulnerability offers, what true happiness requires.

 

I insulated myself from that sort of happiness for years.  The defenses I developed in response to witnessing my friend’s death no doubt were a factor, and now I see that the searching – spiritual and otherwise – I did in my 20’s and beyond was, in part, an effort to find an escape route from the pit I was in.

 

I felt this insulation – this isolation – most profoundly in the realm of another falling experience we all know can be as terrifying as it can be joyful: falling in love.

 

My own subtle technique for avoiding intimacy was – and still is – clinging to ideals of what love and life should be, rather than loving the real person or situation right here in front of me.  Looking for love on top of that pole, rather than down here on the ground, where there’s room for others and real engagement is possible.

 

I never felt satisfied in relationships – never allowed myself to be satisfied in relationships that might have been satisfying – and sometimes I found myself in relationships that were bound to be unsatisfying for one reason or another, even though the woman in my company was perfectly lovely and deserving of a more satisfying relationship than we were destined to have.  I sometimes caused real hurt, which I deeply regret.

 

Fortunately, it’s also possible to fall from the depths, so to speak – to develop a new relationship to the emotions, impulses and thoughts that keep us searching for a way out.  Over the years I slowly came to understand that I wasn’t exactly honoring my friend’s life and memory by relating to my own childhood experience of loss in a way that kept me from loving and being loved.

 

I met my wife, Esther, as this realization was beginning to dawn, and I experienced our courtship as “falling in love” in all the most wonderful senses of that phrase.  Twelve years later, we have two fantastic kids who rule the roost.  My family is an immense source of joy – a joy I could not have experienced to the same extent earlier in life, in part, for fear of losing them.  This joy requires us to accept that we are “of the nature to die,” that everyone dear to us is “of the nature of change,” and that we can’t “avoid being separated from them” – facts many Buddhists remind themselves of when reciting the Five Remembrances.

 

False ideals still frequently get the better of me, and I’m grateful when Esther or someone else shines a light on them, even though that can be bitter medicine.  There’s falling in love, and then there’s the daily work of sustaining it, making it real.

 

The late philosopher Robert Nozick supplied the most useful definition of love I’ve ever heard: it’s the decision to stop trying to trade up.  To stop searching for that elusive ideal companion, or life experience.  For me, this means simply being present to what is, moment by moment; choosing to love who and what is right here, rather than romancing the phantoms that are my own (sometimes completely ridiculous) fantasies about what others, and what life, should be.  The real thing is so much better anyway.

 

There are healthy and appropriately motivating ideals and aspirations, of course, but I’m talking about the perverse ideals – the fantasies – that keep us isolated.

 

If you’ve stuck with this Zen thing a little while, you likely understand that nirvana – a word we don’t use much within the Boundless Way Zen community of which I’m a part – is not some physical or metaphysical height where all of our fantasies are fulfilled.  You probably also see some of your own subtle strategies for continuing to search for that fictitious place anyway.  To paraphrase the Heart Sutra, nirvana is right here.  This very moment, with all its easiness or uneasiness.

 

Shih-shuang’s adept on top of the 100-foot pole reminds us how easy it is to get trapped at what we might believe is the apex of Zen practice.  Perhaps you’ve entered the Way, developed some insight.  If so, the eminent master of former times tells us that setting up camp there is just another strategy for maintaining the illusion of separateness that is the source of all unnecessary suffering.  As profound as samadhi and kensho experiences can be, this koan reminds us that insight is not mature until it’s brought down to earth.

 

Lingering on top of the pole – as if that truly were possible – is not the way out of the pit.  The part of us that keeps us stuck in the pit – that adds layers of optional suffering upon the suffering that’s unavoidable in this creaturely life – is the same part of us that keeps searching for pole-tops, and that keeps us up there too long once we think we’ve found one.

 

But if we keep stepping off that pole, rather than trying to stay on top of it, the pole gets shorter and shorter each time we find ourselves stuck there.  Pole-top, pit, and everywhere in-between and all around ultimately collapse into a single point.

 

A point that is no point, and also you, and me, and this vast universe.

 

Zen’s open secret – its grand bait-and-switch move, and the family disgrace – is that it can help us cultivate a new and fundamentally different perspective, but it’s the stuff of everyday life we see through that lens.  Our extraordinary ordinary existence, with all of its trials and tribulations.

 

I visited my friend’s family periodically for 20 years or so after his death, though I’ve since lost touch with them.   His dad had passed away by the time of our last visit, but I was able to see his mom and two sisters, all of us adults by then.  One of the sisters was a bit older than my friend; the other was considerably younger.

 

My memories of walking into the family’s home right after the accident, of his mom clinging to me, sobbing, pleading for me to say he wasn’t gone, and then collapsing to the floor – they’re still so vivid.  In all these later visits, however, she was the joyful, life-affirming person I knew her to be before the accident.  His older sister, too.

 

My friend’s younger sister can’t really remember her brother.  She only knows the stories.  She knows what a remarkable young man her brother was, and how many people he deeply touched during his brief lifetime.  His parents and older sister chose to give the youngest child stories that would not imprison her in the family’s pain, real as the pain was.  They suffered, they mourned . . . and they ultimately continued to let life be full of both sorrows and joys, despite their terrible loss.

 

Do you sometimes find yourself lingering on top of a 100-foot pole?  Maybe you find yourself trapped in fixed views of yourself, of others, of life. Maybe you think spiritual practice is about reaching some exalted state of mind or being – and even think you’ve found it.

 

If so, can you see a pit below?

 

How might you take a step off the pole – into thin air, into your fear, into the great unknown, where there’s little you can count on, yet no place more solid and secure?

 

This knife’s edge of living-dying is the only path.  There is no better vantage point; no other ground to stand on; no other road to travel.

 

That’s the practice.  We take that step off the pole again, and again, and again – into each new moment, into each new opportunity to be intimate with life and one another, rather than staying in that zone of false comfort on top of the pole.

 

We take that step over and over, until we must take our final step.  Maybe we have both feet on the ground then by virtue of our practice, and so have nowhere to fall.

 

Despite our fear, there truly is no place to fall.   The worlds of the Ten Directions are our total body after all.