Repetition

The Spirit of Repetition

By: Shunryu Suzuki Roshi

“If you lose the spirit of repetition, jour practice will become quite difficult”

The Indian thought and practice encountered by Buddha was based on an idea of human beings as a combination of spiritual and physical elements. They thought that the physical side of man bound the spiritual side, and so their religious practice was aimed at making the physical element weaker in order to free and strengthen the spirit. Thus the practice Buddha found in India emphasized asceticism. But Buddha found when he practiced asceticism that there was no limit to the attempt to purge ourselves physically, and that it made religious practice very idealistic. This kind of war with our body can only end when we die. But according to this Indian thought, we will return in another life, and another life, to repeat the struggle over and over again, without ever attaining perfect enlightenment. And even if you think you can make your physical strength weak enough to free your spiritual power, it will only work as long as you continue your ascetic practice. If you resume your everyday life you will have to strengthen your body, but then you will have to weaken it again to regain your spiritual power. And then you will have to repeat this process over and over again. This may be too great a simplification of the Indian practice encountered by Buddha, and we may laugh at it, but actually some people continue this practice even today. Sometimes without realizing it, this idea of asceticism is in the back of their minds. But practicing in this way will not result in any progress.

Buddha’s way was quite different. At first he studied the Hindu practice of his time and area, and he practiced asceticism. But Buddha was not interested in the elements comprising human beings, nor in metaphysical theories of existence. He was more concerned about how he himself existed in this moment. That was his point. Bread is made from flour. How flour becomes bread when put in the oven was for Buddha the most important thing. How we become enlightened was his main interest. The enlightened person is some perfect, desirable character, for himself and for others. Buddha wanted to find out how human beings develop this ideal character—how various sages in the past became sages. In order to find out how dough became perfect bread, he made it over and over again, until he became quite successful. That was his practice.

But we may find it not so interesting to cook the same thing over and over again every day. It is rather tedious, you may say. If you lose the spirit of repetition it will become quite difficult, but it will not be difficult if you are full of strength and vitality. Anyway, we cannot keep still; we have to do something. So if you do something, you should be very observant, and careful, and alert. Our way is to put the dough in the oven and watch it carefully. Once you know how the dough becomes bread, you will understand enlightenment. So how this physical body becomes a sage is our main interest. We are not so concerned about what flour is, or what dough is, or what a sage is. A sage is a sage. Metaphysical explanations of human nature are not the point.

So the kind of practice we stress thus cannot become too idealistic. If an artist becomes too idealistic, he will commit suicide, because between his ideal and his actual ability there is a great gap. Because there is no bridge long enough to go across the gap, he will begin to despair. That is the usual spiritual way. But our spiritual way is not so idealistic. In some sense we should be idealistic; at least we should be interested in making bread which tastes and looks good! Actual practice is repeating over and over again until you find out how to become bread. There is no secret in our way. Just to practice zazen and put ourselves into the oven is our way.

From: Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind

Repetition

By: John Tarrant

There are tools of transformation. The art student draws a hand, a face, the curve of a back, over and over, quickly and slowly. Gradually her consciousness changes and the hand, the act of drawing, and the person drawing become transparent; unity is restored to the world. At the moment this process is complete, the student is no longer an apprentice. Some Tibetan Buddhists undertake a foundation practice in which, among other tasks, they perform one hundred thousand elaborate prostrations, usually over several years. Now, this might seem quite useless and of no benefit to oneself or others, yet it too offers a way to enter life utterly. One lama laughed and said that the first ten thousand or so prostrations he did were not any good, so he threw them away. Then he began to do them more simply, more entirely. The days and months continued and the trees became more vibrant, the eyes of the people he met grew more vivid with their story.

Repetition is narrow and, if undertaken mechanically, stifles us, but it can also allow us to go deep. In meditation we repeat ourselves day after day, coming back to stillness and the breath, and again and again realize that we haven’t yet experienced it completely, that it is ever more subtle. Repetition, when done right, drifts almost imperceptibly into vasts, new realms, but with a slowness that allows for deepening, beauty, the appreciation of the neglected moment. It stabilizes our relation to eternity.

Any good relationship—marriage, a love affair, friendship, teacher and student—depends as well on just this sort of steady, attentive repetition. Common events, like having breakfast together, accumulate significance. Repetition teaches us that the things we do are not confined to their practical value. Bowing, or even lifting a fork from a plate, makes us aware that simple acts share a common timelessness with the sound of the spring wind and of the branches banging on the gutters.

Repetition may seem a succession of small moments, modest and uneventful. Yet repetition has also a certain cunning: it forces us to bide a while. The passage of time so gained alters us—we learn the small arts of attention and how to love the domestic moments between the big moments; we are soothed. But the road of repetition does not just make us calmer, more docile to ourselves. The step-by-step rhythm opens out, in time, to a suprise.

For repetition makes us vulnerable to the apparently random epiphanies that occur even if we have no interest in spirit. The boy immersed in his life stands amazed on the side of the gorge while the hills dance, the woman steps out of doors and dissolves into a field of flowers. Such events appear in our lives as gifts, apparently random. If spiritual openings are accidents, as a number of teachers have pointed out, then the spiritual work of meditation makes us accident-prone, susceptible to the imagination of eternity, the wit of God.

In matters of spirit, no road is ever straight. When first we begin to open, the vastness can be frightening and so we regress, sag back into the familiar darkness, where we can be close to the earth and rest. There we abide, gathering invisible resilience, until once again the involuntary compassion appears in the midst of suffering, and we step back onto the stair of Purgatory and the steady repetitions of spiritual work.

From: The Light Inside the Dark: Zen, Sould and the Spiritual Life. John Tarrant Roshi is the founder and director of the Pacific Zen Institute. He was the first dharma heir of Robert Aitken Roshi. Tarrant was a Jungian psychotherapist for twenty years, working on dream analysis while he was developing his teaching of Zen koans.