As we returned to our cushions to begin the service for Peggy I began to quietly cry. I didn't know Peggy at all, but i suspect that being so close to any death brings out feelings with every other death you've ever experienced. At that point I was so open after having experienced a week of meditation and the beautiful New Years Eve service and celebration that there really wasn't anything stopping my feelings from coming through. Roshi began by speaking, addressing her comments to Peggy. At one point she let out a loud wail that was part of the ceremony (we had a memorial service the year before and she did the same thing at the same time). The ceremony involved a lot of different chanting and then once again everyone formed two lines, but this time we headed to the alter where two by two we each burned incense.
While the bass drum beat out its' complex sycopation, we all chanted:
KAN ZE ON
NA MU BUTSU
YO BUTSU U IN
YO BUTSU U EN
BUP PO SO EN
JO RAKU GA JO
CHO NEN KAN ZE ON
BO NEN KAN ZE ON
NEN NEN JU SHIN KI
NEN NEN FU RI SHIN.
The chanting started out subdued, but in each subsequent chorus there was a little more energy in the chant.
After everyone had burned incense and returned to their cushion, the service was ended. Someone placed Peggy's meditation bench on the floor along with a bud vase with a single flowering branch. We then made a circle around it and began to share. With the exception of "Charlie", no one single person seemed to know Peggy all that much, yet so many people had very vivid memories of exchanges they had with Peggy, strangely enough, many of them in elevators with Peggy holding on the person's arm and intensely engaging them with her eyes. As people shared their individual stories, a vivid picture of the person that Peggy was began to materialize in the circle. I heard one person later sum her up as "old school, New York salty ex-nun...you would have loved her!" Charlie shared that he had known Peggy for over a year and Peggy had been given 6 months by her doctors over 2 years ago. She would tell anyone who would listen about how she was cheating death. She also used to tell Charlie that she wanted to die in the Zendo on her cushion, and that she wanted Charlie to be there when she did.
The empty bench stood as a silent witness to all of this, and as a powerful statement of the immediacy of life.
I have never before experienced a funeral service for someone who had died only 1 hour before. I guess very few people have. It was so real and connected. But more than that, I have never witnessed nor have I ever heard of a more beautiful death. Girlfriend knew how to make an exit!
Showing posts with label zen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label zen. Show all posts
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
New Years Eve (cont.) - Zen Retreat part 7
After the "Carol of the Bells" died away we were allowed to stretch and then once again resumed our sitting. There was a large bowl shaped bell that was brought to the center of the Zendo and as we were sitting in silence someone rang the bell. It was a profound and resonant note, rich with overtones and a slow beat frequency (sorry, always the engineer) towards the finish, belying the great mass of metal and the mindful craftsmanship with which it was made. It took about 8 seconds for the sound to die away, only to be rung again. After about 20 strikes of the bell, the ringer gradually speed up to a rhythm of one strike every 6-7 seconds which he maintained for the remaining rings. Each strike of this bell seemed to reverberate through every cell of my body. It was a time of connection and thoughtlessness for me that seemed to go on and on. The bell was rung 108 times before it was done. Apparently this is a significant number, although I couldn't begin to explain why. It is really impossible to articulate the experience to anyone who wasn't present. It was as though I was one with the sound, and it flowed through me, rather than me merely observing it. That, of course, was the point, I'm sure. The Buddhists believe that everything is connected, and when we become completely silent, only then do we begin to realize this fact. I have no idea if that is true, but perhaps I caught a glimpse in that direction.
After the bell was rung 108 times, we all got an opportunity, presumably for the first time in 6 days, to speak. Every one of us was given 60 seconds to share something significant about their experience of this Seshin (retreat). This is called "open Sozan." Common themes shared were gratitude, struggle, back pain, realization, awe and simplicity. There was a woman who had been sitting across from me all week who I came to learn was named Peggy. She was a short, white-haired pink-faced Irish lady who had been wearing a bright white zippered jacket the entire week. The color of the jacket isn't really significant except that all of the rest of us were wearing dark colors, mostly black, and so the white coat really stuck out. When it came her turn to share, she said that after sitting the entire week her experience was life changing. She said that she wouldn't be the same person as the one who drove up. "I have to grieve the person I was and greet the person I will become." I remember hoping that the person she would become involved dark-colored clothing.
We then all got a chance to ring the great bell with our New Year's vow. We formed a line to go up to the bell, chanting a New Years Dharani in Sanskit: Namu to nen jo hon myo ganshin! Namu to nen jo hon myo ganshin! over and over as the bass drum thrummed out a complex rhythm while we slowly filed up to the great bell and individually rang it. As this was going on, a commotion occurred. One of the monitors entered the zendo and and ran over to someone and grabbed them by the wrist and dragged them quickly out of the zendo. No one runs in a Zendo, let alone physically removes someone! I looked at Roshi, the abbot, who was at the front of the room, yet she gave no clue as to what was happening, and we all continued our chanting and ringing. When the last person rang the bell, and everyone returned to their cushions Roshi announced that Peggy was having chest pains and that an ambulance had been called. Since the hallway outside the Zendo needed to be kept clear for the medics we should all move directly into the adjoining room where a New Years Eve party had been planned. In spite of the emergency that was going a few yards away from us, everyone was mingling, eating and talking as this was the first time in a week or so that we could chat with each other. After 45 minutes a nice buzz of energy had built up in the room when Roshi came in and asked us to gather 'round. "Expect the worst," she said. She told us that Peggy had died at the hospital, and asked us to file back into the Zendo where would would immediately hold a funeral service for her. "I have to grieve the person I was and greet the person I will become." had been Peggy's last words in open Sozan an hour before her funeral.
After the bell was rung 108 times, we all got an opportunity, presumably for the first time in 6 days, to speak. Every one of us was given 60 seconds to share something significant about their experience of this Seshin (retreat). This is called "open Sozan." Common themes shared were gratitude, struggle, back pain, realization, awe and simplicity. There was a woman who had been sitting across from me all week who I came to learn was named Peggy. She was a short, white-haired pink-faced Irish lady who had been wearing a bright white zippered jacket the entire week. The color of the jacket isn't really significant except that all of the rest of us were wearing dark colors, mostly black, and so the white coat really stuck out. When it came her turn to share, she said that after sitting the entire week her experience was life changing. She said that she wouldn't be the same person as the one who drove up. "I have to grieve the person I was and greet the person I will become." I remember hoping that the person she would become involved dark-colored clothing.
We then all got a chance to ring the great bell with our New Year's vow. We formed a line to go up to the bell, chanting a New Years Dharani in Sanskit: Namu to nen jo hon myo ganshin! Namu to nen jo hon myo ganshin! over and over as the bass drum thrummed out a complex rhythm while we slowly filed up to the great bell and individually rang it. As this was going on, a commotion occurred. One of the monitors entered the zendo and and ran over to someone and grabbed them by the wrist and dragged them quickly out of the zendo. No one runs in a Zendo, let alone physically removes someone! I looked at Roshi, the abbot, who was at the front of the room, yet she gave no clue as to what was happening, and we all continued our chanting and ringing. When the last person rang the bell, and everyone returned to their cushions Roshi announced that Peggy was having chest pains and that an ambulance had been called. Since the hallway outside the Zendo needed to be kept clear for the medics we should all move directly into the adjoining room where a New Years Eve party had been planned. In spite of the emergency that was going a few yards away from us, everyone was mingling, eating and talking as this was the first time in a week or so that we could chat with each other. After 45 minutes a nice buzz of energy had built up in the room when Roshi came in and asked us to gather 'round. "Expect the worst," she said. She told us that Peggy had died at the hospital, and asked us to file back into the Zendo where would would immediately hold a funeral service for her. "I have to grieve the person I was and greet the person I will become." had been Peggy's last words in open Sozan an hour before her funeral.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
New Years Eve - Zen Retreat part 6
By the time the final night of the retreat had arrived we had all been through so much. We struggled both physically and mentally, we dealt with back pain, frustration, feelings of inadequacy, battling the urge to run, discomfort. Some of us had epiphanies and moments of supreme connection we had never before realized. I had a 30 minute zazen period where I had such creative energy come through me that I had to return to my room and write down some of the ideas down before I forgot them. Much of the blogging that I've done about this retreat came out of that zazen period. Some of us had life-changing moments on our little square 3' x 2' zabuton cushions all alone and yet surrounded by others that were having their own epiphanies and battling their demons in the loneliness of their zabutons, surrounded by the rest of us. And all of this roiled beneath the veneer of silence and tranquility that is 60 Buddhas sitting silently in a Zendo.
The final night began with a period of zazen. We didn't know what to expect. After we had been sitting for about 15 minutes in complete silence, we heard the haunting sounds of a Japanese chakuhachi emerge from the front of the Zendo. The first note began so softly that it seemed to just insinuate itself into my consciousness. I closed my eyes and drank in the mournful sounds of this lovely bamboo instrument, with it's pitches bending wildly, wielded by a musician that understood it's power to speak, and from the music he played, I clearly knew he had been on the same retreat as I had, and walked the same stark morning kinhin walk that I did. As he is playing, the wind outside the building is intermittently howling and rattling the windows. After 7 minutes or so, he ends his moving concierto as quietly as he began.
Again we sit. There is nothing but the wind outside the strong cinderblock walls of our building. And then maybe 5 minutes we hear the single "ding" of the hanging bronze umpan plate. It is a clear resonant sound that is allowed to die off. Silence.
Ten seconds pass and then from another direction we hear a metal gong being struck. It's sound is lower than that of the umpan and is also allowed to fade away into silence.
Then we hear a the hollow high pitched "tuk!" of an wooden block from the same direction.
Silence.
A small bell is rung in another direction. It's sound dies away. There is silence. We hear the wind outside.
From somewhere else the low, quick thump of a hokku or bass drum breaks the silence. No wind this time, just silence.
I wonder what the next sound will be and where it will come from.
A more sonorous larger bell from yet another corner of the zendo speaks it's deep voice before dying off into silence.
Then it all begins again, and each silence is imperceptibly shorter. And shorter again. This carol of the bells slowly picks up speed spinning clockwise around the room as each sound comes faster and faster. I notice my body begin to sway. Soon a frenzied carousel of percussion and resonance dances wildly around and through us. And then when all the sounds are piling up on top of each other it abruptly stops.
Silence.
The silence becomes louder and has a resonance of its own.
"Ding ))))))))))" from the bronze umpan.
And it's done.
The final night began with a period of zazen. We didn't know what to expect. After we had been sitting for about 15 minutes in complete silence, we heard the haunting sounds of a Japanese chakuhachi emerge from the front of the Zendo. The first note began so softly that it seemed to just insinuate itself into my consciousness. I closed my eyes and drank in the mournful sounds of this lovely bamboo instrument, with it's pitches bending wildly, wielded by a musician that understood it's power to speak, and from the music he played, I clearly knew he had been on the same retreat as I had, and walked the same stark morning kinhin walk that I did. As he is playing, the wind outside the building is intermittently howling and rattling the windows. After 7 minutes or so, he ends his moving concierto as quietly as he began.
Again we sit. There is nothing but the wind outside the strong cinderblock walls of our building. And then maybe 5 minutes we hear the single "ding" of the hanging bronze umpan plate. It is a clear resonant sound that is allowed to die off. Silence.
Ten seconds pass and then from another direction we hear a metal gong being struck. It's sound is lower than that of the umpan and is also allowed to fade away into silence.
Then we hear a the hollow high pitched "tuk!" of an wooden block from the same direction.
Silence.
A small bell is rung in another direction. It's sound dies away. There is silence. We hear the wind outside.
From somewhere else the low, quick thump of a hokku or bass drum breaks the silence. No wind this time, just silence.
I wonder what the next sound will be and where it will come from.
A more sonorous larger bell from yet another corner of the zendo speaks it's deep voice before dying off into silence.
Then it all begins again, and each silence is imperceptibly shorter. And shorter again. This carol of the bells slowly picks up speed spinning clockwise around the room as each sound comes faster and faster. I notice my body begin to sway. Soon a frenzied carousel of percussion and resonance dances wildly around and through us. And then when all the sounds are piling up on top of each other it abruptly stops.
Silence.
The silence becomes louder and has a resonance of its own.
"Ding ))))))))))" from the bronze umpan.
And it's done.
Morning kinhin - Zen Retreat part 5 -- (read parts in forward numerical order)
As I had mentioned in part 1 of these Zen Retreat posts, there would be a single defining event that would occur on the very last full day of this retreat that not one person would have ever anticipated, and that would change all of us forever. Well, perhaps that's not entirely accurate. There was one person that could have had a vague idea of the events to come, but I can't be entirely sure, and besides, I am getting way ahead of myself.
After retrieving my pants and bundling up, I joined the outside walking meditation line. The retreat center that the Zen group had rented out was run by Catholic nuns and was situated on a very nice campus that was surrounded by woods and streams and fields. There were houses in the neighborhood of the center, to be sure, but most were on large plots of land and nestled in and around the natural elements rather and were rather unobtrusive and almost part of the natural setting. On a sunny spring day, this would be the most inviting and idyllic New England setting. We walked off the property and onto the back country road well before the sun had even thought of coming up. Even in this darkness the you could see a dark ominous glow from the low-hanging thick cloud cover if you bothered to look up. On both sides of the narrow and hilly road, the land was thick with tall barren trees reaching out with leafless branches rattling from the cold winds gusting without apology through the skeletal forest. Some of the few remaining dead leaves would blow along the road, as if to accentuate the loneliness. Our boots crunched through isolated patches of ice and snow as we climbed a steep hill. As the icy wind stung my skin, I looked at the collection of sleeping trees
and thought about how it would be to be a traveler through this very place in the days before any civilized structures were ever built here. It would be an easy place to die. It was a beautiful walk.
Later that day one of the Zen teachers commented about how wonderfully unapologetic nature is. Even in the deadness of winter, with the trees bare and the winds howling and hurtful, there is beauty in the starkness. Nature doesn't come with signs saying, "Pardon our appearance, we are redecorating for the spring." Oh, no. It is what it is. And that was the lesson.
After retrieving my pants and bundling up, I joined the outside walking meditation line. The retreat center that the Zen group had rented out was run by Catholic nuns and was situated on a very nice campus that was surrounded by woods and streams and fields. There were houses in the neighborhood of the center, to be sure, but most were on large plots of land and nestled in and around the natural elements rather and were rather unobtrusive and almost part of the natural setting. On a sunny spring day, this would be the most inviting and idyllic New England setting. We walked off the property and onto the back country road well before the sun had even thought of coming up. Even in this darkness the you could see a dark ominous glow from the low-hanging thick cloud cover if you bothered to look up. On both sides of the narrow and hilly road, the land was thick with tall barren trees reaching out with leafless branches rattling from the cold winds gusting without apology through the skeletal forest. Some of the few remaining dead leaves would blow along the road, as if to accentuate the loneliness. Our boots crunched through isolated patches of ice and snow as we climbed a steep hill. As the icy wind stung my skin, I looked at the collection of sleeping trees
and thought about how it would be to be a traveler through this very place in the days before any civilized structures were ever built here. It would be an easy place to die. It was a beautiful walk.Later that day one of the Zen teachers commented about how wonderfully unapologetic nature is. Even in the deadness of winter, with the trees bare and the winds howling and hurtful, there is beauty in the starkness. Nature doesn't come with signs saying, "Pardon our appearance, we are redecorating for the spring." Oh, no. It is what it is. And that was the lesson.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Mindfulness - Zen Retreat part 4
Am I the only weirdo that had frequent dreams about being naked in public? This is how the dream usually goes: I'm on a crowded school bus, or in the last one at the piano on a large stage with 400 people in the audience, when I realize that I forgot to put my pants on. In some dreams I'm wearing underwear and in some I'm not even wearing that. Here's the twist: Nobody has noticed it yet but me and I have to figure a way of standing up and getting off the school bus/stage without anyone noticing that I don't have any pants on!
So here I am at the retreat, presumable practicing mindfulness at every turn. Mindful meditation, mindful walking, mindful dish washing, mindful bathing, mindful scratching of my privates...you get the point. Except I was not really completely committed to this retreat, as you may have already figured out from my previous blog entries. I was checking my email daily, attempting to memorize and learn an Oasis song (Don't Look Back in Anger) and a song by the Blues Traveler (Run Around), not looking at the floor while I was walking, reading my novel at night, and daily phone calls to my BF, all of which were expressly forbidden. So, for me, I wasn't taking the medicine exactly as prescribed. And I really cheated myself out of something. Don't get me wrong, I had wonderful Zazens (the act of seated meditation) and most definitely deepened my practice of meditation throughout the week, but the first three days of my retreat was more a collection of lots of separate Zazen periods, rather than one contiguous silent journey. After the Shuso pointedly pointed out the rules to me (mentioned in a previous post) I came to realize that I really was not fully invested in this retreat and I did change how I approached the entire thing after 3 days. But before that happened...
I woke one morning at the requisite 5:15am (who DOES that??!) and put on my thermal underwear, since I knew that we were scheduled to do outside meditation and it was about 20 deg F. I washed my face, brushed my teeth and put my eyes in. I ran down to the coffee room to jump start my heart with the necessary dose of caffeine before heading into the Zendo for our first morning Zazen. I shed my flip flops outside the door, and walked into the zendo towards the square cushion that I had been assigned to all week. I bowed to the cushion and then to the people sitting opposite me. I sat down on the little 6" high bench I was using and as I was adjusting my legs I realized that I forgot to put on my pants. I was only wearing thermal underwear. So here I was, in a crowded room, the bell had just been rung beginning the period and I realized I was trapped in my underwear in the middle of 60 people that hadn't yet noticed. (Remember, everyone is supposed to be looking at the floor). After an initial moment of horror, and assessing if you could see the outline of my dick through the underwear (you could), I realized there was only one thing I could do...just sit. So I sat. Roshi, the abbot and senior Zen master (mistress?) came around for her morning "inspection", which involves her walking through the four columns of sitting meditators, looking at each one and simply recognizing that we are present. The lights are always very low in the zendo and because it was the predawn hours, there was no sun yet. So because of the low light and the dark color of my long underwear, I somehow managed to pass muster. And amazingly I had a nice peaceful zazen period for the next 30 minutes until the bell was rung and the Jikido intoned the words "Prepare for outside Kinhin (walking meditation)." I knew there was no way I was going to do outside walking meditation in underwear, dark or not, because it was windy and cold. So I quickly exited the Zendo with all the other participants and run up the 4 flights of stairs to my little monk's cell where I found my pants patiently waiting for me. I put on the damn pants, went back downstairs and grabbed my jacket and scarf and managed to join the line just as everyone was moving, wondering if anyone had noticed my nakedness.
[note: Several of my readers have asked me if this was a dream. The answer is, no. It really happened like this.]
So here I am at the retreat, presumable practicing mindfulness at every turn. Mindful meditation, mindful walking, mindful dish washing, mindful bathing, mindful scratching of my privates...you get the point. Except I was not really completely committed to this retreat, as you may have already figured out from my previous blog entries. I was checking my email daily, attempting to memorize and learn an Oasis song (Don't Look Back in Anger) and a song by the Blues Traveler (Run Around), not looking at the floor while I was walking, reading my novel at night, and daily phone calls to my BF, all of which were expressly forbidden. So, for me, I wasn't taking the medicine exactly as prescribed. And I really cheated myself out of something. Don't get me wrong, I had wonderful Zazens (the act of seated meditation) and most definitely deepened my practice of meditation throughout the week, but the first three days of my retreat was more a collection of lots of separate Zazen periods, rather than one contiguous silent journey. After the Shuso pointedly pointed out the rules to me (mentioned in a previous post) I came to realize that I really was not fully invested in this retreat and I did change how I approached the entire thing after 3 days. But before that happened...
I woke one morning at the requisite 5:15am (who DOES that??!) and put on my thermal underwear, since I knew that we were scheduled to do outside meditation and it was about 20 deg F. I washed my face, brushed my teeth and put my eyes in. I ran down to the coffee room to jump start my heart with the necessary dose of caffeine before heading into the Zendo for our first morning Zazen. I shed my flip flops outside the door, and walked into the zendo towards the square cushion that I had been assigned to all week. I bowed to the cushion and then to the people sitting opposite me. I sat down on the little 6" high bench I was using and as I was adjusting my legs I realized that I forgot to put on my pants. I was only wearing thermal underwear. So here I was, in a crowded room, the bell had just been rung beginning the period and I realized I was trapped in my underwear in the middle of 60 people that hadn't yet noticed. (Remember, everyone is supposed to be looking at the floor). After an initial moment of horror, and assessing if you could see the outline of my dick through the underwear (you could), I realized there was only one thing I could do...just sit. So I sat. Roshi, the abbot and senior Zen master (mistress?) came around for her morning "inspection", which involves her walking through the four columns of sitting meditators, looking at each one and simply recognizing that we are present. The lights are always very low in the zendo and because it was the predawn hours, there was no sun yet. So because of the low light and the dark color of my long underwear, I somehow managed to pass muster. And amazingly I had a nice peaceful zazen period for the next 30 minutes until the bell was rung and the Jikido intoned the words "Prepare for outside Kinhin (walking meditation)." I knew there was no way I was going to do outside walking meditation in underwear, dark or not, because it was windy and cold. So I quickly exited the Zendo with all the other participants and run up the 4 flights of stairs to my little monk's cell where I found my pants patiently waiting for me. I put on the damn pants, went back downstairs and grabbed my jacket and scarf and managed to join the line just as everyone was moving, wondering if anyone had noticed my nakedness.
[note: Several of my readers have asked me if this was a dream. The answer is, no. It really happened like this.]
Back in the Pit - Zen Retreat part 3
In addition to the specific tasks assigned to us in samu we were all asigned daily tasks. Mine was dinner clean up. It was alright. The group leader was a cute young gay guy who sort of rubbed me the wrong way a couple times because he acted more like a supervisor than a team member. (Truth be told I think I would handled it the same way.) He kept his hair cut very close to his head in the self depriciating way of Buddhist monks the world over who are not concerned with outward appearance and fashion, but bless his gay little heart, he just couldn't help himself. He had the lovliest Prada glasses accessorizing his humble haircut and formless meditation robe. Since he was kind of hot, many sins could be forgiven.
Anyway the third day of dinner duty I found myself in the pit, that is, in restaurant speak, loading dirty dishes in a tray, hosing them off and sending them through an industrial dish washer. The last time I was in this spot was when I was 15 and worked at a restaurant near my childhood home. I was a dishwasher for two years before getting the dubious promotion to bus boy. Anyway it all came flooding back to me and pretty soon my hands were moving faster than a Buddhist running for the doors in a slaughter house. I was doing 4 things at once, loading and hosing down dishes just as soon as they came in. I kicked out the other guy that was back in the pit with me as he was slowing me down and asked him to help the 2 people drying dishes who couldn't possibly keep up with me. I was 15 again back at the Olde Mill Stream Inn and I was flying! Soon the (now 3) dish drying people are impossibly backed up. I'm in full dinner rush mode, washing all the cups, glasses, dishes, dessert plates and silverware for 60 vegitarians in minutes while the beautiful Bohdisattvas on my drying crew were wiping each little drop of dharma (individually, it seemed to me) on every clean plate and glass that flew out of my industrious dish washing factory, no doubt getting closer and closer to acheiving enlightment with every mindful swipe of the dish rag.
I so missed the point!
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Karma - Zen Retreat, part 2
I arrived at the retreat with my body on my usual late night schedule. So when we had to turn out our lights at 9:30pm I fell asleep quickly but woke up a couple of hours later, wide awake. I laid on my bed for most of the night, not sleeping until finally falling asleep around 3:30 only to have my roommate's alarm wake me at 4:45am, a full half hour before we were required to get up. Meditating is virtually impossible when you are that sleep deprived, so in order to rectify this I took the two hours after breakfast (8:30-10:30) to sleep. Now our official retreat (called "Seshin") schedule called for Samu practice during this time. Now Samu is an opportunity to continue and extend your mindful meditation practice in a "work practice." So when you are mopping the floor you are doing so in a mindful and meditative way thus deepening your practice and your understanding of the Buddha Dharma. Ok, that's nice, now here are my thoughts. Some swindling Bodhisattva came up with this crock of steaming horseshit because he couldn't cook and hated to do the dishes. Regardless, it was expected that all the attendees show up for Samu each day and I didn't. In fact, it took me two days of sleeping through Samu in order to get on this ridiculous daytime schedule. So when I finally went to Samu the third day, well rested with a full 8 hours of sleep, I entered with not a little trepidation, wondering if I had been missed.
Work practice begins. After legitimizing this swindle with an appropriate amount of chanting and bowing, the job assignments are given by the Shuso (the same guy I wrote about in the last post.) Now, I don't believe I can read minds, and I truly don't know if I was specifically missed or not, but as soon as the very first job assignment was given, I knew as well as any Buddha can know anything, which assignment I would be given. It took him awhile to get down his list, and once he got to the mundane cleaning jobs he would say, I need someone to polish the doorhandles on all the doors, and would ask for volunteers or might simply choose among the remaining people. But as soon as he said scrubbing toilets there was not an instant of hesitation before he pointed to me.
I bowed deeply and set about my noble task.
Work practice begins. After legitimizing this swindle with an appropriate amount of chanting and bowing, the job assignments are given by the Shuso (the same guy I wrote about in the last post.) Now, I don't believe I can read minds, and I truly don't know if I was specifically missed or not, but as soon as the very first job assignment was given, I knew as well as any Buddha can know anything, which assignment I would be given. It took him awhile to get down his list, and once he got to the mundane cleaning jobs he would say, I need someone to polish the doorhandles on all the doors, and would ask for volunteers or might simply choose among the remaining people. But as soon as he said scrubbing toilets there was not an instant of hesitation before he pointed to me.
I bowed deeply and set about my noble task.
They Beat Us - Zen retreat, part 1
They beat us. Those Zen bitches beat us with a fucking stick!! The monitors walk behind us and literally whack us on our shoulders while we are trying to meditate.
Ok, while entirely true, it doesn't really explain what's happening. We generally do 3 half hour seated meditations interspersed with 2 walking meditations at each session. Many times by the middle of the second half hour you are sleepy (a form of resistance, I am told). It's around this time that one of the monitors walks ever so slowly behind the meditators, sometimes sliding his feet so you may know he is approaching. In his hands he carries an "encouraging stick" or kyosaku. If you choose, and only if you choose, you place your hands together (as though in prayer) as the monitor comes towards you. This indicates to him that you wish to get hit. I have done this several times to help jolt me awake. As you sense him directly behind (and above) you, you both bow. Then you tilt your head exposing your neck and shoulder. He may move the collar of your shirt or robe to cover your bare skin. Then he hits you. Hard. You repeat this on the opposite side. After you have been good and truly beaten, you put your hands together again and bow indicating your gratitude.
[note: As I was hand writing this entry on a piece of paper (no computers allowed) while still at the retreat, the Shuso, who was the main guy running the entire event, walked by me. As he had been one of the wielders of the kyosaku, I told him that I was at that very moment writing about him and, did he wish to read my entry? He gave me a very stern lecture about this being a silent retreat where talking, reading and writing were inappropriate, and no he would not read it, and in fact if I must continue writing, I should do in the privacy of my lonely monk's cell where I couldn't infect the virtuous minds of the more pious practitioners with my mutinous activities. As he began to walk away, the just and righteous shuso turned back to me, and said in a conpirital whisper, "Could you write down the Blog address for me?"]
The significance of this beating is similar to that of Manjusri's sword, which is said to cut off all dilussions. In fact, one time while I was not sleepy but extremely alert and very much Zen'd out I asked to be struck. At the moment of being hit, I actually felt as though, for just a spit second, I got it. For that spit second of time, I actually understood what Zen and meditation really is. At that moment I had no past and I had no future. Only the present moment. And the present was perfect in every way. This lesson was affirmed in a way that I would never have imagined just 2 short days later with an event that would change the lives of everyone sitting at this retreat forever. Stay tuned, readers.
Ok, while entirely true, it doesn't really explain what's happening. We generally do 3 half hour seated meditations interspersed with 2 walking meditations at each session. Many times by the middle of the second half hour you are sleepy (a form of resistance, I am told). It's around this time that one of the monitors walks ever so slowly behind the meditators, sometimes sliding his feet so you may know he is approaching. In his hands he carries an "encouraging stick" or kyosaku. If you choose, and only if you choose, you place your hands together (as though in prayer) as the monitor comes towards you. This indicates to him that you wish to get hit. I have done this several times to help jolt me awake. As you sense him directly behind (and above) you, you both bow. Then you tilt your head exposing your neck and shoulder. He may move the collar of your shirt or robe to cover your bare skin. Then he hits you. Hard. You repeat this on the opposite side. After you have been good and truly beaten, you put your hands together again and bow indicating your gratitude.
[note: As I was hand writing this entry on a piece of paper (no computers allowed) while still at the retreat, the Shuso, who was the main guy running the entire event, walked by me. As he had been one of the wielders of the kyosaku, I told him that I was at that very moment writing about him and, did he wish to read my entry? He gave me a very stern lecture about this being a silent retreat where talking, reading and writing were inappropriate, and no he would not read it, and in fact if I must continue writing, I should do in the privacy of my lonely monk's cell where I couldn't infect the virtuous minds of the more pious practitioners with my mutinous activities. As he began to walk away, the just and righteous shuso turned back to me, and said in a conpirital whisper, "Could you write down the Blog address for me?"]
The significance of this beating is similar to that of Manjusri's sword, which is said to cut off all dilussions. In fact, one time while I was not sleepy but extremely alert and very much Zen'd out I asked to be struck. At the moment of being hit, I actually felt as though, for just a spit second, I got it. For that spit second of time, I actually understood what Zen and meditation really is. At that moment I had no past and I had no future. Only the present moment. And the present was perfect in every way. This lesson was affirmed in a way that I would never have imagined just 2 short days later with an event that would change the lives of everyone sitting at this retreat forever. Stay tuned, readers.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Six hours!
Last night after the roommate left for the evening I decided to organize my photos on the computer. (Just this past weekend I spent way too much time organizing the naughty pictures, only to remove them completely from the computer. I think i enjoy the idea of acquiring them much more than would be proportional for the amount of times I actually...um..."use them.")
So there I am last night, for six hours, going through all the pictures from my life for the past few years, everything from the beaches of Boracay, the parks of Siagon, the rice paddys of Luzon, the Ferris Wheel at Coney Island, Friends, Family, to dead mother's defective tomb stone, dueling piano bars, Zen retreats, and past and current lovers (um...only one current one). It is an interesting way to spend a night. It's good "alone time," at times sad, at times happy. It makes you keenly aware of the impermanence of life. That's a good thing.
After I finished, I began reading an autobiographical book about a Dutch guy who decides to travel to Japan and knock on the door of some random Zen Buddhist monastery and asked to be admitted to live, and to study and practice Zen for 3 years alongside the monks. He says in the beginning that he was searching for "...indifference of a higher order." I think that's a great descriptor of Zen. I'm 1/3 of the way through the book now and it's a really fascinating tale so far. It's not designed to be a religious text or even a call to conversion. It's just a story; an account. I like that. It's called The Empty Mirror by Van de Wetering.
So here's your moment of Zen. This is a picture I took on the Philippine island of Boracay last May. It is an advertisement in the window of a doctor's office. The text states:
So there I am last night, for six hours, going through all the pictures from my life for the past few years, everything from the beaches of Boracay, the parks of Siagon, the rice paddys of Luzon, the Ferris Wheel at Coney Island, Friends, Family, to dead mother's defective tomb stone, dueling piano bars, Zen retreats, and past and current lovers (um...only one current one). It is an interesting way to spend a night. It's good "alone time," at times sad, at times happy. It makes you keenly aware of the impermanence of life. That's a good thing.
After I finished, I began reading an autobiographical book about a Dutch guy who decides to travel to Japan and knock on the door of some random Zen Buddhist monastery and asked to be admitted to live, and to study and practice Zen for 3 years alongside the monks. He says in the beginning that he was searching for "...indifference of a higher order." I think that's a great descriptor of Zen. I'm 1/3 of the way through the book now and it's a really fascinating tale so far. It's not designed to be a religious text or even a call to conversion. It's just a story; an account. I like that. It's called The Empty Mirror by Van de Wetering.
So here's your moment of Zen. This is a picture I took on the Philippine island of Boracay last May. It is an advertisement in the window of a doctor's office. The text states:
Circumcision Package.
Including:
- Medication,
- Supplies.
-P1,000/head.
-P900/head for group of 2-5
-P800/head for group of more than 6
Including:
- Medication,
- Supplies.
-P1,000/head.
-P900/head for group of 2-5
-P800/head for group of more than 6
At the time, the conversion was about 40 Philippine Pesos (p40) to the Dollar. So if you want to purchase one circumcision, the cost is about $25 USD. If you have a group of six to circumcise, well then you save 20%! It's only $120 for the entire group (of heads, apparently).
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
My first post
Ok...so I have wanted to create a blog for a while, and the New Year seemed as good a time as any to begin. I spent the time between Christmas and New Years in a Zen Buddhist silent meditation retreat. The way I got to such a thing is that about 3 months ago I was looking for places to learn meditation. Through word of mouth I ended up at The Village Zendo in Soho, in NYC, sitting counting my breaths a couple evenings per week. My reason in doing this is to clear my mind of all the thoughts that are constantly banging around up there, in the hopes that it will help me get through some of the things that stop me from progressing with my vocal lessons.
So after a 2.5 hour train ride and a $45 taxi ride, I find myself in this beautiful area of rural Connecticut in a large dorm building run by Catholic nuns, that has been rented out by the Zendo for their week-long annual winter retreat. As a par
ticipant you are expected to remain silent, with your eyes at a downward 45 degrees the entire week. I was assigned a room on the 4th floor with a silent roommate, who I learned later was a 40-something Latin teacher for a charter school in MA. Over the next 5 days (I arrived 2 days into the retreat) I spent much of my waking hours (5:45am to 9:30pm) sitting on a round cushion on a 2 foot by 2 foot mat, staring at a heater vent and counting my breaths from 1 to 10 and then back again, trying not to become distracted by random thoughts. I found this extremely difficult because my back was sore from something I had done before I had arrived. The object of the seated meditation was to sit absolutely still, not to fidget, which was exactly what I was doing. I was frustrated.
And then there were all the Buddhist services and liturgy that I had never seen or expected. I wasn't too keen on all of the bowing and the chanting in Sanskrit and Japanese, but it was harmless and after speaking to one of the Zen teachers in "Interview" I found that even she wasn't all that keen on the ritual, but that the meditation took her where she needed to go and so she looked past all the other stuff. That sounded fair.
The food was all vegetarian, there was plenty of it, and mostly it was good. I was assigned to the daily task of washing dishes and cleaning the lunchroom every day after the mid-day meal, which was the only time I got to talk with other people, and so it was welcomed. They call it "work practice" which was an opportunity to practice a meditative state while wiping bean sprout tofu terriaki off of someone else's half eaten plate...but always in a "mindful" way. Sounds like Buddhist bullshit to me.
The countryside surrounding the retreat site was beautiful and between my long walks every day and the outside walking meditations that we did, I was able to fully appreciate the beauty of the snowy New England Countryside.
About 3 days into the retreat my back was less bothersome and I actually managed to sit through my meditations with less and less thoughts intruding, and when they did they intrude, they didn't really take hold. It was exciting because that has been my goal all along, to quiet the mind. My favorite "practice" time was the first meditation in the morning, at 5:45am when the world was still dark and quiet. It seemed a sacred time.
Finally on New Years Eve, a service involving the ringing of a very large bronze bowl, sounding somewhat like a sonorous gong, 108 times. This continuous ringing experienced by what was now a relatively quiet mind was quite pervading, with the sound surrounding you, going through you and being a part of you all at the same time. I think I achieved a Buddha moment listening to that ringing. After that service, all of the participants (about 60 of us) got to share for the first time that week. It was then that we got to look at everyone else and listen to their experiences and find out who we all were. I think that everyone was profoundly affected by their experience. I know I was.
So after a 2.5 hour train ride and a $45 taxi ride, I find myself in this beautiful area of rural Connecticut in a large dorm building run by Catholic nuns, that has been rented out by the Zendo for their week-long annual winter retreat. As a par
ticipant you are expected to remain silent, with your eyes at a downward 45 degrees the entire week. I was assigned a room on the 4th floor with a silent roommate, who I learned later was a 40-something Latin teacher for a charter school in MA. Over the next 5 days (I arrived 2 days into the retreat) I spent much of my waking hours (5:45am to 9:30pm) sitting on a round cushion on a 2 foot by 2 foot mat, staring at a heater vent and counting my breaths from 1 to 10 and then back again, trying not to become distracted by random thoughts. I found this extremely difficult because my back was sore from something I had done before I had arrived. The object of the seated meditation was to sit absolutely still, not to fidget, which was exactly what I was doing. I was frustrated.And then there were all the Buddhist services and liturgy that I had never seen or expected. I wasn't too keen on all of the bowing and the chanting in Sanskrit and Japanese, but it was harmless and after speaking to one of the Zen teachers in "Interview" I found that even she wasn't all that keen on the ritual, but that the meditation took her where she needed to go and so she looked past all the other stuff. That sounded fair.
The food was all vegetarian, there was plenty of it, and mostly it was good. I was assigned to the daily task of washing dishes and cleaning the lunchroom every day after the mid-day meal, which was the only time I got to talk with other people, and so it was welcomed. They call it "work practice" which was an opportunity to practice a meditative state while wiping bean sprout tofu terriaki off of someone else's half eaten plate...but always in a "mindful" way. Sounds like Buddhist bullshit to me.
The countryside surrounding the retreat site was beautiful and between my long walks every day and the outside walking meditations that we did, I was able to fully appreciate the beauty of the snowy New England Countryside.
About 3 days into the retreat my back was less bothersome and I actually managed to sit through my meditations with less and less thoughts intruding, and when they did they intrude, they didn't really take hold. It was exciting because that has been my goal all along, to quiet the mind. My favorite "practice" time was the first meditation in the morning, at 5:45am when the world was still dark and quiet. It seemed a sacred time.
Finally on New Years Eve, a service involving the ringing of a very large bronze bowl, sounding somewhat like a sonorous gong, 108 times. This continuous ringing experienced by what was now a relatively quiet mind was quite pervading, with the sound surrounding you, going through you and being a part of you all at the same time. I think I achieved a Buddha moment listening to that ringing. After that service, all of the participants (about 60 of us) got to share for the first time that week. It was then that we got to look at everyone else and listen to their experiences and find out who we all were. I think that everyone was profoundly affected by their experience. I know I was.
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