The Precept on Giving Freely

By Armin Baier

In working with the Second Precept, “I vow not to steal,” I was moved by contemporary reframings of this vow that challenge me in ways I had not considered.  One of the most poignant to me was the discussion of this precept in Diane Eshin Rizzetto’s book, Waking Up to What You Do: A Zen Practice for Meeting Every Situation with Intelligence and Compassion.  She reframes the precept this way: I take up the way of taking only what is freely given and giving freely of all that I can.  I this way, she allows us to understand that giving is an essential part of the vow   I have come to see that this makes sense to me in practice.

As I was preparing to give a dharma talk on the precept, a cartoon in the New Yorker showed up in my phone strikingly on point. The cartoon depicts two young gentlemen who seem well-heeled and enjoying their lives of trendy leisure.  One man is saying with apparent astonishment to the other, “So you’re saying that just a little bit of giving will distract from the relentless taking?” 

Even if I don’t share too much in common with these characters,  I know there is a distinction I can make every day between giving freely and giving with conditions, giving in order to get something, or to justify my taking.  As I practice with this precept, I am increasingly aware that my truly giving freely to others has a distinct feel to it, an opening of myself.   My giving to others, doing for others, loses a kind of weight it would have if I do it only from obligation or with resentment.  It has a Zazen aspect to it:  Instead of angrily washing the dishes my husband left in the sink, I’m just doing the dishes.  I’m not even necessarily giving this to him as a gift in that moment, I’m just “giving freely.”

The ability to make that shift isn’t constant.  Sometimes it feels like the last thing I’m willing to do.  But it is also informed by another way of experiencing this moment of giving. There is a slogan in the Alanon 12-Step program that has new meaning for me:  Give Time Time.  Time doesn’t have to be just a scarce commodity that I can’t get enough of.  I can also give my attention to time, be with what is in time.  If I am rushing to take my dog outside in the few minutes between work sessions, I can notice my rushing and shift to just being with my dog, outside, for that couple of minutes.  That is a form of giving freely that I had never noticed in that way before.

Aspects of Just Sitting: Introduction

By Bob Zeglovitch

I’ve begun working with some of the members of our sangha who are newer to Zen, giving some guidance on traditional Soto Zen meditation practice.  In connection with this effort, I’m going to write a series of posts to capture some of the unique elements of this style.  I’m hoping these posts will be of interest to others as well.  My goal is to highlight one aspect of the practice in each post, although it may turn out that certain aspects deserve more than one post.  I’ll do my best to keep the posts relatively short.  This practice is subtle and deep. I don’t pretend that my entries will be fully comprehensive or an “authoritative word” on the matter!  This posting is an introduction--I’ll move into the details of the practice in future entries. 

There are many varieties of Buddhist meditation.  It is perhaps an obvious point but it is worth saying anyway--they are not all the same practice!  The core meditation practice in Soto Zen is shikantaza, or “just sitting.”  This is sometimes referred to as a “methodless method.”  The classic Zen texts on just sitting contain much commentary, with a lot of beautiful poetic language, but not too much detail on how the practice should be done.  This is likely purposeful, because just sitting is not a step-by-step practice where you “get better.”  You might say that it is more direct, more “immediate”.  You are not concentrating or focusing on a particular object of your awareness, blocking out thoughts or the “outside world”, working with images, or reflecting on anything.  You are not engaging in thinking (and yet thoughts may come and go).  You are not trying to make anything happen or go away.  But you are not indifferent or drifting off.  You are “just sitting” with vital awareness of the totality of the ever unfolding present moment, together with the universe. 

Of course, most of us come to meditation for a reason, trying to improve or to get something for ourselves.  Our current cultural milieu supports this—I’m thinking in particular of the mindfulness movement and its emphasis on the clinical benefits of meditation.  And we invariably want to know, “am I doing it right?”  So the practice of just sitting presents us with some challenges and requires a major shift in perspective.  Further, while this is not a goal oriented practice, we take care to avoid complacency or an attitude of “anything goes.”  

For starters, you might just allow yourself to be curious about what it means to “just sit”.  In Dogen’s seminal text Fukanzazengi (Universal Instructions for Zazen), he states: “This zazen [meditation] I speak of is not learning meditation.  It is simply the dharma-gate of repose and bliss, the practice-realization of totally culminated enlightenment.”  Can you allow yourself to sit like this right now, without trying to figure the meaning out or trying to achieve anything and regardless of what feelings of deficiency or lack you may have?  Going forward we’ll try to flesh this out a bit. The complete text of Fukanzazengi is found on the Chants/Foundational Texts page of this website.  

A historical note:  The founder of the Soto lineage in Japan (referred to as Caodong in China, where it originated) was Eihei Dogen (1200-1253).  Dogen’s great awakening, realized while practicing just sitting, took place in China, where he was studying under Tiantong Rujing (1163-1228).  Another key figure in the lineage is Hongzhi Zhengue (1091-1157), a prior abbott at Rujing’s temple.  Hongzhi taught the practice of “silent illumination”, which is essentially another name for shikantaza/just sitting.  The just sitting practice has roots that go way back in the tradition of Chan (Zen) Buddhism in China.  Elements can be found in the writings of the eighth-century Chinese master Shitou Xiqiang (700-790) (the author of the Harmony of Difference and Equality) and his successor, Yaoshan Weiyan (745-820).  (The text of the Harmony of Difference and Equality is found on the Chants/Foundational Texts page of this website). And the origins go back even further.  We may return to some of these masters and their writing in future posts.

The Precept on Not Killing

By Susan Suntree

Here are some excerpts from my recent talk on the Precept of Not Killing.

Long ago I vowed to follow my root teacher, Robert Aitken's model of carrying out the cockroach, which I attempt to emulate even as I falter. And if I do not "carry it out," I consciously make a decision to kill. And to express appreciation for the life I've taken.

***

Not Killing is a vow taken by we humans who, with every heartbeat, every cell division, every act of digestion, are in constant motion and evolution as is the very nature of our cosmos. Not killing is impossible. Breathing, walking, drinking water all kill some life form.  Even so, that fact does not alter my responsibility to avoid dishing out suffering. And killing causes suffering. Old Man cockroach runs like crazy to find safety from me. The plants send chemical signals to warn of invading insects or other blights. Life is hell bent on Living!

This precept is appropriately placed at the top of the list because it cautions against inflicting suffering by my taking what is not offered, my giving or withholding my words, treasure, ideas, my body to others in ways that generate suffering. Yet suffering is the First Noble Truth. There is no escaping being implicated in receiving or offering suffering. Suffering is not personal. And so we turn toward the Precepts for guidance, though how to enact them is not defined.

What is a killing:  Is abortion killing? Yes, no, maybe. Is self-defense killing acceptable? Yes, no, maybe. Is there a "Good" War? Are forms of agriculture like intense use of pesticides and monoculture, clear cutting, mining especially open pit mining, fossil fuel extraction, factory fishing and farming -- killing? Does my pension's portfolio in these kinds of actions make me a killer?

Should I be vegan or vegetarian? In my research, the question of what to eat came up more than any other. Not killing human beings seems to be widely accepted (though what about the fact that over 50% of my Federal taxes go toward war, not to speak of the billions in fossil fuel subsidies Thus we are all implicated in killing ourselves and every other being!). In my research of the First Precept, I found many approaches to eating or not eating animals. For example: One should eat whatever is placed in your alms bowl, whatever is served, whatever is killed though not specifically killed for you. Don't eat exotic species, organ meat etc.

***

There is no life without death and no death without life. We are all food. Eating is a sacrament; we eat and are eaten as part of the great web of life. Perhaps the point of the vow Not To Kill is to urge me to intimately understand this.

It seems to me that the foundational teaching of Not Killing, and all of the precepts we have considered, is to deeply cultivate the practice of kindness. Thich Nhat Hanh named his version of the precept of not killing “Reverence for Life”:

Aware of the suffering caused by the destruction of life, I vow to cultivate compassion and learn ways to protect lives of people, animals, plants and minerals. I am determined not to kill, not to let others kill, and not to condone any killing in the world, my thinking, and in my way of life.

The False Speech Precept

By: Bob Zeglovitch

In our Practice Period on the precepts, we have been encouraged to consider writing the precepts in a way that reflects how we are working with them. My formulation of the precept on not speaking falsely is:

I vow to avoid deception of myself and others, through body, speech and thought. I vow to cultivate humility so that I do not rashly proclaim what I take to be truth, without proper reflection and care and without listening to other viewpoints that might help me better understand the truth of the situation. I vow to cultivate the courage to speak the truth as clearly and kindly as I can and to recognize when I am holding back out of fear.

Zen Celery

By Kate Savage

The majority of my meditation practice has been in the insight tradition. I have a beloved mentor now, (Ava Louise Stanton) who is a Soto Zen lay entrusted teacher, and so I've joined her sangha for a three-month practice period. The Soto Zen lineage is unfamiliar to me and the different form has been uncomfortable at times. This has forced the issue of the "don't-know mind," not just as a concept, but as a lived experience. I'm aware that Zen form is just a form, and it exists independent of me and my reactions to it, and so there is much to learn. It has also allowed me the opportunity to examine some of my fixed views around meditation practice, how compassion is expressed in different traditions, and what refuge feels like to different folks. I've had moments of intense aversion, and also I've also had some interesting revelations around my biases about formal and informal practice. 

During this practice period, we practitioners have been encouraged to choose a mundane life task to practice as a daily ritual. As I already make fresh celery juice to drink every day, I chose the multi-step process of washing and cutting celery, juicing the celery, and then cleaning the juicer.

In our small sangha, we've discussed pace and persistence - slowing down and staying with the chosen daily task in order to learn about ritual, habit, the speedy mind and missed opportunities. I was grateful to connect with the confidence my long-time meditation practice has given me to hang with whatever arises. I've started bowing to the celery and to the juicer each day, sometimes with a little smile or chuckle. It brings gravitas and joy to the task.

I've been pondering: what is the balance between contrivance and what comes naturally? Although bowing and chanting may feel like a contrivance to me right now, I imagine after time it becomes natural. Is it possible to move from awkward contrivance to natural state without the ritual then becoming a mindless habit? This is where Right Intention and Right Action come into play with Right Mindfulness.

I slowly started seeing how my celery practice spilled over into other areas of daily life. How obvious! How beautifully simple! It's not a new concept, continuity of practice, and I've experienced it often on retreat, but I've noticed more fully how this intentional, body-based practice is making a more seamless bridge to daily life. For instance, I seem to take more pauses throughout my day to connect with my breath. Without consciously trying, I realize that I've "formalized" the practice of lying in bed after first waking in the morning with my hands resting on my body for several minutes before I arise. Or driving, I'll suddenly notice my hands gripping the steering wheel and then allow them to soften. All of this IS practice.

I'm aware that I have still have a bias for formal sitting practice as "real" practice, and while it's still my main and most valuable practice (I definitely drop into deeper states of relaxed concentration), it's certainly not the only way.

Liminal Moments

By Armin Baier

I am aware more and more these days that my mind wants to turn everything into a task, a list of things I do or will do or have to get done. So I pay attention to these task moments and I lose awareness of everything in between: walking from room to room, dressing, even eating or drinking, and falling asleep. Bob Zeglovitch brought this beautiful Zen essay to my attention, and it speaks powerfully to me about these in-between experiences, liminal moments of my life that I live but to which I am not fully alive. The author is David Rynick, a Zen teacher and writer at the Boundless Way Temple in Worcester, MA. His website and blog can be found at https://davidrynick.com.

1. It snowed all day yesterday. Not in a serious kind of way, but more as if point were atmospheric rather than accumulative. Maybe three or four inches of the fluffiest crystals landed around the Temple. Not a lot by Worcester standards. Still it was pretty and enough to have to do something about. The gasoline driven environmental polluter snow blowers which have saved my back and given me hours to sit inside instead of shoveling endlessly came out occasionally, but a couple quick passes with a snow shovel worked as well for most of the clean-up.

As this morning dawns, trees are laden and streets are white. It’s a lovely sight, this monochrome coating. As if some child was charged with whitewashing the world but only managed to get the topsides of things before she lost interest and moved onto something else. Vertical surfaces, tree trunks and sides of houses are their natural color while roofs and branch tops and sidewalks are all fluffy white.

2. I woke early this morning without much feeling. I always check, first thing, when I’m just beginning to know I am me, to see how I am doing. ‘What is the state of the Dave?’ as a friend of mine likes to inquire. I begin with bodily sensations, then go on to emotions and thoughts. It’s a fuzzy process as there is no specific moment when I’m asleep and then suddenly become awake. Some hazy process lies in between—a place where the snow of sleep is not deep or restricting but is still everywhere to be muddled and waded through before arriving definitively in the land of consensual reality.

3. The in-between places, the boundary places, the liminal places are the most interesting. And since nothing is really fixed or permanent, life is, essentially, only and always in-between. Though the words I use imply clear (and useful) distinctions, my actual experience is much more fluid, borderless and inclusive.

Awake is a state. Asleep is a state. Then there is the vast expanse of waking up and falling asleep. Even within awake and asleep, there are infinite variations. A friend has a watch that charts her sleep. She can read out the story of her night on her computer screen the next morning as a line of peaks and valleys with some plateaus along the way. I would suspect any measure of ‘awake’ would also have to include the sluggishness of the late afternoon and the arousals of various events and times of the day.

4. In the book HOW EMOTIONS ARE MADE, Lisa Feldman Barrett makes a compelling case for emotions as complex constructions rather than fixed responses in regions of the brain that are triggered by outside events. Things don’t happen and ‘make us’ feel a certain way. We experience emotions based on the concepts and words we have learned. We interpret the signals we are receiving from the various parts of our body and make creative guesses about what it is and how we should respond. In order to appreciate the subtlety and variation of our emotions lives, Ms. Barrett encourages expanding our awareness of the particularity of our moment-to-moment experience, learning new words that describe specific emotional states, and even making up words that describe specific new states.

5. This morning, as I lay awake in my warm bed on a cold winter morning, I wasn’t particularly tired nor particularly anything at all as far as I could tell. I was just slightly reluctant to get out of bed even though I was looking forward to a quiet morning of writing, sipping tea and looking out the window at the new fallen snow.

I have decided that this feeling of slight to moderate disinclination to get out of bed should be called an instance of beddrag. (Pronounced as a combination of bed and drag with the emphasis on the first syllable.) Beddrag is the feeling of reluctance to exit the warm comfort of the horizontal life of dreaming and enter into the vertical exertions of daily life. It doesn’t refer to the dread of facing life again or the exhaustion that sometimes accompanies morning, but just that almost sweet disinclination to change state. Perhaps one might even experience some beddrag after reading a good book in a comfortable chair and then having to get up to get on with life.

Exploring with this new concept, we might even begin to distinguish different versions of beddrag based on the temperature in the room, whether one is sleeping in flannel or regular sheets, whether one sleeps alone or with a four-legged or two-legged partner(s). A whole new universe opens up with one word.

6. The morning light has fully arrived. Snow and icicles decorate the neighborhood. It’s quiet and cozy here on the couch looking out through the windows. I’ll just enjoy a few more moments of beddrag before I get up to go out to clear the front steps.

Ritual and Zen Practice

By Bob Zeglovitch

Ritual is an important part of Zen practice. We bow, chant, offer the merit of our practice in stylized fashion, ring bells, hit drums and wooden percussion instruments, hold our hands in certain ways at certain times, and walk in concert, among other practices. Why? One short general answer is that Zen ritual brings us into an embodied awareness. There are, however, many dimensions to Zen ritual. It is helpful to understand what qualities of mind and heart we are expressing when we practice these forms, so that we can enter them more fully and meaningfully—and so they feel less foreign or formalistic. The following talks by Norman Fischer of Everyday Zen provide a wonderful exploration of this aspect of Zen practice.

Ritual and Practice, Part 1

Ritual and Practice, Part 2

Ritual and Practice, Part 3

Reflections on a Home Altar

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.            

Spring Practice Period, 2021: Yasodhara's Path

By Ava Stanton

I’m excited to announce our upcoming Practice Period, which we are calling Yasodhara’s Path. Among other things, we will be talking about form and ritual in our daily lives, and about creating space to bring body and mind together in practice. Above is a picture of my home altar. Here is a more detailed description of the plan for the Practice Period:

Just Show Up Zen Sangha’s Spring 2021 Practice Period: Yasodhara’s Path

Just Show Up Zen Sangha will be holding a Practice Period from February 5 to May 1, 2021.  In our Soto Zen tradition, a practice period is a time that a sangha dedicates to deepen its practice.  This period is approximately three months long, in remembrance of the rainy season retreats that the Buddha held with his sangha. 

The title of the practice period, Yasodhara’s Path, is a reference to the path of the Buddha’s wife.  She is often referred to as “The One Who Stayed” because she was left behind after the Prince Siddhartha went on his quest for enlightenment.  While volumes of sutras were written about the Buddha’s path, we know nothing about Yasodhara’s life.  Her path, like ours, is the unrecorded path of the householder.  We can imagine what challenges she faced under the circumstances of her life, but they remain a mystery.   We also have these private moments, these moments of mystery.  Can we stay with them?  How do we relate to those seemingly mundane moments—making our bed, pulling on clothes, washing the dishes, grooming ourselves – can we be “The One Who Stays”? 

The focus of this practice period will be practicing Zen at home during the pandemic in the intimate  and mundane moments of our lives. How can we use the relative isolation caused by the pandemic to look more deeply at bringing our practice home? 

The First Month

The first month of the practice period will be an open exploration of bringing practice home through the rituals of your everyday life.  We will ask you to explore having a space that is your formal practice space.  It can be a place you use for other things; the essential quality is that it has this sacred purpose noted as well.

Forms and rituals make a container for the emptiness, the non-dual aspect of practice.  We will focus on the meaning and place of ritual in our lives.  What is meant by ritual and what are the purposes of ritual?  Do we have existing rituals?  Can we bring new meaning to them? Can we develop new rituals, either by incorporating or adapting existing Zen forms or by creating our own?  Are there other ways that we can realize the home as a sacred space of practice? We will take this time to encourage you to explore a ritual (or rituals) you choose, or an area of your life you choose that you’d like to bring awareness to. 

We hope this will lead to uncovering the challenges and opportunities that are manifesting with kindness, curiosity, experimentation.  This inquiry and learning are essential to making a practice your own.  Throughout the practice period, we will try to stay attentive to our experience in relationships with others in our household, or with ourselves if we are alone.   If you live with other people, Is there an activity you might like to invite your partner or family to engage in with you, like the ritual of setting the table for dinner?

The Second Month

In the second month, we will invite you to experience your rituals as practice over time.  What do you learn as they become habitual?  How do we stick with a ritual we are irritated about, or when we are overcome by feeling?  Can we challenge ourselves not to comply but to come fully in to the moment?  Simple ritual can be the container for transformation, for healing.  As a sangha, we will continue practicing together the rituals of bowing, walking, chanting and sitting together.

The Third Month

The third month will focus on the body.  As lay people, we interact with the world in complex ways involving our bodies.  We are gendered,  perhaps sexually active or sexually aroused or aware.   We make efforts to look a certain way, or appear in different roles (like working at home).  We consume and make choices about what we buy, what we eat, how we use vehicles,  heat and water.  We notice changes in our bodies as we are confined by COVID or as we are sick or aging. Focusing our practice in this very body, we can ground our practice and take it out of theory and talk. As the Buddha said, "within this fathom-long body and mind is found all of the teachings." 

Structure

The practice period will begin with our regular Friday morning session on February 5th at 7:30 am to 8:45 am (Pacific Time).  We’ll then have a half day retreat on February 6 from 8 am to 1:00 pm.  The core of the practice period will be our Friday morning sessions, although participants are encouraged to also attend our regular Monday morning sits from 7:30 am to 8:00 am.  We will conclude with a full day retreat on May 1.  There will be sitting and walking, dharma talks, individual meetings with the teacher, Ava Stanton and with the teacher’s assistant, Bob Zeglovitch, as well as dyads and group discussion.  We’ll each make our own commitments for practice during the period, taking into account both our aspirations for deepening our practice and our recognition of the limits and responsibilities of our lives.

Contact me at ava@insightla.org if you would like the Zoom link or if you have questions about the practice period.  Also, please drop me a line if you plan to participate, so we can plan accordingly.   

Yasodhara's Path, The One Who Stayed

By Ava Stanton

Amid losses that bewilder our counting and our hearts, and without an end date certain, we know that the pandemic will end, and we hope the institutions of democracy hold.  Yet for now, we are in a moment of deep uncertainty.

Like you, I am constrained by quarantine.  In our own ways, each of us is constrained, tripped up by conditions we assumed and used to count on. I wonder, what is sacred in my forced retreat from the world?  What practice offers itself to me? How from my position of privilege (I can work at home) do I support the world?

While the Buddha has been my source of inspiration for many years, it’s now his wife, Yasodhara, with whom I feel a deep kinship.

 She was a single mother left with her in-laws after the Buddha departed on his quest, and other than that, we know nothing. There is no sutra, not a word.  This is a first way I feel invited into her mystery.   What word actually captures your experience, or mine?  Isn’t the utter silence of Yasodhara the perfect complement to the thousands of pages of words the Buddha is reported to have spoken?

 I can guess: She parented, most likely failing and succeeding in meeting her young son’s need for reassurance.  She sorted her possessions.  She managed her relations with her in-laws. She looked in a mirror. Perhaps she lived through a plague. She has been called “The One Who Stayed.”  These private moments – we have them too. Can we stay with them?  How can these be our field of practice?

 How about the practice of looking in the mirror?  Here’s another way I look for Yasodhara.  What courage does it take to stay with the moment, not excluding or being controlled by our memories and embodied reactions to our face in the mirror? What is alive and unknowable about this moment?  How do we find our footing when we lose the moment to shame, to pride, to fear?  Didn’t she do this too?

 Making my bed, pulling on clothes, pulling myself from my computer, moments that feel private and unseen – can I be “The One Who Stays”?   These practices feel the most real to me as I face an unknowable future. 

 I know I need a spiritual community, as well as guidance and encouragement from teachers on the path. Then there are the ways to know my own private moments through an unfolding present. In this effort that I make on my own, I feel the mystery of Yasodhara’s silence, her breathing in and out.  Without words, with the pain or lack of resolution of the moment.  This is the unrecorded path of the house-holder. 

 May we join her in this ever-present.  May we stay with the tasks at hand:  our democracy, the end of white violence, taking action for the climate, or those whose lives are destroyed by COVID and it’s consequences, our in-breath and out-breath.  Let’s stay without a sutra, in the privacy of this moment.

Ava