A Second Personal Mettā Story: Finding Mettā as a Fruit of Dharma Practice

By: Bob Zeglovitch

We generally think of mettā as something that results from a specific practice, like repeating the mettā phrases. Of course, it is that. However, mettā can also arise without our directed intention, sometimes as a fruit of our meditation and dharma practice. It is good to know this and to be open to recognizing mettā when it arises organically in this way.

On a lengthy retreat that I did in Lumbini, Nepal under the direction of Sayadaw U Vivekananda, in the Burmese Vipassana tradition of Mahasi Sayadaw, I had an experience that put this in high relief for me. The retreat was focused on the development of insight, with the meditation instructions beginning with the close observation of the rise and fall of the abdomen, and progressing from there in various ways to the arising and passing away of all phenomena, seeing dukkha (suffering), impermanence and not-self in visceral ways. I met every other day with the Sayadaw (teacher) and on every other day with his assistant, a Burmese nun named Sayalay Bhadda Manika. At each meeting, I made very specific reports on my meditation experiences, based on notes that I was keeping as instructed. The Sayadaw “charted” my development in a notebook he kept for all the meditators, and adjusted the meditation instructions accordingly. It was a challenging practice that led to various striking and first-time experiences for me—not to mention a great deal of physical and mental discomfort. All of these experiences were necessary, integral and important components of the progression of insight in this particular tradition. One of the unusual and challenging experiences is understood in this tradition as the insight knowledge of fear. This is an experience of dukkha, related to a direct perception of the radical impermanence of all phenomena, and is important to this story.

There was no explicit mettā practice during the retreat, with the exception of a beautiful mettā chant that we sang at the end of each long day. On the 28th day of the retreat, not too long after I had gone through the dukkha insight experience of fear, the Sayadaw gave me a list of ten things to pay close attention, one of which was to check my relationship to other retreatants, whether it was loving-kindness or other states. He made clear that I was not to try to manufacture anything. In fact, another one of the things that he told me to keep an eye out for was that at this point was any change to my mental state that was on the unwholesome side, noting that I should be mindful of it and not take it personally.

As was the case on numerous other occasions during my retreats with him, on this day Sayadaw Vivekananda knew exactly where my mind was and where it was headed. This was due to his skill in guiding meditators but also because of the natural and “lawful” progression of this style of practice. It was quite uncanny.

Just before I had my interview with him, I had noticed that my attitude toward my fellow retreatants had changed—I had new feelings of warmth toward them, noticed that I was going out of my way to be accommodating to others, and also that I had a clear sense of sympathetic joy (mudita) toward other retreatants and their apparent progress on the path (based on their questions after the dharma talks). Shortly after my interview, I saw a fellow retreatant on the walking path. I knew nothing about her, but instantly and spontaneously knew that the one thing we shared in common was dukkha, and my heart naturally and without effort opened to her.

This is simply one example of how mettā can arise on its own as a result of practice. You don’t have to be immersed in an intensive retreat for a month in a practice like this for mettā to emerge. This instance sticks out for me because it was an unusual experience and because it tracked so elegantly with a very skilled teacher’s guidance and knowledge about the unfolding that occurs with this practice. The mind of mettā can emerge from in different practice settings and under different circumstances and at any time. The main point that I want to make is that even when we are not pursuing mettā as an explicit practice, we can simply be mindful of our relationships with others, to see if this quality of mind is present. It is important not to miss mettā if it arises—and our mindfulness of it will enhance its impact.

A Personal Mettā Story: At Death's Doorstep

By Bob Zeglovitch:

I’ve had a handful of personally compelling experiences with mettā in my life, and I thought I would share them on this blog during our practice period. I do this not because I think I have any special capacity for mettā. Instead, I simply hope that these experiences will serve as some examples of how mettā can be a powerful force. I am very grateful for these few instances in my life. They serve as wholesome memories for me and remind me of what is possible. I’ve told a couple of these stories before in our sangha, but some of our members have not heard them (or some have perhaps forgotten them!) and I’ll try to add a twist or two that will in any event hopefully make the re-telling worthwhile.

My first story has to do with my father’s death. My dad was often difficult to be around. He could be cutting, sarcastic, and mean at times. Later in life my relationship with him improved (although he could still be quite churlish). He had a misanthropic streak and lacked friends or any social network. My mom died shortly after he retired, and he spent many years alone, surviving a difficult bout with cancer. In his 80’s, he developed dementia. It was a somewhat slow decline, and he fiercely resisted getting the help he needed, living independently at a great distance from me and my two brothers, with the wheels slowly falling off. Thankfully, circumstances eventually came together which enabled us to place him a very nice memory care unit. When he arrived there, the presence of a community seemed to open something up in him, a kindness and gentleness that was not evident previously.

While my dad had dementia, he knew who he was talking to and he could sometimes carry on relatively cogent conversations, amidst some bizarre ideations and significant memory lapses. There was some renewed difficulty in our relationship because he was paranoid about money, and I was the executor of his estate and had power of attorney to manage his finances. Unfortunately, I became a target for his sense of loss of control and his fear that someone was going to take advantage of him. I worked through this with him the best that I could, trying to reassure him that his assets were safe and no one was stealing from him.

At some point, as a result of a pretty clear intention on his part, he stopped eating and went into hospice. I thought that it might be a good thing to offer him mettā as he faced death. It was immediately apparent to me that the traditional mettā phrases would not be suitable for a dying person, so I developed my own phrases, as follows: (1) May your mind be clear and spacious, free from fear or worry; (2) May your body be relaxed and free from pain; (3) May your heart be open and filled with love; (4) May you be free of any clinging to this life and any craving for future existence; and (5) May your journey be peaceful and filled with ease.

I told my dad what I was going to be doing and he signaled that he was open to it. He did not know much about Buddhism and was not spiritual or religious—although he had always been curious about the mind and consciousness. He was not prone to the softer and emotional side of life, so I wondered how this would go. The family members who were present gathered around his bed and I slowly recited the phrases out loud, with everyone else joining in silently. After a number of minutes of the recitation, he made a face and starting gesturing with his index finger toward his chest. I thought he might be in pain or distress, and I leaned in to ask him what he was trying to communicate. He whispered, ”I understand, in my heart.” It was a beautiful—and truly surprising—moment, with the gift of mettā landing and opening his heart at just the right time. And yet, at the same time there was a tragic element to this—the fact his heart was not more open during his life, when he and others could have benefitted.

As I reflect back on this, a few things stand out for me. First, I’m very grateful that I had been exposed to and trained in mettā practice, so that I could share it with my dad when he needed it. In a more general sense, I can say that my dharma practice gave me enough stability to think of offering this practice and then to carry it out. Second, this was an instance where giver and receiver (and perhaps the gift itself) became hard to separate. I could say that I gave the gift of mettā to my dad, but I was receiving the gift at the same time. His relatively peaceful death was of great benefit to me, as was this moment between us. Third, while mettā is often a solitary practice where we cultivate our wishes for goodwill silently to ourselves, even as we are radiating them out to others, this was making the practice more explicitly interpersonal and relational. While it may not always be appropriate or possible to vocalize our mettā to others, we can look for opportunities where it may be received. We might have to take the risk that it will not land well, but we can use our intuition and discernment. Finally, we can use our best efforts to be creative in how we adapt mettā to the circumstances at hand, using language that has the best chance of expressing our intention and “hitting the mark.”

A wonderful resource along these lines is Roshi Joan Halifax’s short paper on The Boundless Abodes for Caregiving, Dying, Grieving. (Hyperlinked here). I hope that you will remember this resource and that it will be of benefit to you and to other beings as you and/or they face one of these challenges.

What's Love Got to Do With It? The Nature of Metta

By: Bob Zeglovitch

In the West, mettā is most commonly translated as as loving-kindness. This translation has a certain appeal—who wouldn’t want to develop love and kindness toward self and others? For those who have been raised in a Christian tradition, the injunction to love may feel familiar in a religious context. In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus says: “But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.” When we practice mettā, however, we may begin to feel a rub that comes from this common translation. It is not so easy to express love toward everyone. For instance, try as I might, I cannot really muster love for Donald Trump, or for Vladimir Putin. And, I’ll admit that I’m frankly a bit suspicious of someone who claims that they can (that is, other than one of their followers). There may be some wishful thinking at work, or a lack of clarity and/or truthfulness. The ultimate aim of mettā is to develop an impartial wish for happiness and good will toward all beings—so if our conception of mettā is that it means love, we may well have a hard time in cultivating this kind of heart/mind. In our lives, we tend to be partial toward people we love. We don’t see them impartially, as just like everyone else.

Thanissaro Bhikkhu reminds us that the Pali word for love is not mettā, but instead is pema. Mettā is instead related to the Pali word mitta, which means “friend.” Some commentators accordingly use the term friendliness for metta. For me, this is a little better but sort of runs into the same challenge posed by the word “love”—as in, I’m not friends with everyone. Thanissaro uses the word “goodwill” for mettā. He notes that there are two reasons why thinking of mettā as goodwill makes sense:

“The first is that goodwill is an attitude that you can express toward everyone without fear of being hypocritical or unrealistic, [and] [i]t recognizes that people become truly happy not as a result of your caring for them but as a result of their own skillful actions and that the happiness of self-reliance is greater than any happiness coming from dependency. The second reason is that goodwill is a more skillful feeling to have toward those who would react unskillfully to your loving-kindness. There are people who, when seeing that you want to express lovingkindess, would be quick to take advantage of it. There are also people you’ve harmed in the past who would rather not have anything to do with you ever again, so the intimacy of lovingkindness would actually be a source of pain for them.”

Thanissaro Bhikkhu, The Sublime Attitudes, page 17.

I appreciate Thanissaro’s realistic assessment. He says that when we extend thoughts of mettā to others, we are not offering to make them happy, as we might in a loving relationship, but rather are expressing the wish that they take responsibility for their happiness themselves. You are happy to provide help if there is anything that you can do, but you realize you can only do so much.

I don’t mean to knock love and loving-kindness! If your heart opens most readily by using lovingkindness rather than goodwill, by all means do what comes naturally. There are certainly times when that is true for me. I would just say that you might keep one eye open as to whether you are creating any unnecessary struggle within by trying to extend love where it is not naturally present, or in a situation where it is not the most skillful. Thanissaro comments, “[i]f you truly feel mettā for yourself and others, you can’t let your desire for warm feelings of love and intimacy blind you to what would actually be the most skillful way to promote true happiness for all.” The Sublime Attitudes, page 17.

We don’t have to feel “less than” if we acknowledge that we don’t love everyone. It is no mean feat to cultivate a heart/mind that moves in the direction of freely offering goodwill to all beings!

Note: For more on this theme, see the links to Thanissaro Bhikkhu’s free e-book The Sublime Attitudes, as well as his article in Lion’s Roar, “When Goodwill is Better than Love”, both of which are hyperlinked here.

Practicing with Metta Phrases

By: Bob Zeglovitch

At our last session, we began a practice period on metta (loving kindness, or good will). During our first guided meditation, we practiced metta toward ourselves using the “phrases approach.” The phrases we used were: (1) May I be free from harm; (2) May I be happy and peaceful; (3) May I be healthy and strong; and (4) May I live my life with ease.

In my experience, it can be very helpful to be flexible and creative when it comes to practicing with metta phrases. For example, during the meditation on Friday, I realized that repeating the wish “may I be healthy” when one is dealing with a chronic or serious health condition may not be the most skillful way to proceed—so i suggested an alternative along the lines of “May i live with my current condition of bodily and mental health as best I can.” Obviously there could be many different ways to modify a phrase like this.

Some of the phrases may just not suit you well, and you could play with them so that the practice feels like it flows and lands, and that it opens your heart. In order to remember the phrases and keep the practice simple, you can try just landing on the key words—e.g., without harm, peaceful, healthy, ease.

Here are some variants of the certain phrases: (1) In place of “May I be free from harm” you can say, “May I be safe and protected”; you could also say “May I be free from outer and inner danger”; (2) May I be strong and healthy in mind and body, and if that’s not possible, may I still experience moments of well-being and joy in the body I have. (3) May I care for myself with ease and joy, and if that’s not possible, may I be cared for with ease and joy; (4) May I be happy, truly, truly happy. Nos. 2-4 above are taken from Arisika Razak, a teacher at the East Bay Meditation Center.

As you play with this practice, one option might be to just stay close to one phrase for an extended period, perhaps the entire meditation, or until you feel ready to move onto another phrase (as opposed to cycling through the sequence of phrases again and again).

There may also be special circumstances in which we wish to offer metta for ourselves and others, such as caregiving, dying, or grieving. The “standard” phrases may not fit well here, so modifications are again in order. I’ll visit this in future posts.

Working with the phrases requires (and develops) concentration and persistence. As with the practice of following the breath, we will lose our focus and forget which phrase we are on (or the practice entirely!) and then need to return. We don’t need to worry about being perfect with this, but can simply pick up with whatever phrase comes readily, or perhaps by just going back to the first phrase in the sequence.

One potential that comes from working with phrases is that one or more of them may become reflexive, so that it is readily available to you during the day and in moments of need, as opposed to just during a formal meditation practice.

May you all be happy and peaceful, living your lives with ease and joy!

Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche's "Three PIlls"

By: Bob Zeglovitch

Last Friday, I gave a talk based on Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche’s meditation practice of the “three pills” of stillness, silence and spaciousness. The recording can be found on the dharma talks page of the website. Tenzin Wangyal is a highly respected teacher in the Tibetan Bön Buddhist tradition. This is a practice that can be repeated many times during the day, in the spirit of “short sessions, many times” that is characteristic of Tibetan teachings. This is one concrete way of “actualizing” the continuous practice that Dogen speaks of. We turn our awareness to the qualities of stillness, silence, and spaciousness that are present, not pushing away the rest of our experience or manufacturing some special state. Instead, we are becoming familiar with what is naturally present, our original mind.

The essence of this practice is open and receptive non-doing, which seems to me to be in keeping with the core of shikantaza. While there is some directionality and intention associated with orienting toward these qualities of stillness, silence and spaciousness, it is subtle, gentle and not forced. The overall spirit is receptivity. My attempt at phrasing the “tasks” represented by the taking of the “three pills” is as follows: Come to stillness; listen for silence; and open to spaciousness. Then, as Tilopa says, rest.

I have found Tenzin Wangyal to be a refreshing and direct teacher. You can find a five minute talk by him on this practice here, and a fifteen minute talk here. If you are interested in learning more about this practice and related teachings, his book Awakening the Luminous Mind: Tibetan Meditations for Inner Peace and Joy is a good resource.

Tilopa's Six Words of Advice

By: Bob Zeglovitch

It is sometimes helpful to step outside one’s tradition in order to more clearly understand the tradition. I find that this is sometimes the case in Zen—either to read a description of practice that is consistent with Zen but put in different language, or to see a clear contrast in practices within the broader field of Buddhist meditation. An instance of the former is Tilopa’s Six Words of Advice (also referred to as Tilopa’s Six Nails), which we have been introduced to in our last couple of sessions at Just Show Up. These directions for meditation practice from the Tibetan Mahamudra tradition, for me, resonate strongly with the practice of just sitting/shikantaza as presented by Dogen. Many commentators note the similarities between Mahamudra and Soto Zen practice.

Tilopa was an Indian Buddhist monk in the tantric Tibetan Kagyu lineage, who lived from 988 to 1069. He was a “mahasiddha” (great adept) and the teacher of Naropa, another famed master in this lineage. Tilopa’s Six Words are also sometimes referred to as The Six Yogas of Naropa. The most direct translation (which in Tibetan consisted of just six words) is:

Don’t recall.

Don’t imagine.

Don’t think.

Don’t examine.

Don’t control.

Rest.

Ken McLeod, a modern practitioner and translator, has come up with a slightly longer and more fleshed out translation:

Let go of what has passed.

Let go of what may come.

Let go of what is happening now.

Don’t try to figure anything out.

Don’t try to make anything happen.

Relax, right now, and rest.

Both of these translations have their virtues and we may resonate with one over the other. The first is more pithy. It also has a more directed sense, which may feel restrictive or a bit harsh, or in the alternative could provide just the right feeling of firm boundary for one’s practice. The latter feels a bit more relaxed and permissive in tone, although the substance is essentially the same. I’d like to tweak it just a bit and for the fourth and fifth lines, suggest the following alternative phrasing in case it fits for you: “Let go of trying to figure anything out” and “Let go of trying to make anything happen.” This feels even a bit softer and has the advantage of the repetition of the “let go” instruction throughout. After one becomes familiar with the detail of the instructions, they could all be collapsed into the simpler instruction to “let go and relax”—or even just “relax.” This doesn’t mean, of course, to relax like you might by going into a light trance in a hot tub, or getting sleepy on the couch. Instead, it is the relaxation that naturally flows from and is in accord with the other instructions, which embody non-grasping. Coming at this from a different direction, I suppose one could start with the gesture of relaxing, which in turn is consistent with letting go of past, future, present, figuring things out, and making things happen or getting somewhere in our meditation.

These instructions have the flavor of non-doing and non-striving that is also present in Dogen’s Fukanzazengi. “Don’t try to figure anything out” harmonizes with “[y]ou should cease from practice based on intellectual understanding, pursuing words and following after speech…”. I’m also reminded here of the following sentences: “ Do not think good or bad. Do not administer pros and cons. Cease all the movements of the conscious mind, the gauging of all thoughts and views.” Tilopa’s “don’t try to make anything happen” harmonizes with Dogen’s “[h]ave no design on becoming a buddha.” The injunction to relax, or rest, squares with Dogen’s statement that the zazen that he is speaking of “is simply the dharma-gate of repose and bliss…”. While there may not be direct comparisons to the three lines advising one to let go of past, future and present, that instruction is certainly consistent with the “just sitting” style, where we drop likes and dislikes and practice simply being in the posture and vitally awake.

Tilopa directs: “don’t think.” Dogen’s pointer is to practice “non-thinking”, or thinking of not-thinking. My tentative sense is that these are likely in accord, and that the heart of the instruction here is not to banish all thought, but rather to relax the grip of thinking and to let go of our engagement with it. This theme has been discussed in earlier posts in relation to Dogen’s Fukanzazengi.

One last observation—I am struck by the instruction to let go of what is happening now. So often in modern mindfulness teachings we are taught to attend to the “present moment”, or to just “be right here, right now.” What is refreshing about Tilopa’s instruction is that it acknowledges that once you feel that you are in or with the present moment’s experience, it has slipped through your fingers and is changed, gone. This highlights a way in which modern mindfulness teachings may be encouraging some delusion. Tilopa encourages us to practice without any pretense of finding or noting the present. This relieves us of the need to try to grasp at what is essentially ungraspable. It doesn’t mean that we won’t have perceptions of what seems to be happening right now, but instead that we can let that perception or experience just fall away as it is naturally doing in any event.

Dogen's Dropping off Body-Mind in China

By: Bob Zeglovitch

Dogen traveled to China in 1223 and practiced in various monasteries there for about four years, returning to Japan in 1227. His enlightenment experience took place at Tiantong Mountain in 1225, practicing under the direction of the Caodong (Soto) Zen master Rujing. According to one biographical source, Rujing chided a monk sitting next to Dogen who had fallen asleep during an intensive meditation session: “To study Zen is to cast off body-mind. Why are you engaged in single-minded seated slumber rather than single-minded seated meditation.” Upon hearing this reprimand, Dogen attained a "great awakening”. He later entered Rujing’s quarters and reported that he had come “because body-mind is cast off.” Rujing responded approvingly, “Body-mind is cast-off (shinjin datsuraku); cast off body mind (datsuraku shinjin).” Dogen responded by telling Rujing, “Do not grant the Seal [of transmission] indiscriminately.” Rujing replied, “Cast off casting off.”

Keizan Jokin, an important Soto master two generations after Dogen, tells a similar story about the exchange with Rujing (with some extra elements) in his collection The Transmission of Light, although he leaves out the triggering incident of the sleeping monk (he does in another place state that Rujing scolded the entire assembly for sleeping). Keizan says that one night during meditation, Rujing said to the assembly that “Zen study is the shedding of mind and body.” Upon hearing this, according to Keizan, Dogen was suddenly and greatly enlightened.

I believe that the consensus among modern scholars is that the reprimand of the sleeping monk is a later fiction. I think that the account of his exchange with Rujing is similarly suspect. Interestingly, I’m pretty sure that Dogen does not include in any of his writings any description of the sleeping monk, of any great awakening experience that he experienced at Tiantong, or of the exchange with Rujing in his quarters. We can imagine that he perhaps did have a dramatic breakthrough of some sort that resolved his earlier doubts about the dharma but that he did not write about it—perhaps because his dharma (way) was one of continuous practice-enlightenment that did not stress the before and after experience of kensho (great sudden awakening). Or, perhaps his enlightenment was a deep but gradual unfolding. While the stories above may or may not be accurate, they have been carried forward in the tradition in the spirit of legend and practice instruction.

Dogen did write about his experience in China, in a text titled Hõkyõ-ki. It is an interesting read and is hyperlinked here. Dogen wrote to Rujing at or near the beginning of his time at the monastery, requesting permission to come to Rujing’s quarters so he could ask questions about the Dharma. He records Rujing’s response as follows: “From this time hence, day or night without regard to the hour, whether you are wearing your surplice (formal monk’s clothes) or not, you are free to come to my quarters and ask about the Way. I shall be just like a father allowing lack of ceremony in his son.”

Dogen wrote that Rujing taught: “Zen practice is body and mind dropping off. You have no need for incense-burning, homage paying, doing nembutsu (chanting Buddha’s name), performing penances, or reading sutras. Just single-minded sitting (shikantaza) alone.” Dogen says that he then asked Rujing, “What is ‘body and mind dropping off’?” Rujing responded: “Body and mind dropping off is zazen. When you do zazen singlemindedly, you are freed from the five desires [appetites for property, sexual love, food, fame and sleep] and eliminate the five restraints [hindrances].” Dogen challenged Rujing here, stating that the five desires and five hindrances were spoken of in the so-called doctrinal schools (the “Greater and Lesser Vehicles” based on various Buddhist sutras as opposed to Zen. Rujing rebuked him, stating, “Descendants of the patriarch Bodhidharma [meaning Zen followers] should not shun arbitrarily teachings of either Greater or Lesser Vehicle. Should a student betray the holy teachings of the Tathagata, how could he dare call himself a descendant of the buddhas and ancestors!”

Undettered, Dogen pressed on and commented that “doubters” nevertheless said that the three poisons (greed, anger and ignorance) as such are the Buddha Dharma and that the five desires are the way of the ancestors, and that “if you eliminate them you are in effect choosing the good and rejecting the bad just like followers of the Lesser Vehicle [i.e., followers of the early Buddhist sutras akin to our our modern vipassana tradition]. What about that?” The translator of this text (Waddell) comments that Dogen’s question reflected a tendency in certain Zen circles of the time to superficially express the absolute unity between passions and enlightenment, “equating passions and enlightenment in an easy formula that would downgrade the role of practice and realization.” Rujing answered Dogen’s question: “If you don’t rid yourself of the three poisons and five desires, you’re no different from …[various] non-Buddhist groups that were found [at the time of the Buddha]. If a follower of the buddhas and ancestors rids himself [or herself] of even one hindrance or desire, it will bring immense benefit. It’s the time he [or she] meets and buddhas and ancestors face to face.”

In another portion of the text, Dogen recounts Rujing stating that “descendants of buddhas and ancestors”hr begin by ridding themselves of the five hindrances and then rid themselves of the sixth.” Rujing explained that the six hindrances are made up of the five traditional hindrances and the restraint of basic ignorance. Dogen asked Rujing, “is there some secret method for removing the five hindrances and the six hindrances? Rujing smiled and asked him, “What is the practice you have been working on all this time? That in itself is the way to eliminate the six hindrances…When buddha after buddha and ancestor after ancestor divorced themselves of the five hindrances and six hindrances….they did so without any recourse to gradual stages but by pointing straight to the mind and transmitting the Dharma personally. You work singlemindedly on just sitting alone and arrive at dropping off of your body and mind—that is the way to break free of the five hindrances and five desires.”

According to Dogen’s account, Rujing was singularly focused on just sitting as the key practice, and that he emphasized that just sitting was dropping off body and mind. There is some scholarly doubt as to whether Rujing actually used the expression “body-mind”, or even “body and mind.” Perhaps I’ll take up this additional layer of complexity in another post. For now, the key point is that whatever happened at Tiantong Mountain, and whatever Rujing actually said, what Dogen carried forward to Japan (and beyond) was that the dropping off of body-mind through just sitting was the essential practice, not separate from enlightenment itself.

Dropping off Body-Mind (Shinjin Dakaratsu)

By: Bob Zeglovitch

While Dogen describes “nonthinking” as the “essential art of zazen”, it can also be said that “body-mind dropped off” is the practice of shikantaza, or just sitting. In the Fukanzazengi, after Dogen advises learning the backward step that turns your light inwardly to illuminate yourself, he says that “body and mind of themselves will drop away, and your original face will be manifest.”

The Japanese words for body-mind dropped off are shinjin datsuraku. Shinjin is a compound word for body and mind. You will sometimes see the translation as “body and mind”, although more frequently as “body-mind.” Dogen used this compound to express a unified and holistic phenomenon. Dogen scholar Hee-jin Kim describes body-mind as “one’s whole being.” Additionally we can let go of our sense of the ordinary boundaries of what we take to be “myself” as we express, experience and become intimate with our “whole being.”

Datsuraku is a compound word that is variously translated as dropped off, cast off, sloughed of. One commentator has suggested “shedding”. Steven Heine (another leading Dogen scholar) says that the term refers to the moment of spiritual release or liberation and that it suggests an activity that is at once passive/effortless and yet purposeful/determined. Datsu means to remove, escape, or extract. Raku means to fall, scatter or fade. Heine points out that datsu has a more outwardly active sense, even as it points to a moment of withdrawal from, omission, or termination of activity. Raku implies a passive occurrence that just happens, as in the scattering of leaves by the breeze.

I appreciate this description of the complexity of dropping off, which we might call “the letting go gesture of zazen”. It takes resolve and determination and is not something we can do halfheartedly. In another short text titled Zazengi (“Rules for Zazen”), Dogen tells us: “Be mindful of the passage of time, and engage yourself in zazen as though saving your head from fire.” At the same time, it involves doing nothing and yielding, surrendering, acquiescing to our insubstantial and impermanent nature. Heine says that: (1) the decision of datsuraku is one of discarding; (2) its impact is a matter of release, and (3) its immediacy lies in unburdening. We let go of the “I”, the sense of separate self that grasps at itself and the objects of experience.

The dropping of body-mind is not something that is the result of shikantaza practice, as in a before and after causal relationship. Instead, shikantaza/just sitting practice is the ongoing activity of dropping off body-mind. We are not aiming to arrive at some exalted “enlightened” state—it is this subtle activity of dropping itself that is the enlightening. We can approach practice—and enlightenment (which Dogen does not separate from practice)—and ourselves—as a verb rather than a noun.

Of course, just sitting practice won’t always feel like a release, an unburdening, a liberation! We may often be lost, asleep, stuck, or grasping. We can think of these moments not as problems but as opportunities—in Dogen’s words, through “studying the self” and “forgetting the self.” In those moments, we can practice this gesture of release, letting go and dropping off “body-mind.” Relatively speaking, we might perceive a moment of dropping as simply relaxing and releasing a bit from an obsessive train of thought, a critical self-judgment, or a bodily sensation. Or, the dropping may feel more dramatic as a deep ease in the body and spaciousness in the mind manifests. Ultimately speaking, however, there is no need to measure these moments of dropping. The practice is not one of improving—in itself a great relief! Just the dropping gesture itself, and ultimately dropping the concept of dropper and even dropping itself. I recognize that this last line sounds like improvement, and I confess that I don’t have an easy answer for that conundrum.

Forgetting the Self--Varying Translations of Dogen's Genjokoan

By: Bob Zeglovitch

This week at JSU we are taking up the crucial sentence in the Fukanzazengi: “Body and mind of themselves will drop away, and your original face will be manifest.” The dropping of body-mind is central to Dogen’s practice of shikantaza (just sitting). It is mentioned many times in his writing, with the most famous reference likely being the passage about studying the self and forgetting the self in his Genjokoan. One translation of this passage, by Kaz Tanahashi and Robert Aitken, is set forth on the Readings page of this website. Here are some others:

Norman Waddell and Masao Abe:

To learn the Buddha Way is to learn one's self. To learn one's self is to forget one's self. To forget one's self is to be confirmed by all dharmas. To be confirmed by all dharmas is to cast off one's body and mind and the bodies and minds of others as well. All trace of enlightenment disappears, and this traceless enlightenment continues on without end. 

Paul Jaffe:

To study the Buddha way is to study oneself. To study oneself is to forget oneself. To forget oneself is to be enlightened by the myriad dharmas. To be enlightened by the myriad dharmas is to bring about the dropping away of body and mind of both oneself and others. The traces of enlightenment come to an end, and this traceless enlightenment is continued endlessly.

Gudo Wafo Nishijima:

To learn Buddhism is to learn ourselves. To learn ourselves is to forget ourselves. To forget ourselves is to be experienced by millions of things and phenomena. To be experienced by millions of things and phenomena is to let our own body and mind, and the body and mind of the external world, fall away. [Then] we can forget the [mental] trace of realization, and show the [real] signs of forgotten realization continually, moment by moment. 

Francis Cook:

To study the Buddha Way is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be authenticated by the myriad things. To be authenticated by the myriad things is to drop off the mind-body of oneself and others. There is [also] remaining content with the traces of enlightenment, and one must eternally emerge from this resting. 

Thomas Cleary:

Studying the Buddha Way is studying oneself. Studying oneself is forgetting oneself. Forgetting oneself is being enlightened by all things. Being enlightened by all things is causing the body-mind of oneself and the body-mind of others to be shed. There is ceasing the traces of enlightenment, which causes one to forever leave the traces of enlightenment which is cessation. 

Kosen Nishiyama and John Stevens:

To learn the Buddhist way is to learn about oneself. To learn about oneself is to forget oneself. To forget oneself is to perceive oneself as all things. To realize this is to cast off the body and mind of self and others. When you have reached this stage you will be detached even from enlightenment but will practice it continually without thinking about it. 

Reiho Masunaga:

To study Buddhism is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be enlightened by all things. To be enlightened by all things is to be free from attachment to the body and mind of one's self and of others. It means wiping out even attachment to Satori. Wiping out attachment to Satori, we must enter actual society. 

Reflections on Tao/Way/Dharma-Vehicle

By: Armin Baer

I’m writing with some reflections on Bob Zeglovitch’s talk on September 15, a recording of which can be found on the Dharma Talks page of this website.  Bob quoted David Hinton (China Root, Taoism, Ch’an and Original Zen) on the philosophical Taoist meaning of Tao:  “…a generative cosmological process, an ontological pathway by which things come into existence, evolve through their lives, and then go out of existence, only to be transformed and reemerge in a new form.” 

Hearing this again brought back many things I had read in my learning about Taoism years ago and also how much Taoism may have influenced and been a source for the development of Zen in China.  One thing I had been told was that early translators of the Indian Buddhist texts into Chinese had to borrow terms from Taoism to introduce the new concepts.  At first I had assumed that the term “dharma” would use the character for Tao, since both describe an unbounded, universal truth of the nature of things.  But later I learned that the word “dharma” is translated using a different Chinese character meaning “law.”  And the Chinese Buddhists then also used the term “Tao” in its original Taoist meaning, and included it as part of Buddhist concepts, even if it didn’t have a counterpart in the Indian texts.   

So in the version of the Fukanzazengi that we are reading, I am struck by the term in the first paragraph, “dharma-vehicle” used as a synonym for Tao/Way. So what does it mean to say that the Tao/Way is the vehicle for carrying, or perhaps expressing, the Dharma/Law?  In philosophical Taoism, the Tao is not only the cosmological source, it is beyond our knowing and describing, and it is endlessly dynamic, like a river that in which we are ever swept along.  One either flows with it and live/dies/re-emerges in harmony with that movement, or one resists the constant movement and suffers.  Hinton writes that Zen followers were often called “those who flow along with Tao.”  Perhaps as we embrace the Buddha’s instruction on the nature of karma, ignorance and liberation from suffering, we are enabled to stop resisting and begin to live in harmony with the dynamic flow of the Way.

One other reaction I had to Bob’s talk had to do with the contrast that he played with between the Christian idea of original sin and the Dogen’s portrayal of the Way/Tao in Fukanzazengi as “perfect and all-pervading” and “the whole body is far beyond the world’s dust.  Raised in the Roman Catholic faith, I can understand what he was pointing to. 

My thoughts were drawn to a different pair of Christian theological concepts that I think are very apt in this discussion of the Tao: immanence and transcendence.  In Christian monotheism, God the Creator is the sole and boundless source of all that is, and the concept of immanence includes the idea that the Creator’s divine love expresses itself in the existence of everything and everything that is created is not separate from that divine love.  That existence by its very nature might then be called perfect and all-pervading.  Transcendence describes, in part, the impulse of the divine nature that exists in everything that is created to become one with the Creator through the act of existing and at the cessation of existence (return to the divine Source?)  I’m using words here that are probably not theologically accurate in terms of Christian texts, but I believe they roughly express the basic concepts.  If we take the anthropomorphized aspects of the divine out of the Christian concepts, there is some overlap with the Tao as creative source of existence and the cycles of return and transformation.   Ever since I first learned about philosophical Taoism, I’ve been intrigued by the resonances between these ideas.  Of course, there are many and fundamental differences, but how wonderfully rich this all is!  

Fukanzazengi: Thinking is Not Outside of the Way

By: Bob Zeglovitch

On some days when we sit, our minds may be relatively quiet.  On other days, there may be a profusion of thoughts.  The practice of shikantaza calls for us to be fully engaged and awake to both thinking and not thinking, as they present themselves, with our whole body-mind.  The point is to “show up,” awake for what is present. 

If our minds are quiet, we can engage that condition, seeing if we can do that without hanging on to it.  Perhaps we begin to notice a layer of subtle thinking that we could not see previously, or perhaps we taste the awareness from which thoughts emerge.  We may notice the pleasantness of this state and our desire for it to continue, seeing what it is like for it to end. 

If waves of thought come and go, we have the rare opportunity to come face to face, intimately, with thinking “just as it is.”  We spend much of our ordinary waking hours thinking, but most of the time we are truly unaware of our thoughts.  Also, there are many thoughts that we suppress in the midst of ordinary activity.  These may find their way to our awareness when we come to sitting.     

The terrain of thinking is wide and nuanced.  In our shikantaza practice (and the rest of our life), there can be obsessive thoughts, fragmented thoughts, complex ideas, dreamlike thoughts, fanciful thoughts, mean and dark thoughts, imaginative and creative thoughts, compassionate thoughts, greedy thoughts, fearful thoughts, shamelessly self-aggrandizing thoughts, thoughts of images, thoughts of emotion, complex ideations, thoughts of beauty, thoughts of dharma and enlightenment.  Sometimes our thinking may be a long and complex chain that unfolds with seeming deliberation and logic; at other times thoughts can flash in and out of our consciousness with striking rapidity, leaving karmic effects which we may not glimpse.  What a parade!    

If the “way is basically perfect and all-pervading” as Dogen states in the Fukanzazengi, then this parade of thoughts is of course very much a part of the way.  The continuous, moment to moment practice-realization that Dogen outlines does not seek to avoid this territory.  Sitting still, with awareness engaged and relatively stable, we can see delusions, grasping, moments of letting go, moments of hindrance and lack of hindrance, the mind that squirms and tries to escape and the mind that has equanimity.  As we leave thoughts alone, we see their impermanence and their not-self nature.  We see that there is no solid “I” that is creating the thoughts, or at least we can relax the sense of that “I”. 

In Body-and-Mind Study of the Way, a piece that Dogen wrote at about the same time that he wrote the edited version of the Fukanzazengi that we are studying, he makes quite clear that the world of thought is not separate from the enlightened mind.  He says:

 “[t]o study with the mind means to study with various aspects of mind, such as consciousness, emotion, and intellect….There is the thought of enlightenment, bits and pieces of straightforward mind, the mind of the ancient buddhas, everyday mind, the triple world which is one mind.  Sometimes you study the way by casting off the mind.  Sometimes you study the way by taking up the mind.  Either way, study the way with thinking, and study the way with not-thinking.”  

Some Preliminary Thoughts About Thinking and Nonthinking

By: Bob Zeglovitch

In our sangha’s study/practice of the Fukanzazengi, we have reached what may be the key passage: “Think of not-thinking.  How do you think of not-thinking? Non-thinking.  This in itself is the essential art of zazen.”

In a further play on “thinking,” the somewhat enigmatic nature of Dogen’s language makes it clear that we cannot simply “think” our way through this portion of the text.  Instead, it is our task to realize it through practice.  We can, however, perhaps use our thinking to clear away some of the brambles so as to have some appreciation for the starting gate for the practice, or the general nature of the field in which we are playing.  I offer some preliminary and tentative thoughts here.  I use the word “tentative” because this feels like the best attitude to take in response to working with an instruction such as this, in a translated text from another culture and another time.  This attitude can help us remain open to different possibilities, to see complexity and paradox, to keep from getting stuck on an initial conclusion, and to have a spirit of experimentation and flexibility in our practice.  Because the topic has much depth and possibility, I’ll follow with some additional posts. 

I do think it is fair to say that the consensus view of modern teachers and scholars is that Dogen is not telling us to deliberately attempt to cut off all thoughts.  Dogen is not offering instructions aimed at entry into a deep state of concentration where thoughts are not present (referred to in the early Buddhist tradition as a “jhana” state).  There is some evidence from drafts of the Fukanzazengi and from Dogen’s other writings that helps to flesh this out, which I hope to develop in a later post. 

It is also seems clear that Dogen is not advising that we actively engage our thoughts.  We can intuitively see that getting involved in our thoughts or deliberately thinking during zazen is most likely not what he means by “nonthinking.”       

Even if we understand intellectually that stopping our thinking mind is not the point of Zen practice, there still may be a tendency for us to be disappointed, critical of ourselves, or even disregulated by the thoughts that arise during our zazen.  If we tend to encounter a significant amount of thinking in our practice, we may struggle with it and try to get rid of it, thinking that we are “not good at meditation.”  We may report that a peaceful and relatively quiet session was a “good” one and be less charitable toward ourself if there has been considerable thinking during our meditation.  Why is this?  Principally I suspect it is because the quiet mind is generally pleasurable and a relief.  We then mistake this for the goal of our practice.  Dogen is pointing us toward something deeper and more liberating than simply a calm state of mind. 

This can be tricky territory for us, not only because calm states of mind are pleasurable, but also because the practice of just sitting can naturally give rise to states of concentrated quiet calm.  There is nothing wrong with this.  The challenge is to not seek after or become attached to these states--or in a rather subtle and blind fashion to abandon the just sitting practice for something quite different.  I don’t mean to suggest by this that just sitting is the only valid meditation practice or that choosing to engage in specific concentration practices is without merit—but rather that we remain as clear as we can be about whatever it is that we are practicing, and do our best to avoid lapsing into delusion and attachment with our practice.

So what is this practice of nonthinkng?  Different teachers express it differently.  Uchiyama Roshi calls it “opening the hand of thought”, or in other words, letting go of grasping at something with thought.  John Daido Loori tells us to “simply allow everything to be as it is [including thinking].”  Barry Magid says to “let thought just be thought, not something we have to do anything about whatsoever.”  Here are some starting places for our practice.  There are many other expressions.  Scholars have taken very different views on this aspect of Dogen’s teaching. 

I am reminded, as I have been many times, of a teaching line that I have heard from the excellent Insight Meditation teacher Steve Armstrong in numerous retreats: “Everything [that happens in meditation…[and otherwise] is nature.”  The wind brushes against the skin, the bird calls out, the stomach grumbles or the legs ache, and thoughts come and go in all of their variety.  All nature, all natural.  I imagine that Dogen might agree.  We could perhaps see the practice of nonthinking as non-interference, letting nature take its course.  What happens to our thinking then, when we just leave it alone and don’t give it any extra energy?  Letting go of the content, what can be seen about the process of thinking?  What is its nature?  What else may be known beyond our mere intellect?     

Fukanzazengi: No dust, no mirror

By: Bob Zeglovitch

At our session last Friday on the Fukanzazengi, we touched briefly on the following reference from the text: “Indeed, the whole body is far beyond the world’s dust.  Who could believe in a means to brush it clean?”  This is a reference to the legend of Huineng, the Sixth Ancestor in the Ch’an/Zen tradition.  I say “legend” intentionally, as historical scholarship has called into question much about the veracity of this story.  It is best to take it lightly as a statement of fact.  Instead, it highlights different approaches to practice, or ways of expressing the dharma.

According to the legend: Huineng was an illiterate wood cutter in 7th-8th century China who had an awakening experience upon hearing lines from the Diamond Sutra chanted in the marketplace.  He joined a monastery lead by Daman Hongren (the Fifth Ancestor in a lineage descending from Bodhidharma—another legendary figure with shadowy historical origins who is taken as the figure who brought Ch’an/Zen practice from India to China).  Given his lowly status, Huineng was assigned to kitchen work in the monastery. 

Hongren announced a contest to determine his successor, which called for poems to be written to express an understanding of the dharma.  Everyone expected his senior student, Shenxiu, to be chosen as the successor.  Shenxiu wrote the following poem anonymously on the monastery wall, supposedly lacking the courage to present it to Hongren:

The body is the bodhi tree

The mind is like a bright mirror’s stand

At all times we must strive to polish it

And must not let dust collect.

Hongren was not satisfied with the poem and gave Shenxiu another chance, but Shenxiu was unable to compose another verse.  Huineng heard Shenxiu’s verse, learned of the contest, and then spoke his verse to another monk who wrote it down:

Bodhi originally has no tree

The bright mirror has no stand

Fundamentally there is not a single thing

Where could dust arise?

Another version of this poem is:

Bodhi originally has no tree

The mirror has no stand

The Buddha-nature is always clear and pure

Where is there room for dust?

As the legend goes, Hongren recognized Huineng as his successor (after wiping away his poem) and gave him his robe and bowl in secret.  He told Huineng to leave the monastery because the other monks would not accept that a “southern barbarian” had the deeper realization.

In the Ch’an tradition, the two poems became illustrative, respectively, of the so-called “gradual” and “sudden” approaches to enlightenment, or the “Northern” and “Southern” schools.  You can see Dogen pointing to the latter approach and the legend of Huineng in his brief reference in Fukanzazengi.  Shitou, the author of the Harmony of Difference and Equality, is commenting on this from another viewpoint when he states, “The Way has no Northern or Southern ancestors.”  There is much more to say about this legend, its genesis, and its implications, but I’ll leave it at this for now.       

Fukanzazengi: The "Perfect" Way

By: Bob Zeglovitch

Returning again to the first line of the Fukanzazengi, Dogen describes the Way as “perfect and all- pervading.”  How does “perfect” land for you?  There is something about “perfect” that might seem off somehow.  Things often seem less than perfect in our world, both outer and inner.  But of course, the point of this sentence is not that the universe is always arranged just to our liking!  In Maezumi Roshi’s commentary on this sentence, he points out that the Japanese word that means “perfectly pervasive” can also mean “unhindered functioning.”    This has a slightly different feel to it.  Elsewhere, he says the word “perfect” is not quite adequate and suggests adding the word “complete,” as in: “Nothing is lacking; nothing is in excess.  No two things are identical.  Each of us is distinctly different, perfect, and complete.” (Quotes are from On Zen Practice: Body, Breath and Mind, Taizan Maezumi and Bernie Glassman)

I appreciate how Maezumi includes each of us, with all of our flaws and quirks, in the perfect and complete Way.  My take on this phrase is that it expresses how in each moment, the things of the world and our being and experience in the world cannot be other than they are, having been brought about by the karma of innumerable causes and conditions—and that the underlying reality far beyond our understanding is complete.  Of course we can take actions designed to bring about certain different future results, including in the very short term.  But this phrase, for me, reminds me that I am enmeshed in the complexities and mystery of the Tao, that it is good to have humility and perspective about my actions, and that the wise course is often to let things unfold without interference.     

Fukanzazengi: The Way

By: Bob Zeglovitch

Yesterday we examined the first paragraph of the Fukanzazengi, paying particular attention to the term “Way.” The first line of the Fukanzazengi reads: “The Way is basically perfect and all-pervading.” Way is an English translation of Tao. Thus, we can immediately begin to see the connection between Taoism and the Zen tradition that Dogen brought to Japan.

Tao originally meant “way” as in “pathway” or “roadway.” It still has this meaning, and one, somewhat limited but practical understanding of way is the Buddhist path that we are walking along. But, it seems apparent from the first sentence of Fukanzazengi that “way” must be more than this. The Chinese translator/poet David Hinton tells us that Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu, the great Taoist writers, redefined it as a generative cosmological process, an ontological pathWay by which things come into existence, evolve through their lives, and then go out of existence, only to be transformed and reemerge in a new form. In China, practitioners of Ch’an were often called “those who follow Tao”, or more literally, “those who flow along with Tao.” This brings together “pathway”, or practice, and the ultimate reality that is beyond intellectual understanding that Hinton points to as the deeper meaning of the term.

Kaz Tanahashi says, “Tao is a secret of the universe, the ultimate reality, which cannot be expressed, spoken about, understood intellectually; it has to be experienced through practice…”. This non-intellectual experiencing of the Way through practice, of flowing along with the Way, is the essence of the “just sitting” practice expressed in the Fukanzazengi.

Here is a great quote from Maezumi Roshi, providing yet another vantage point on “Way”:

What is the Way?  In technical terms it’s anuttara samyak sambodhi, unsurpassable supreme enlightenment.  This Sanskrit phrase can also be translated as the “Supreme Way”, the “very best Way”, the “unsurpassable Way,” or as “Perfect Wisdom,” which is what enlightenment actually is.  Enlightenment is synonymous with the Way.  The Supreme Way, complete realization, is perfect in itself, by itself.

What is wisdom? What is anuttara samyak sambodhi?  It is our life itself.  We not only have that wisdom, we are constantly using it.  When it’s cold, we put on more clothing.  When it’s hot we take some clothes off.  When hungry, we eat.  When sad, we cry.  Being happy, we laugh.  That’s perfect wisdom.

And this perfect wisdom doesn’t only pertain to humans, but to anyone and everything.  Birds chirp, dogs run, mountains are high, valley’s are low.  It’s all perfect wisdom!  The season’s change, the stars shine in the heavens, its perfect wisdom.  Regardless of whether we realize it or not, we are always in the midst of the Way.  More strictly speaking, we are nothing but the Way itself

This points us toward a central point of Fukanzazengi—that practice and enlightenment are not separate.

Encountering Fukanzazengi

By: Bob Zeglovitch

Today we began our exploration of Dogen’s Fukanzazengi (Principles of Seated Meditation). As evidenced by our discussion today, some of this “meditation manual” leaps off the page as clear as a bell, across the centuries and the ocean. However, this is a 13th century text from Japan, which incorporates various references and bits of teachings on meditation from hundreds of prior years of Ch’an Buddhist tradition in China. Many of the references are cryptic and need to be deciphered according to an ancient culture and lore that is unfamiliar to us. The Ch’an tradition itself is a product of cultural contact and transformation—the meeting of Indian Buddhism and Taoism in China. To make matters even more complex, we are working in the field of a translated text, which necessarily carries with it the potential for different meanings and misunderstandings.

While one could certainly be forgiven for asking why we should make the effort to penetrate the writings of a medieval Japanese monk, so far from our culture and time, here are just a few reasons to consider. First, this short writing is a distillation of a wisdom tradition that has been passed on from teacher to student for well over a thousand years. There is a good chance that there is something precious to discover here. Second, like with any work of philosophy or great literature, we are required to return again and again to the text, to become accustomed to new concepts, to uncover layers of meaning, to let it sink into our bones and become part of our lived experience. Third, encountering teachings from another culture and another time holds the possibility of illuminating ways of being and understanding that have previously been inaccessible to us given our cultural conditioning and blind spots.

Ultimately we are involved not only in reading a translated text, but also in a process of embodied cultural translation as we practice the Buddhist teachings with others in our own culture. While we may decide that it is important to realize as best we can the actual meaning of Dogen’s teaching and practice, invariably it will in practice be something a bit different. The evolution of human wisdom, and the Buddhist tradition, did not stop in the 13th century. We might ask what sources in our American cultural and spiritual tradition resonate with this teaching, elaborate it, make it more directly meaningful to us and others. If we are Vipassana practitioners, or sometimes practice the mindfulness teachings, how might that practice complement or inform this "just sitting” style? Lastly (only for now), what might our Western psychological tradition have to offer?

Yesterday I came across this passage from the writing of Paul Shepard, a provocative thinker and human ecologist, which seems pertinent to the project of cultural translation:

“Not only the genome and ecosystem but human culture, genetically framed and socially created, is also an integrated and lively conglomerate. Specific art, tools, and beliefs are sometimes gained or lost, moving from culture to culture, carried by people or shared by neighbors. Trailing bits of the context they arrive rough-edged and isolated, but are eventually assimilated as part of the whole. Genetic systems, ecosystems, and cultures are mosaics that share a common mobility. Genes pass from parent to offspring. Life forms move within and between natural communities by their own power or are carried by other organisms, wind and water. Cultural elements are borrowed or transported by the migrations of peoples.”

I hope that this study and practice of Fukanzazengi is enlivening and opens up new horizons of practice-enlightenment for you.

Playing with the Hindrances

By: Bob Zeglovitch

During our recent sessions, we have suggested the incorporation of a sense of play in our dharma practice. In Deep Play, Diane Ackerman states that “as a reservoir of deep play, games, sports, religion and art have much in common, and may even be interchangeable.” At our last session, I read the following quote from the Dutch cultural historian Johan Huizinga’s book Homo Ludens:

Play. It is an activity which proceeds within certain limits of time and space, in a visible order, according to rules freely accepted, and outside the sphere of necessity or material utility. The play-mood is one of rapture and enthusiasm, and is sacred or festive in accordance with the occasion. A feeling of exaltation and tension accompanies the action.

This reminds me of meditation practice. We sit down in a certain place for a certain time period, for no particular utility, and of our own choice. There is a certain order to what we are doing, in that we have a “practice” or set of rules that we choose to accept for the duration of our session (although we may promptly find ourselves deviating from those “rules”!). There is a sacredness to our efforts, and while we may not always experience rapture or exaltation, that is certainly one possibility.

If we take our meditation and broader dharma practice too seriously, we can become dry and pretentious. This drains our energy and joy rather than serving as a wellspring for enthusiasm, curiosity and happiness. What might happen if we were to regularly approach our formal practice (and the rest of our life) with a spirit of play? Play calls forth freedom, responsiveness, creativity, vitality, alertness, and joy. Perhaps we might take some risks, try new approaches, and be creative with practices both old and new to us. We might not be so concerned about “failing” and be willing to allow ourselves to become unstuck from habitual patterns. It seems to me that this is a particularly helpful attitude to try out when it comes to meeting the hindrances, as they can have a heavy and somewhat oppressive quality.

There will certainly be times when play may not seem available, or even appropriate. We face serious difficulties in life and in practice. But, even in challenging times we can check to see if there is an opportunity to play.

Tsoknyi Rinpoche, a prominent modern Tibetan Buddhist teacher, gave this beautiful response to a question about how playfulness influences his practice and how it offers a way out of the trappings of the self:

Nature is very playful. In nature, everything is playing: trees, wind, mountains. But reification makes everything frozen. When we’re in this frozen state, then we can’t laugh at ourselves. There’s no humor. Meditation helps us cultivate a sense of openness so that we become less frozen and less fixed in our sense of self. Then we can let everything come and go. Everything—thoughts, emotions, phenomena, beautiful monsters—arises from openness, and then dissolves. When we observe this, humor is the natural response.

When his questioner noted the practice is nevertheless very serious, Tsoknyi Rinpoche responded: “It’s serious, but that doesn’t mean we need to take it so seriously. We need a light touch. With a light touch we can learn to let go. And that’s how we find freedom and liberation. That’s how we break free from samsara.” (Tricycle, Winter 2022)

Some Ways to Consider Buddha

By: Bob Zeglovitch

At our Rohatsu sesshin last Saturday, we recited the Shakyamuni section from the Transmission of Light by Keizan Jokin, the “second founder” of Soto Zen in Japan.  I made some short comments about some different ways we might consider the story of the Buddha and his awakening—as myth or archetype; as the journey of an actual historical figure (where what little details can be conjured up vary from the myths); as a stand-in for the collective energy and striving of many dedicated practitioners; and as a pointer to our own potential and/or actual true nature.  Any of these may serve to inspire us, depending on our orientation. 

The above list just scratches the surface of how we can consider Buddha, and what Buddha has meant over time. In my comments I mentioned an interesting article by the Buddhist scholar Bernard Faure titled “The Myth of the Historical Buddha.”  You can read the article here (hopefully!).  Faure was interviewed on Tricycle’s podcast, and I highly recommend giving the conversation a listen here (he has a distinct French accent so you have to listen carefully; the article covers much of the same information but the conversation is worth the effort, in my view).  Among other things, he argues that the power of the Buddha is found in the various myths and stories about him, rather than in the stripped down historicized versions that seek to make him a “scientific” philosopher Buddha.  Faure draws attention to the fact that the myth of the Buddha has been constructed in different ways over time and in different cultural contexts, and that this process continues. He has recently published a new book titled The Thousand and One Lives of the Buddha, which covers this terrain in detail.   

Vow: Continuous Practice

By: Bob Zeglovitch

At our retreat this past Saturday, we continued our investigation of vow with the help of some passages from Dogen’s Gyoji (“Continuous Practice”). This is the longest fascicle in Dogen’s great work Shobogenzo. In it, he recounts the various ways in which dharma ancestors from Shakyamuni Buddha forward manifested continuous practice.

Here are some quotes that give a flavor of Gyoji. While the expression “continuous practice” could strike one as daunting, I think that instead what emerges from Dogen’s language is a sense of practice that is natural and imbued with ease.

“On the great road of buddhas and 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.”

“As a result, the practice is not done by forcing oneself to do it and it is not done by being forced to do it by someone else: it is a ceaseless practice that is never tainted by forcing.  The merits from this ceaseless practice sustain us and sustain others.”

“The underlying principle of this practice is that the whole universe in all ten directions receives the merit of our ceaseless practice.  Though others may not recognize it, though we may not recognize it ourselves, still, it is so.”

“If we wish to grasp what ceaseless practice is, we should not make a special case out of every new thing that comes along.”

Bowing Practice and Vow

By: Ava Stanton

We are in the first half of our spring practice period, Living By Vow in Daily Life.   For this period, as much as I can, I have a daily practice of bowing.  Bowing is a great fit for me, for my personality, my weaknesses, for the encouragement of my practice.  Bowing is a good expression of Vow for me.

I try to be intimate with my weaknesses.  That is essential for a bodhisattva practice, wouldn’t you say?   I tend to space out, so a moving, embodied practice is great for me.  I do well with a beginning, middle and end (of what?), like a kid.  I can engage with my discomfort, irritability and malaise when I bow.  When there is peacefulness, I can offer it up, when I remember it is a gift, not a personal achievement.  Bowing reminds me, in a “can do” kind of way, that my job is to turn toward, turn toward, “approaching (myself) with peaceful and attentive confidence.” (Meditation on Metta)

When I am finished bowing, I can see the part of me that wants to check things off a list, to “be done,” with kindness. At least I bowed today!  The part of me that wants to engage, that wants order – I honor those needs in this practice.  At the same time, here I am, a body moving, acknowledging the infinite awesome mystery, as I touch my forehead to the floor, and bow to it. Here, in this repeated gesture, part of something I will never understand, expressing gratitude in the face of the unknowable.

Katagiri Roshi’s poem on Vow starts:

Being told that it’s impossible,

One believes, in despair, “Is it so?”

Being told that it is possible,

One believes, in excitement, “That’s right.”

But whichever is chosen,

It does not fit one’s heart neatly.

Practicing with a vow allows us to not fall into self-criticism, despair, or self-aggrandizement, and to be kindly with this endless “not fitting.”  He ends:

Just practice right here, now

And achieve continuity

Endlessly

Forever.

This is living in vow.

Herein is one’s peaceful life found.

Staying curious, practicing turning toward yourself with kindness, trying again – bodhicitta can arise and make peace with this endless not fitting. 

I once met a nun, a Sister of St. Joseph of Carondelet, who was experiencing a second diagnosis of cancer and treatment.  She told the support group, “I am saved.  That doesn’t mean I am safe.”   When we surrender “I” and substitute awareness that is not-knowing, we can perhaps glimpse what she meant. I don’t hear Catholic doctrine or belief, I hear Vow or bodhicitta or faith in action.

What practice are you choosing to help you bring Vow into your daily life?