Eating for (more than) Two

There’s a lot of talk in Buddhism about “all beings”: we are connected to all beings, we strive to liberate all beings, we work for the sake of all beings….

It’s a huge idea, one that we can never fully wrap our heads around. Sometimes we run across the phrase “sentient beings,” but that’s meaningless — life is too short for us to work out what is and is not a being we should save, a being with which we have a connection. My friends are beings, the dog next door is a being, the rock in my shoe is a being, that moment of panic I feel when I think I overslept is a being. Differentiating, on that level, is precisely what this practice is not about.

This talk of all beings has evolved over time. In the earliest Buddhist texts, it seems that we don’t see so much of it. Instead, we see teaching after teaching about the universality of experience, about our shared sameness. From the time of the Buddha, it has been taught that suffering, though it expresses itself differently according to each individual, is essentially the same for everyone. Happiness too, and anger. We may get upset for very different reasons and at different times, but that emotional experience of wanting the current situation to be other than what it is — we share that, intimately. (Much of the pain of adolescence, it would seem, is just an inability to recognize that fact. We feel alone, when the exact opposite is true.)

I suspect (and I would love for a Buddhist scholar to jump in and speak to this more authoritatively than I can) that much of the evolution of Buddhism has just been a thought exercise, a matter of people saying, If X is true, and if we factor in Y, then the logical ramifications of that must be Z. In this case, if our conditions (dissatisfaction, impermanence, the absence of an unchanging self) are universal, then just by that definition alone, we share a profound connection. If we are fundamentally the same, then we are not fundamentally different. If we are not different, then the distinction between you and me is a false one. If that’s true, then we are, in a manner of speaking, “one.”

If there is no line between you and me, then your suffering is mine, and your happiness is mine. And by extension, what’s mine is not mine, and what’s yours is not really yours. It’s out of this kind of math, I suspect, that Buddhism came to take such an interest in interdependent origination, and that it arrived at a figure like the Bodhisattva, someone who accepts responsibility for all beings. It’s a logical — and beautiful — development.

The difficulty with these kinds of wide-scale teachings, I think, is that they are so overwhelming as to seem unreal. It makes for great philosophy, but for many of us, it remains an abstraction, something fun to talk about but not something that is immediate and felt in our daily lives. Maturity and empathy can lead us to see, firsthand, that other people’s experiences are not foreign from our own, and that can make us much more skillful one on one. That is no small thing — working from that place of understanding is the foundation of almost any truly honest encounter. It’s something we all need to explore, and remind ourselves of, daily.

But extending that to this thing we call “all beings” is much more difficult. How do we interact with all beings? How do we take responsibility for all beings? We can start with the person we’re with. Following this math, the person in front of you is the face of all beings, so how you treat him or her is how you are treating the world. (This applies to objects as well, which I want to write about later.) On a practical level, if we can remember just that, maybe it’s enough. But I do think there’s value in exploring this heavy, looming abstraction of “all beings.” It’s there, so it’s there for us to confront.

When we’re alone, where is the confrontation? The person that is always in front of me is me. How do I treat myself? And does it matter? We don’t need to believe that all beings are one, or that we’re all connected on some invisible spiritual level, to find this worthy of our consideration. Even the skeptic can recognize that reality is made up of its parts. I am one of those parts. You are one of those parts, just as our organs and cells are our components. If one of my cells is unhealthy, even if I don’t notice that, even if it doesn’t have measurable repercussions throughout my body, still, that cell is one part of the picture that is me, of my health, of my functioning. However we frame this, it’s not that difficult for us to accept that what happens to me is happening to the universe; what I do is an extension of everything and everyone.

This is the basis of responsibility.

I started thinking about all this differently a few years ago, when my wife Tracy was pregnant with our first child. Tracy has always been careful about what she eats, but as soon as she knew she was pregnant, eating healthy foods became a serious matter. She read all the literature and knew what to eat and what not to. She was eating for two. She accepted responsibility for this other life, and in doing so, accepted that her body is not completely her own. To any mother, I think, this must seem obvious, but it’s not limited to mothers.  I suspect it’s also a well-known realization among people who dedicate themselves to others: firefighters, nurses on call, soldiers, and on and on and on. This body is not just mine — it is also part of a larger function. If I keep it healthy, that is in service of that function. If I let it get weak or sick or injured, then that hinders my ability to be skillful, to fulfill that mission.

Watching Tracy eat for two, I had this idea: What if I were eating for all beings? What would I put in my body? What would I refuse? If we take these teachings of connectedness and singularity to one extreme, then my body is the body of all beings; what I eat is the food of the world. I forget this little idea of mine often — old habits die hard, and I don’t always eat the healthiest thing on the menu. But when I do remember it, for example at the supermarket, it changes the way I shop. I can use all manner of twisted rationalization to let myself eat those chips, or get the big box of cookies. However, if I imagine, even for a moment, that by eating I am feeding others, then so-called “foods” with no nutritional value reveal themselves to be absurd. They are absurd, of course, but this frame helps me to see it. (One could completely misinterpret this whole idea in disastrous ways, I know: “All beings sure would like a beer right now,” “I think I’m going to treat the universe to a big piece of chocolate cheesecake,” and so on. We have to look with the eyes of an adult, or it all falls apart very quickly.)

Take this as a true understanding of the body, or take it as an exercise — in either case, the effect is the same. When we allow ourselves to feel the responsibility of caring for all beings, we intuitively know how to respond. If it’s just an idea, just a philosophy, we can get stuck on the seeming impossibility of it — how to save all beings? We stumble because we’re looking for the heroic act, the grand gesture. But if we take it to its logical end, if we imagine that when I eat, all beings eat, and when I talk, all beings talk, and so on, then we start to simply offer up the best of ourselves, of our best selves. We listen to those little voices in our heads telling us to sit up straight and floss and walk the three blocks to the post office instead of driving. We take care in our actions, and in doing so, we take care of something much, much bigger.

We know so much already. We know what to do. We know how to offer ourselves.

It’s good news, I think.

Bowing at the Scene of the Crime

Our altar at home; our 3-year-old offered the Elmo towel.

How do we orient ourselves to the world?  When we face the center, where are we facing? What do we confront there?

A temple is a space — any space — we create for the sake of practice. It’s where we allow the practice to play itself out, freely, without distraction.

And at the heart of every temple, at its core, we find an altar, what in Japanese is called a shumidan (須弥壇).  The dan itself means an altar; the shumi is a transliteration of Sumeru, the mythological, unimaginably tall mountain at the center of the world.  According to Hindu and Buddhist mythology, the world that we know (the human world) is to the south of that mountain, but that is not the entire world.  To the north, east, and west, lie other kingdoms, ruled by different kings; specific beings inhabit different terraces on the mountain’s slope; other beings live in the seas surrounding the mountain, and so on (for a fascinating read — and a headache — check out the Wikipedia page).

Obviously, this kind of worldview is like saying that the earth is flat, or that corpses spawn maggots.  We know better, and in the case of Mt. Sumeru, we’ve known better for a very long time.  Yet this image of the mountain at the center of the world has continued as a powerful force in temple life for centuries.  Just as we can make a temple of our current environment, so can we face a Mt. Sumeru as a way of giving direction to our lives.

When we imagine an altar, we imagine a Buddha statue at the center.  In reality, some temples replace Buddha with one of the bodhisattvas:  Avalokiteshvara (the embodiment of compassion) or, especially in rooms where people practice zazen, Manjushri, the actualization of wisdom.  In any of these cases, we are orienting ourselves to an image we find inspirational, to an exemplum of the practice.

I have heard of individuals and Zen centers doing away with such imagery all together, replacing the Buddha image with something like a beautiful rock.  I imagine that such a choice comes out of a concern about idolatry; perhaps such centers feel that a Buddha statue would just be too overtly “Buddhist.”  Or maybe the goal is to align oneself with the natural world.  Or it could be that the rock is intended to show that “everything is Buddha,” a teaching heard again and again.  But I think this is a mistake.  I will try to explain why.

An altar is not just something that stands there.  We engage with it, and the nature of that engagement is offering.  At first we might just offer symbolically.  Awkwardly.  But with time, when we give something, we actually give it.  We truly let it go, and in doing so, we discover that there is nothing to be lost.

In Japanese temples, there are certain ceremonies in which sweetened water, tea, cakes, or even an entire meal are ritually placed on the altar as an offering to the Buddha and all beings.  Really, it’s just “all beings” — the Buddha, dead now 2500 years, is in no position to drink tea.  But that’s the shape of it.  In the monks’ hall, Manjushri even has his own ōryōki set (one common novice mistake is to place the food facing away from Manjushri, when in fact it’s arranged as if he might actually lean down and take a bite).  This is a rich kind of ritual, an opportunity to personalize our relationships with the teachers of the past, both real and mythological. How great to offer wisdom a bowl of soup!  I suspect, though, that this particular kind of giving will never find a strong foothold in the West. It takes a long time for this kind of offering to start feeling authentic, like something other than play-acting.

But this kind of offering is also not the most important kind.  This kind of practice invites us to let go of what we think of as “mine.”  And we can learn to make this a habit, elaborate ceremony or not.

One of the most simple — and universal — practices in the Buddhist world is “giving it away.”  If a friend gives you a sweater, you can hold up that sweater and say, “I offer this sweater to all beings—may all beings be warm.”  And then, assuming that all beings do not descend upon you and take it, you receive it.  But now, instead of receiving it just from your friend, you’re receiving that sweater from all of reality.  Before we eat, we do the same, giving it away and receiving it anew — not as a gift to keep, but as a treasure to hold in trust.  This is an act of generosity, but in equal measure, it is an act of humility.

The altar becomes a physical vehicle of this process.  When you receive a gift, place it on the altar, for an hour or a day or a week.  When you receive your paycheck, place it on the altar before you put it in the bank.  Feel the letting go intrinsic to that act; feel the responsibility that comes with it.

In theory, we can do this practice anywhere, altar or not — and I think we should, as much as possible.  But actually placing that sweater or that paycheck before the image of the Buddha and leaving it there — that is a powerful act.  It is the enactment of giving, receiving, and gift, what we call the Three Wheels.  It is this practice of enactment — physical enactment — that lays the foundation for being able to do such a practice instinctively and formlessly, altar or no altar, wherever you may be.

To carry out just this universal practice of offering objects, perhaps an altar doesn’t need any image at all — no Buddha, no bodhisattva.  But there’s more than this.

We all have an idea of who the Buddha was, or what a buddha is.  It’s usually at least a little superhuman; the fact that the Buddha has long been portrayed with exaggerated features (long ears, for example) doesn’t help us to see him as a person, though that’s all he was.  We can hear over and over that the Buddha was just a human being, that he was just like us, but few really believe it.   We might imagine him glowing a little, or assume he always knew exactly what to do, or believe that what he saw is beyond what we’re capable of seeing.

However, the gap between our projections about Buddha and his actual humanity mirrors perfectly the gap we ourselves feel between who I am and the immeasurable scope of who I might be.  It is no exaggeration to say that reconciling this perceived gap is the singular aim of Buddhist practice.  It is a koan — a question we confront and which confronts us — and rather than avoid it, we are charged with facing it head on.

If the image on the altar is a beautiful stone, that presents no challenge.  It may feel a little silly at first to bow to a rock, but we can get over it, because by choosing an abstraction, we can make that rock whatever we want it to be.  We can each individually create our own story about that rock, one that is non-threatening and safe and personal.  But spiritual practice—Zen or otherwise—should never be so comfortable.

There’s the famous saying, “If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.” I think this is commonly misunderstood. Erasing Buddha and images of Buddha from Buddhism (or in another popular scenario, removing Buddhism from Zen) is not killing Buddha. It’s more like putting out a hit. Or getting a restraining order. In order to kill Buddha, there must be an encounter on the road. We have to meet.

In your home, set up an altar with a Buddha image and space for offerings. Let yourself be confronted by the image every day.  Let it be a part of the air you breathe.  Let yourself enjoy it and be bothered by it.

Let it be the mountain at the center of the world, the landmark by which we know which way is forward.

And bow to it.  Bow, and in doing so, offer yourself up at that same altar.  You will construct a story about this — that’s natural (and inevitable).  You will tell yourself, “I’m bowing to the idea of the Buddha, not Buddha himself.”  Or perhaps, “I bow to the Buddha as a student bows to a teacher.”  That’s fine. It will change with time.  If you keep bowing, then through that action, you’ll either figure out why you bow, or you’ll forget the question all together.  But the story you make for yourself will never do that action justice.

There are stories in Zen literature about teachers who, in order to show that the Buddha was not special, burned Buddha statues, or threw them away.  I even read once of a monastery in Sri Lanka where the Buddha’s image was printed inside urinals, to the same end.  In cultures where Buddhism is long established, and where the Buddha is sometimes accorded god-like status, such transgressive actions become profound and powerful teachings.

But in the West, we like those kinds of stories too much for them to be very meaningful.  These stories appear again and again in Western Zen literature. We smile knowingly when we read them. We love what those teachers did, but we have to remember that those teachers did those things in front of students who were horrified, not thrilled. That was the point.

I think most of us need the opposite, to be confronted directly by the image of Buddha and be forced to ask — again and again — What is this?  Different patients require different prescriptions, and in the West, we need to look the Buddha in the eye, have that stare-down, maybe wrestle with him a little.

Then we can kill him.

The Guy in the Woods

I suspect that hundreds of years from now, as people look back at the transmission of Buddhism to the West, they’ll see that this passage from the Kalama Sutta had more influence on the shape of that transmission than did any other text:

“Any teaching [said the Buddha] should not be accepted as true for the following ten reasons: hearsay, tradition, rumor, accepted scriptures, surmise, axiom, logical reasoning, a feeling of affinity for the matter being pondered, the ability or attractiveness of the person offering the teaching, the fact that the teaching is offered by “my” teacher. Rather, the teaching should be accepted as true when one knows by direct experience that such is the case.” – Buddha

I see this on coffee cups, on t-shirts, on posters…. About once a month, one of my friends on Facebook discovers it for the first time and shares it. I remember seeing it (or some version of it) for the first time on a coaster about 15 years ago. My first response was to doubt that it was authentic–it was too perfect, too much what I wanted to hear, what I wanted Buddhism to be.

There are abbreviated versions that I see more often than the original, along these lines: “Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, no matter if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and common sense.” This is a very different idea. The original says we need to verify through direct experience; the popular version says that we can stand back from the practice, at a distance, and use reason to determine its authenticity. One of the things I have always loved about Buddhism is that it stands up very, very well to rational analysis. And there are some beautiful, ancient texts that are as clear and reasoned in their approach as any scientific paper today. It’s not at all non-rational–if it were, it wouldn’t present itself in such mathematical terms. But at its core, even though it works on that level, it’s not really rational, either. It’s trans-rational. That reasoned framework is scaffolding for a kind of seeing that doesn’t lend itself to easy analysis. That’s the realm of experience.

In the last post, I mentioned the idea of sticking to fundamental principles. How do we determine what those are? How do we not lose track of what is at the center? I think much of it comes down to this idea of experiential verification. For years, when I’ve come across a teaching that is particularly difficult–either difficult to understand, or difficult to swallow–I’ve run it through my “guy in the woods” test. It’s a silly game, and so hypothetical, perhaps, as to be contrary to everything the Buddha was trying to say in the quotation above. But here it is:

There’s a guy who lives in the woods, and has always lived in the woods. (This could be a gal in the woods, of course. But in order to run the test, I kind of have to play the character myself in my mind, so for me, it’s a guy.) He has no exposure to Buddhist teachings or teachers, or to religious/philosophical instruction of any kind. He has only his experiences and observations. Of all the myriad teachings that fall under the wide umbrella of “Buddhism,” which ones might this guy have a reasonable chance of discovering on his own? We can acknowledge from the start that regardless of circumstance, he probably wouldn’t find much–most people don’t, or else the Buddha would have had a lot more peers. We can also grant that the Buddha himself had teachers and access to religious instruction; the Buddha never was the guy in the woods. But for me, if the truth is the truth, it’s critical that it be discoverable. The truth of this life is always, ever-present–otherwise, by definition, it’s something else. So this sensitive, observant, inquisitive guy in the woods always has a chance. What might he find?

Let’s look at the basic basics, the Four Seals:

  1. All things are impermanent. This one is easy. It’s one of the hardest teachings to drive home, but rarely because we don’t believe it’s true–it’s just a truth that’s hard to keep in mind in all of its ramifications. The guy in the woods could definitely find this one.
  2. All experience is characterized by dissatisfaction. Again, yes. This can be hard to see in oneself–it helps to be able to spend time with others and see that even when things are at their best, we use that moment as a new standard by which to devalue other times that don’t quite measure up. We find a way to be dissatisfied. This is definitely possible.
  3. All phenomena lack inherent existence. This one is, to a great extent, a different way of expressing #1, so I think he might discover it. We can see that a tree comes from something, that it goes to something else, that it has no permanent, unchanging tree-ness. Out in the woods, there are a million examples in every direction.
  4. Enlightenment is beyond concepts. This one might be tougher. A sensitive person will recognize, probably early in life, that there are experiences, aspects of each moment, that are beyond conceptualization, that escape language or even our mental ability to put them into a clean framework. A moment of awe could point to this. So could love. But the only real road to this one is enlightenment itself–definitely not out of reach for our guy, but a little harder to stumble onto than the above.

So by this test, the Four Seals are, unsurprisingly, central. They are self-revealing, self-authenticating. (Sometimes this list is just the first three, and in running this test, maybe we can start to understand why.) It’s similar for the Four Noble Truths: the first two (1. all experience is characterized by dissatisfaction; 2. dissatisfaction is caused by desire) are readily available to someone who observes his/her own reactions and processes; and the third (the way out of dissatisfaction is to go beyond desire) is just simple math, a kind of filler. But the fourth, the idea that the way to go beyond desire is by following the Noble Eightfold Path, is tricky. I won’t say it’s impossible, but it’s a little too thought out, a little too religious in its framing to be at all obvious. Personally, I would like to see what the alternate-reality Buddha comes up with as a fourth truth, if not that one. It might be great.

How about karma? Well, if we’re talking about it as the law of cause and effect, the principle that all phenomena are born of multiple factors (and then become factors themselves), then I think that’s very accessible to the guy in the woods. It’s common sense. But if we take it another step further, say, to reincarnation, then we hit a wall. How would the guy in the woods come to the idea of reincarnation? If we mean it metaphorically, as a rebirth that comes moment by moment, a poetic expression of the third seal, sure, that works, maybe. But if we imagine that it goes from body to body, based on physical death and birth, then I don’t think the guy in the woods will find that. How could he?

Reincarnation, in that literal sense, seems to be a teaching that requires a kind of blind faith, and so, based on the quotation above, it’s dangerous ground. In fact, believing in it based on the teachings around it would seem, in this context, to be irresponsible. And I think I’m not alone in that view. Those same people who look back on Buddhist history hundreds of years ago will notice that, at least in Zen circles, teachings about reincarnation somehow just didn’t survive the trip across the ocean. Other Buddhist schools in the West still hold tight to it, but it’s my impression that Zen is letting it go. Good for us.

We can do this forever. The Lotus Sutra? It’s full of great stuff, but in itself, it can’t be central–the guy in the woods would not, could not stumble upon the Lotus Sutra. That doesn’t mean it’s not important, or that some of its contents would not pass this test. But it doesn’t offer the same independent verification as something like impermanence. The middle way? Sure. The teaching of the six realms of existence? Nope, not in my imagining of the woods, anyway. Dependent arising? Yes, I think so, in some form. Nirvana? Probably not.

All of this is just a long way of saying that reality is right in front of our noses all the time. It’s in our skin. We smell reality. We sweat it out of our pores. We absolutely should pay attention to the teachings that are most central, but not because they are important teachings. We should pay attention because we should pay attention. Encountering Buddhism can be a revelation, an inspiration. But in that same encounter, in discovering these big ideas, we can also put them on a high place, a place reserved for “buddhas” who are “enlightened,” then spend our lives just trying to reclaim those truths as our own.

In Buddhism, we find a beautiful, sophisticated, generous system of teachings and practices designed over hundreds of years to help us gain access to what has always been right here, in the woods all around us. Coming to the exact same insights as the Buddha himself is not some lofty goal reserved for the elite–it’s the basic expectation of the practice. We say Buddhism was born 2500 years ago, but if we’re doing it right, it was born just now.

And now.

And now.

Bowing to the Snowman

When I was in fourth grade, my best friend Doug went to Jamaica and brought me back a big cup shaped as a “laughing Buddha,” with a hole in the belly button for the straw. A few years later, in high school, my new best friend David and I found it in the back of the cupboard, took it outside, and built a 5-foot high version in the snow. The way I remember it, it turned out really well. When my mom got home later that afternoon, we asked her to get out the camera and take a picture of us prostrating before our newly-built snow idol. But she refused. My mom just couldn’t endorse that, even as a joke–we were worshipping false idols, and the last thing we needed was a photographic record of the crime. I tried to argue, but since this was long before everyone had a digital camera in their pocket at all times, there was nothing I could do. She had the camera, so she held all the cards. Our beautiful snow buddha was a big lump by the next day.

I could not have known then that I would, as part of my chosen vocation, go on to do a lot of prostrations in front of a lot of Buddhas. In my 3-year-old son’s mind, that’s my whole job–he knows I do priest-related work and translation work, so the question every day is, “Did you do your gasshō job or your ABC job?” It’s an oversimplification, but there are a lot worse ways to describe what I do. He likes to do gasshō, so he knows I have a pretty great job.

I think back to my mom’s reaction, and I see a fear that has since come to feel familiar. She identified strongly as a Catholic, so if you’d asked her way back then if she was actually afraid of the consequences of mockingly bowing before the snowman, I think she would have said, yes, a little. I don’t think she had any illusions about that. But many, many people who don’t identify with any particular religion come to investigate Zen practice and see the bowing and hear the chanting and feel a similar fear, one they probably have a difficult time defining, or even recognizing for what it is.

It’s not uncommon, even in American Zen Centers, to chant Daihishin Darani as part of the morning liturgy (at centers that chant at all, that is). A darani is basically a mantra–the power of it, if there’s any, is not in the meaning but in the vocalization of the sounds. In the case of Daihishin Darani, it’s a transliteration into Japanese from Chinese from Sanskrit, maybe something else too, a lost source. The general belief is that it’s untranslatable (though we know it serves as a kind of cheer for Avalokiteshvara, the embodiment of compassion). It has a good, steady rhythm, so it’s easy for anyone to read. You can really put yourself into it. But it gets under a lot of people’s skins. And it seems that when I explain its origins, that discomfort only deepens. People will rarely express it this simply or this clearly, but what comes out of those conversations is something like this: “Just because we don’t know what it means doesn’t mean that it doesn’t mean anything, and I’m not comfortable saying something out loud if I don’t know what it is.”

On the surface, this seems fairly reasonable, but is it? What would be the consequences of saying something out loud that we don’t actually agree with or approve of? What if the original message of Daihishin Darani is that it’s fun to do bad things to good people? Here on my desk, I have a book of poems by Pablo Neruda, in Spanish. I don’t understand Spanish, but I get a lot of joy from reading these poems out loud. Even in my comically terrible accent, they’re beautiful to me.

Over the centuries, the basic shape of most Zen ceremonies has become something like this: (1) bow; (2) read a sutra; (3) read a “dedication of merit,” offering the merit of having read that sutra to a particular person, or to a category of people, or even to all beings; (4) bow. Sometimes there are additional steps, but that’s the standard outline. Bowing, for many, is a sticky issue, even more so when there’s a Buddha statue in the room. Especially if you were raised in an Abrahamic religion, bowing can feel problematic. Then there are the sutras–there are lots that we understand linguistically, but even then, does it mean that we understand them, really? I have an understanding, but it changes with time; I wouldn’t go so far as to say I really get any of them. What is enough understanding to make something feel safe to chant? And then, on top of it all, there’s this idea of transferring something called “merit” to another person, like sending flowers (if you like something concrete) or maybe just a good vibe (if you think it’s a completely flaky proposition from the start). In that short ceremony, there’s just no safe ground to stand on.

For the record, if you think the transference of merit sounds like magic, I agree with you. I don’t believe in it at all. In Buddhism, when in doubt, it’s always good to remember fundamental principles, and for me, the idea of transferring merit from me to you flies in the face of a much more basic idea–namely, that there is no distinct, separate “me” and “you” from the start. It’s very strange that this practice has become so central.

But I want to advocate for doing it. All of it. This ceremonial form has been part of our teachers’ teachers’ understanding of Zen and Buddhism for centuries now. I can’t profess to know how people 600 years ago framed the liturgy in their minds; I don’t know how they would try to sell it. But here’s my clumsy pitch:

My argument for chanting sutras is simple: when we read something out loud, those words temporarily become our own. We become the speaker. When we read the Buddha’s words, then just for that moment, we are speaking as Buddha. We are Buddha, teaching the world. Understanding is secondary, or maybe a fiction from the start. By reading these teachings over and over again, they get into our heads, they become part of the language of our own minds. We digest them in ways we cannot see or ever fully appreciate. In my silly way, I pick up a book and become the voice and the body of Pablo Neruda. Zen offers lots of these opportunities for enactment; we should embrace them.

As for something like a darani, it’s a perfect playground for learning to invest ourselves in what we are doing. To read nonsense with full-throated conviction may seem silly, but conviction is conviction; it’s also rare. Most of our lives are spent doing things of no great inherent import, yet this tradition insists that we throw ourselves, body and mind, into each action in each moment. Chanting a darani with everything you’ve got is like committing fully to tying your shoes: on one hand, maybe there’s nothing there, but on the other hand, while you’re doing it, that’s really all there is.

Transferring merit is offering–it’s offering everything we have. There’s a very real level of this practice at which we give away every little thing that we do. I’ve been taught that nothing in Zen is symbolic. Nothing means anything other than what it is. If I vow to save all beings, then I make that vow literally–if I tell myself from the start that it’s impossible, but that it’s a nice symbolic gesture, then (a) I’m a liar, and (b) I’m wasting my time. I have to mean it. If I vow to save all beings, that doesn’t mean I’ll get in trouble if I somehow fail. That outcome is a whole other conversation. Success in making a vow is in doing it totally, with complete conviction. I offer myself up, even if I don’t know what that really means. It’s the same with offering merit. I don’t know if this merit exists, and I don’t know if it’s mine to offer. And in my case, I don’t believe it’s transferable, at least not in any personal, transactional way. But in offering it up, I offer up everything–what is mine, what isn’t mine, and what could never be anyone’s. I offer it on the off chance that I can. Nothing is withheld.

What is there, in any of this, to be afraid of?

When we bow to the snowman, who do we think might be watching?

In our heart of hearts, what do we think we might be at risk?

Dharmapants

There are stories about people who come to Buddhist practice through contact with the robe, or kesa (袈裟, Skt. kasaya)–they take just one look at it, and something about it awakens the will to investigate the truth. One ancient story tells of a prostitute who puts on the robe as a joke, saying, “Look at me, I’m a monk!” She’s trying to make fun of it, but by touching it, by putting it over her shoulder, something inside of her shifts, and she turns toward practice. It’s all very magical.

But I’ve actually met people like this. I sometimes attend fukudenkai (gatherings of people sewing robes), and I meet person after person who, though they were born into a Buddhist culture, did not find any point of contact with Buddhism until stumbling upon the tradition of the robe (in particular, the nyohō-e, or traditional handmade robe). I can’t explain why; I doubt they can either. There’s just something about it. I have theories, but for now, I’ll just say that I think it taps into our intuitive feeling for what is authentic. And we like that.

There’s a lot to say about the nyohō-e–it is, in many ways, the face of the nyohō tradition. I’ll write more about it, but those details can wait. Right now, I want to investigate this in more basic terms.

If we entertain, just for fun, the idea that an article of clothing can be an invitation to practice compassion, or wisdom, or just commitment to this moment–if we imagine that it is possible to dress for that purpose, then how might we dress? What does that look like?

Or, to scale it back a little, imagine that there is an atmosphere that can have such an effect (perhaps easier to believe), and that our clothing can be one small component of that atmosphere. What would you wear? And if you knew about that effect, would you choose to dress in that way?

For simplicity, let’s reduce this to pants (as I’m writing this, I know it might sound silly, but please humor me). I think it’s asking too much of a pair of pants to expect them to inspire some sort of spiritual aspiration on their own. But again, if we see this pair of pants as part of a space, part of an environment, it doesn’t seem too crazy. After all, it’s easy to picture a pair of pants so gaudy, so ill fitting, or just so visually overwhelming (for good or bad) that they dominate the room. So pants can have a kind of power. We just need to ask them to do something more subtle.

What do these pants look like? The nyohō tradition provides some hints, some things to look for:

  • Natural materials.
  • Broken, subdued color. “Broken” means that it’s not too perfect, that it has variations and texture. We see broken color in cloth that has been rubbed thin over time, or washed over and over. We see it in lots of weaves that, on close inspection, are actually made of threads of different colors (though it looks, at a glance, like a single color). Cloth that is perfectly red, perfectly black, etc. doesn’t have this effect. And it’s no accident that a lot of synthetic materials are less likely than natural ones to take on that broken look. “Subdued” just means not glaring, not too bright. If someone wears a hot pink shirt, you can’t help but think, at least for a second, “Wow, that’s really pink.” And that’s not the point.
  • Simplicity of design. If the pants call attention to themselves, that’s probably not it. Likewise, if they’re covered with pockets that have no function, or zippers that have no function, or whatever it is, that’s also not what we’re talking about. Nyohō is practicality, at heart.
  • Fit appropriate to your body. Not too baggy, not too tight. Just right for you, so that you can have a natural, undistracted relationship with your own environment, with your own actions.
  • The absence of intense or distracting patterns (or text).

(I’ll add that we also need, in this age, to consider how/where/by whom the pants were made. This was not such an issue 1000 years ago, but it is today, and it’s a line of inquiry that fits with the tradition.)

Most of this is just a way of saying that the pants would be (a) comfortable for the wearer, and (b) not distracting for someone else. The value of being comfortable for the wearer is that the wearer, then, is allowed to be natural in his or her movements, to place attention on what is right there, in that moment. That naturalness is an invitation–an opportunity–for anyone around to have that same experience. If you’re bothered by how tight your pants are, that will affect everything–subtly, but surely–about how you interact with others. The issue of distraction is simply that, even though I keep talking about pants, this is not about pants. It’s about pants not being in the way of something else. One of my teachers is fond of saying that “if it’s not about you, it’s probably nyohō.” So if these pants are serving a function, it’s a secret one, an invisible one.

There’s talk in the nyohō world of “not arousing desire.” When we hear talk of desire, I think we naturally assume there’s some puritanical agenda at work, but we have to remember that in Buddhism, desire means any kind of desire, any sense that something is lacking. It’s the basic source of dissatisfaction. So, no, really sexy pants might not work in this context, but it’s not because of some notion of sin–it’s because wanting something we don’t have takes us out of the fullness of where we already are. Pants with a fancy designer label present exactly the same difficulties. We are not responsible for other people’s desires–that’s a burden that no one needs or deserves, and imagining otherwise is a dangerous road, in lots of ways. But for the purposes of this conversation, we’re trying to establish a certain kind of atmosphere, a possibility for a particular type of encounter. It’s like interior design; we’re just some of the furniture.

I’m describing this as if it’s all very calculated, but I think that the reason this teaching has resonated with so many people through history is that the list of criteria above is actually a recipe for things that people naturally like. We might go our whole lives without ever defining for ourselves how we feel about simple blue jeans–what is there to question? They’re practical, we think. What else is there? But in this world of space-age fibers and multi-function designs and nifty little secret compartments and quick-dry, instant washability, the fact is, there are lots of pants out there more practical than jeans. Lots. Jeans can’t compete. But we keep buying them. Why?

I think that jeans (I’m not limiting this to jeans, but I think it’s the easiest example), like the traditional robes, feel authentic. They feel honest. There’s probably a better word, but I can’t find it. We can say that’s because they match everything on that little list, or we can say it’s something less definable than that, something just felt. But in them, we can relax, and not just physically. We can also let go of our own stories a little, of our ideas of who we are and how we need to express that to others. And when we can let go in that way, the people around us can sense that, and they can do it too. It’s all invisible–I’m not thinking about the jeans I’m wearing, and neither are you. And that’s the point. It’s something that’s just out of the way.

There’s more to this. And it’s not all quite as simple or effortless as putting on a pair of jeans. There are occasions when jeans are the right expression; there are other times when wearing jeans has the opposite effect. Jeans might say, “Look at me!” Context can be complicated. If a Zen priest chooses to wear jeans, that can be a way of hiding from one’s public role, of withholding something important. In that case, even if the clothes meet the criteria, they still don’t fit the bill. We have to look carefully, with each step.

Is there a way to dress that creates a space of possibility for others? A way to walk? A way to sit? Are there foods that are more or less conducive to that atmosphere, that way of being? Is there a way of speaking that opens up the moment to those around us?

When we go to the store and pick out a shirt, is it reasonable to imagine that we’re not really shopping for ourselves, but for everyone else?

If any of this is even a possibility, then what could be more interesting to explore?

Zen and Surpassing Stradivari

A few years ago in Kyoto, my wife Tracy and I sat in a hotel room and watched a documentary about a Japanese man who had gone to Italy to learn to make violins. It has stuck with me all this time.  I didn’t write his name down at the time, but I searched around, and I think it was Kōshi Kikuda (his website is here).

I don’t remember many of the details of the story, but here is the basic sketch: Kikuda’s goal was not just to learn the basics of violin making–he wanted to make the best violins in the world. He thought to himself, Until now, the best violins were made by Antonio Stradivari–to be the best, it has to be better than a Stradivarius. This was his idea from the beginning.  This was the bar he set for himself. That level of aspiration–that determination to go beyond–is critical to this story.

But what makes Kikuda interesting is his next thought: In order to surpass Stradivari, I must completely immerse myself in his process. I must do what he did.  So he moved to Italy, learned Italian, and set out to make a Stradivarius violin. He got Stradivari’s old journals and drawings. He found out exactly where Stradivari got his materials–this grove of trees for this resin, this grove for the wood for the neck, and so on–and he went to those places and gathered those materials. He used tools exactly like the ones Stradivari used, nothing modern. To the extent possible, he performed every step of the process precisely as Stradivari did. He did this for years and years. And today, Kikuda is considered one of the greatest violin makers in the world (and he occasionally wins contests which suggest that he might indeed be the very best).

Sometimes, in speaking of lineage, we use the word intimacy. This is intimacy.

In the documentary, he’s very humble about this, and very serious. To him, it seems like an obvious process–to be the best, you have to walk in the shoes of the standard bearer. It’s a clear and simple expression of what transcendence really entails. True transcendence doesn’t simply jettison whatever it went beyond–it includes it, then goes one step forward. At the time the documentary was filmed, Kikuda wasn’t ready to say that he had succeeded even in making a Stradivarius violin, much less surpassing one. But he had also reached a point in his work where that question no longer seemed to matter. I don’t know if he still makes violins in that strict way. I suspect his process has evolved, perhaps without him really noticing.

His approach, to our modern way of doing things, is a radical one. After all, if you really want to know what makes a Stradivarius violin so special, we have technology for that. We can use computers and lasers and what-have-you to analyze it a thousand ways, to locate its technical strengths and weaknesses, and to improve on them. We can draw on research and researchers from multiple fields–not just hard science, but also psychology or anthropology. We can come up with infinite theories, not just of why those violins sound so good, but of why we think they sound so good.  We have so many possibilities.

I suspect that almost every test that can be conducted on a Stradivarius violin without destroying it has been done, probably multiple times. Yet here is Kōshi Kikuda, in his little shop in Italy, making the best violins in the world in a way that’s basically unchanged from 350 years ago. What are we to do with this?

I don’t know about other Buddhist schools, but in the Zen world, it is not uncommon to hear that the student is supposed to surpass the teacher. In the West, I think some have taken that as a call to cultivate a wider set of skills than those who came before. There is an expectation, at least in the US, that a Zen priest will be a teacher, a therapist, an organizer of non-profits, a performer, a scholar, a family counselor, a childhood development expert, and maybe a yoga instructor. There is a feeling that to surpass one’s teacher, one must be something different from one’s teacher, one must carve out a new path on new ground. That intention to be all things to all people is a compassionate one, but how far can it go? Already, there is a pressure for a Zen priests to be an amateur at all these different things, but a professional in none of them. We fall into this without necessarily defining what it means–separate from all these new half-roles–to just be a priest in this particular tradition.

Kikuda studied under various teachers along the way; it seems fairly clear that he has surpassed them all. But because of the depth of his experience, because he threw himself body and mind into the process in the way that he did, it is not an exaggeration to say that he also studied under Stradivari himself. He is the holder of that transmission. If you, like Kikuda, have the aspiration to understand Stradivari–if you are that rare person who wants to dive all the way to the bottom–then the person you need to talk to is Kikuda himself. He is that particular grove of trees. Who else is there?

Dogen (the founder of the Soto school) was not a perfect person, I’m sure. And there’s much that he could not possibly have understood about the world we live in today, the context in which we try to keep this practice alive. But he is a standard bearer, and for good reason. We take as a given, from his writings and from what he built in his lifetime, that he was extraordinary, an exemplum of how to express the Dharma moment to moment. In the Soto Zen world, he’s both Stradivari (the maker) and Stradivarius (the product).

If we want to surpass Dogen (a good starting goal, I think), how do we go about doing that? How do we study directly under Dogen? How do we immerse ourselves in that experience?

Where do we find that particular grove of trees?

What do we leave behind so that others might find the way?

Freedom as Fluency

I wrote in the previous post about the confusion we find around ideas like “freedom.” I want to try to say a little more about that.

Sometimes I translate Buddhist materials from Japanese to English.  It’s work I enjoy—in part because it’s so stimulating, but also in part because it’s always an act of letting go.  There is much that cannot be authentically translated between the two languages, and in desperately trying to build that bridge, I am asked to consider words and ideas that otherwise, I might just let go.  It is a precious opportunity; it’s also an honor to be the one who gives voice to that original text.

Two phrases have come up for me over and over again as being particularly tricky, and that makes me all the more determined to try to explain them.  These are exciting terms, terms I think we could use.

The first is kyōgai (境界):  the kyō refers to boundaries, borders; the gai is close to “realm” or “world.”  In common speech, this is a common word (pronounced kyōkai), and it simply means “boundary,” the line between this or that.  But in the Zen world, as kyōgai, it has a much richer meaning.  It is sometimes translated as “level,” though that suggests a kind of ranking, which is not the point.  A great artist, through her art, might reveal a very deep kyōgai, or a wide kyōgai, or a high kyōgai.  Zen monks will, in every little bow, in the way they sit or stand or respond, reveal their kyōgai.  Some people have a shallow kyōgai, though of course it could deepen.  It is very difficult to put this into a single word.

The second is jiyū jizai (自由自在).  Jiyū is a common word meaning “freedom.”  Jizai means something like “freely,” or “at will.”  As a translator, I have struggled with this term over the years, and I have decided, for now, that the best English equivalent is “fluency.”  To say that someone is completely fluent at a foreign language is to say that the person can wield that language without hindrance.  I can say that I am fluent in English, as a native speaker, because I can (perhaps excepting these translation conundrums) say what I want to say and understand what others say to me.  I can adjust my speech according to circumstance.  I can read a novel and understand not just the technical meaning of the words on the page, but also the emotional content behind them, and the cultural context which gives them meaning beyond what can be found in a dictionary.  Especially as someone who has lived overseas and often functions in a language other than English, I am very aware, when I enter the world of English, that there, I am free.  This is fluency.

And there are degrees of fluency.  Some people speak perfect Spanish, but as non-native speakers, they do not speak with the same idiom as someone born into the language.  So even if they are capable of expressing everything they want to say, perhaps they cannot say it in the way that most directly touches the mind of the listener.  And perhaps the native speaker needs to make adjustments (eliminating certain idiom and so on) to be sure to be understood.  This is still fluency, but a different degree.

Jiyū jizai takes this notion of fluency and extends it to any activity.  So it is possible to be fluent with, for example, a sword.  I have seen karate masters who were fluent with their bodies—they could express and respond freely, unhindered (at least to the eye of the observer).  In demonstrating the traditional kata, the forms, it seems that they are creating those forms, even though they are actually following something prescribed from a hundred years back or more.  The observer sees not that person, but that person’s action.  It is total.  Some people are fluent in the kitchen—they can be offered any ingredients, any tools, and make something delicious, apparently without effort.  If we are lucky, we have had at least one teacher—math, history, any subject—who is so knowledgeable and so competent in that discipline that we feel we are meeting not just an individual, but the face of the field itself.  Meeting even one such person, someone who demonstrates a fluency in any one thing, can change our lives forever.

Dancers know about this fluency. Musicians know about it. There are examples in every direction.

But what does it mean to be fluent in the context of Zen practice?  Traditionally, it has meant that one is so comfortable in each moment of doing things just so—of walking just like this and sitting just like this—that one so embodies his or her own actions that they seem to own those actions, that the “just so” of each movement seems to spring forth not from some rulebook or ancient text, but from the person sitting there, naturally.  This is fluency of each moment.  This is being fluent at your own life.

So, to return to the idea of kyōgai—one’s own realm, one’s own range of movement—kyōgai is, from one perspective, a measurement of this fluency.  It is a measurement of the degree to which one is hindered or free in the world, in one’s movements, in one’s thoughts.  It is the space in which possibilities exist.  It is perhaps a measurement of space, but it is also the freedom one finds within boundaries.

And it is this idea of space that is at the heart of practice as I understand it.  The space of kyōgai is not just the individual’s.  We have all heard of savant mathematicians who can solve problems effortlessly, but who then struggle to explain their process to less able minds.  That kind of skill is remarkable, but it is not reflective of a deep kyōgai.  A truly great mathematician can invite you in and make you see—if only for a moment—the depth of the world of numbers.  A great karate practitioner reveals kyōgai not just when head-to-head with another master, but also in teaching a beginner a basic stance.  The great practitioner is working inside of a vast space, vast enough to include others and to meet them there.  Living overseas, my definition of English fluency has come to include the ability to adjust one’s speech for those who are not fluent—to do so requires not just ability in English, but also an awareness of, and objectivity towards, how the language works for someone else.  Kyōgai is revealed regardless of circumstance, regardless of who else is in the room.  And truly deep kyōgai raises the kyōgai of those all around—it offers fluency as something to be shared.

What is the goal of Zen?  What is it to practice for the sake of practice?  What is it to practice for the sake of others?  To enter the world of practice is to enter into these questions, directly.  We cannot avoid them.  Nor can we easily answer them.  And we certainly cannot answer them for someone else.

But I can offer this:  One piece of that puzzle has to do with facilitating practice itself, with becoming the space in which others practice.  We can develop certain fluencies intentionally—we can choose to repeat and repeat and repeat, to invest ourselves in this discipline or that activity, until the line is blurred between doer and what is being done.  It’s not an easy thing to do, but it is simple.  But why bother?  What if the fluency of doing things just so is not about that action, but about inviting someone else into a space where there is more possibility than previously imagined?  What if I hold my cup in this way, or dress this way, or walk this way, in order to get out of the way and let the practice play itself out freely?  What if “practicing for the sake of practice” means that our practice is establishing the causes and conditions of practice–not just for ourselves, but for those around us?

This, for me, is at the heart of the teaching of nyohō–the idea that we can cultivate and encourage practice not just with a deep turn of phrase, but with a gesture, or a texture. We can create that space. We can be that space.