By Bob Zeglovitch
During the pandemic, I’ve found myself drawn to investing more energy in my home altar as a focal point for my formal practice. Here is a tour, along with some reflections, in the hope that this will spark some contemplation, conversation, and further sharing.
There are a lot of Buddhist items on my altar. Some are the result of the good fortune that I have had in being able to travel to India and Nepal. The way I see it, however, the items on the altar are much less important than how you relate to them and how they inform or encourage your practice.
The Buddha figure is Thai and Theravadan. I’ve done a good bit of practice in the Theravadan tradition, so this particular style of Buddha honors this thread of my history. It also of course brings to mind both the inspiration of the historical Buddha and the Buddha nature within to be actualized, moment to moment. The calligraphy characters, taken together (courtesy of Armin Baier’s translation), mean “moonlight.” In the Genjokoan, Dogen says that enlightenment is like the moon reflected in the water. It is encouraging to have this visual representation nearby when I’m meditating.
Just under the calligraphy are two Bodhi tree leaves from Bodh Gaya, India. They represent the moment of the Buddha’s enlightenment, and the possibility of liberation in this very life. They also remind me of pilgrimage, which I did at the traditional sites of the Buddha in northern India and Nepal and which left a deep mark on me. The traditional Tibetan bell is from Lumbini, Nepal, the Buddha’s birthplace. The bell is a symbol of wisdom and it is said that its sound calls to mind emptiness. I’ve done two long meditation retreats in Lumbini in the Theravadan Mahasi Sayadaw/Sayadaw U Pandita lineage—these were eye opening for me, confirmed my commitment to the path, and continue to inform my practice. This object brings to mind that powerful place for practice.
At the front left are the Jukai papers that I received from my first Zen teacher, when I took the precepts. On the cover of the packet is my Zen name, Ryōjun (Precisely Gentle), as well as a verse/koan composed by my teacher that is a meditation and practice instruction (as is my name). I find it helpful to return to these instructions again and again. The packet contains a handwritten lineage of the various Zen ancestors stretching from my Jukai teacher all the way back to the Buddha (some of the transmissions may be mythical but most are real)—a connection with the generations of teachers and students who have made the practice possible for me and countless others. This evokes gratitude for all of that incalculable human effort and steadfastness and wisdom and compassion. Since I received the precepts a long time ago, the packet also serves as a symbol of my own persistence in the practice.
Two items are reminders of spiritual friendship. The small white object in front of the candle was given to me by one of my closest dharma friends—it is an o-fuda, a talisman that brings good luck or wards off bad influences. The talisman was given to him at a Japanese monastery after a chanting ceremony in the esoteric Buddhist Shingon tradition of Kobo Daishi, while he was on a walking pilgrimage. The small bodhisattva statute behind the Jukai packet was given to me by Ava as thanks for my part in helping to put together her wellness ceremony last year. These objects reflect interconnectedness, generosity and support. They gladden my heart, reminding me that I’m not alone on the path.
The last item is a traditional Japanese Zen tea bowl made by a highly skilled potter. It is a beautiful object, but it has a place on the altar principally because it symbolizes the mutuality of freely giving and receiving. The artist was my client and we agreed to barter his creations for my legal services. At the beginning of each meeting, he presented me with a carefully wrapped package, bearing a surprise offering—this became our own temporary ritual. He gave me a number of lovely pieces. I had no idea of the “market value” of what he gave me or how it compared to my hourly rate. It was liberating not to care or think about that. I reflect now on the fact that the mutual giving and receiving that we enacted (the memory of which is still very much alive for me)—was and is priceless.
To me, the altar contains elements of Buddha, Dharma and Sangha. It is a web of symbols infused with meaning, creating opportunities for inspiration, reflection and spiritual imagination.
Energy (“viriya” in Pali), is one of the seven factors of awakening. I’ve been finding recently that the altar’s mere presence is a reminder to practice and therefore a boost for my viriya. Sometimes it draws me to the cushion, for shorter or longer periods. Sometimes it just causes me to be a bit more aware. Of course, there are also many moments where I look right past it, consumed by whatever I might be in the grip of.
I suppose there is a “danger” here of piling on to the usual habitual project of attaching to self, by holding on to some created identity or set of narratives. On the other hand, there is a kind of hollowness and sterility in pretending that there is no self and that there are no stories or associations that can inspire and deepen our practice. We can follow that “middle way,” in which we honor our narrative, our set of unique interconnectedness with others and the world around us, and those objects that evoke in us gratitude, persistence, generosity, love and emerging wisdom.
Do you have an altar with objects and stories about them? How do you use it in your practice and what meaning does it hold for you? If you don’t have an altar, what might it be like to create something that serves you in this way? It does not have to contain “Buddhist” objects, of course—it could include anything that serves the beneficial purposes of promoting your wise attention, opening your heart, encouraging your practice, or bringing healing moments. You might start very simply, perhaps with one or two items of beauty or that carry personal meaning. And for all of us, this can be a continually evolving creative expression, one that can change with the shifting circumstances and emerging meaning in our lives.
If the word “altar” is a barrier because of various cultural associations or personal reactions, remember that it is just a name and that you can choose another one that suits you better. The idea is simply to have a focal point for your awareness, dedication, and reflection. If you find that this practice of form does not speak to you at present, you might instead simply consider the space where you meditate in a more general sense. Is it well cared for and free of clutter, so as to skillfully condition the mind that meditates there? Does it inspire you to practice? Is it or can it become a place of personal ritual? What steps can you take to make that happen? It would be wonderful to see images of your personal focal points of practice and to hear the stories associated with them—whether created years ago or yesterday.
Don Juan told Carlos Castaneda that the one question to ask about the path is whether it is one with a heart (see the Readings page on this site). Perhaps your altar can be a form that helps you uncover and deepen the heart of your path.
