Nothing Special: Living Zen Page 17

  Every time we have a complaint about our lives, we’re in a gap. In awareness practice, we notice our thoughts and the contraction in our body, taking it all in and returning to the present moment. That’s the hardest kind of practice. We’d rather escape this scene entirely or else stay immersed in our little upsets. After all, our upsets keep us the center of things, or so we think. The pull of our selfcentered thoughts is like walking through molasses: our feet come out of the molasses with difficulty and then rapidly get stuck again. We can slowly liberate ourselves, but if we think it’s easy, we are kidding ourselves.

  Whenever we’re upset, we’re in the gap; our self-centered emotions, what we want out of life, are dominant. Yet our emotions of the moment are no more important than is replacing the chair at the table or putting the cushion where it should be.

  Most emotions do not arise out of the immediate moment, such as when we witness a child hit by a car, but are generated by our self-centered demands that life be the way we want it to be. Though it’s not bad to have such emotions, we learn through practice that they have no importance in themselves. Straightening the pencils on our desk is just as important as feeling bereft or lonely, for example. If we can experience being lonely and see our thoughts about being lonely, then we can move out of the gap. Practice is that movement, over and over and over again. If we remember something that happened six months ago and with the memory come upset feelings, our feelings should be looked at with interest, nothing more. Though that sounds cold, it’s necessary in order to be a genuinely warm and compassionate person. If we find ourselves thinking that our feelings are more important than what is happening at the moment, we need to notice this thought. Sweeping the walk is reality; our feelings are something we’ve made up, like a web we have spun in which we catch ourselves. It’s an amazing process that we put ourselves through; in a way, we are all crazy.

  When I see my thoughts and note my bodily sensations, recognize my resistance to practicing with them, and then return to finishing the letter I’m writing, then I’ve moved out of the gap into awareness. If we are truly persistent, day after day, we gradually find our way out of the gooey mess of our personal lives. The key is attention, attention, attention.

  Writing a check is just as important as the anguished thought that we won’t see a loved one. When we don’t work with the gap created by inattention, everyone pays the price.

  Practice is necessary for me, too. Suppose I hope that my daughter will visit me at Christmas, and she calls to say she’s not coming. Practice helps me to continue to love her, rather than becoming upset that she’s not doing what I want. With practice, I can love her more fully. Without practice, I would simply be a lonely and cantankerous old lady. In a sense, love is simply attention, simply awareness. When I maintain awareness, I can teach well, which is a form of love; I can place fewer expectations on others and serve them better; when I see my daughter again, I don’t have to bring old resentments into the meeting and am able to see her with fresh eyes. So the priority is right here and now. In fact, there’s only one priority, and that’s attention to the present moment, whatever its content. Attention means attention.

  False Generalizations

  Nasrudin, the Sufi sage and fool, was once in his flower garden, sprinkling bread crumbs over everything. When a neighbor asked him why, he said, “To keep the tigers away.” The neighbor said, “But there aren’t any tigers within a thousand miles of here.” And Nasrudin said, “Effective, isn’t it?”

  We laugh because we’re sure that the two things—bread crumbs and tigers—have nothing to do with each other. Yet as with Nasrudin, our practice and our lives are often based upon false generalizations that have little to do with reality. If our lives are based upon generalized concepts, we may be like Nasrudin, spreading bread crumbs to keep away tigers. We say, for example, “I love people,” or “I love my husband.” The truth is that no one loves everyone all the time, and no one loves a spouse all the time. Such generalities obscure the specific, concrete reality of our lives, what is happening for us at this moment.

  One may, of course, love one’s husband most of the time. Still, the flat generalization leaves out the shifting, changing reality of an actual relationship. Likewise with “I love my work,” or “Life is hard on me.” When we begin practice, we usually believe and express many generalized opinions. We may think, for instance, “I’m a kind person,” or “I’m a terrible person.” But in fact, life is never general. Life is always specific: it’s what’s happening this very moment. Sitting helps us to cut through the fog of generalizations about our lives. As we practice, we tend to drop our generalized concepts in favor of more specific observations. For example, instead of “I can’t stand my husband,” we notice “I can’t stand my husband when he doesn’t pick up after himself,” or “I can’t stand myself when I do such and such.” Instead of generalized concepts, we see more clearly what’s going on. We’re not covering events with a broad brush.

  Our experience of another person or situation isn’t just one thing. It can include a thousand minor thoughts and reactions. A parent may say, “I love my daughter”; yet this generalization ignores moments, such as “Why is she so immature?” or “She’s being stupid.” As we sit, observing and labeling our thoughts, we become more acquainted with the incessant outpouring of our opinions about anything and everything. Instead of just plastering the whole world with generalizations, we become aware of our specific concepts and judgments. As we become more acquainted with our thinking, we discover that we’re shifting, moment by moment, as our thinking shifts.

  Let’s listen to a young woman. She’s been going out with a young man for a little while. She feels that it’s going well. If asked, she would say that she really cares about him. Now he has just called her. Let’s listen not only to what she says to him, but also to what she’s thinking to herself:

  “Oh, it’s so nice to hear from you. You sound great.” (“He could have called me a little sooner.”)

  “Oh, you took so-and-so out to lunch. Yes, she’s a charming person. I know you enjoyed her company.” (“I could kill him!”)

  “You think I don’t have much to say? That I’m not a very verbal person? Well, I appreciate your opinion.” (“You hardly know me! How dare you make generalizations about me!”)

  “You did well on your test? I’m glad. Good for you!” (“He’s always talking about himself. Does he have any interest in my life?”)

  “You’d like to go out to dinner tomorrow night? I’d love to go. It would be wonderful to see you again!” (“At last, he asked me! I wish he wouldn’t wait until the last minute!”)

  This is a perfectly common interchange between two people, the sort of pretense that passes for communication. These people probably do care for each other. Still, she had one concept after another, about him and about herself. The exchange was a sea of conceptual material; their conversation was like two ships passing in the night—no contact took place.

  In Zen practice, we tend to toss around many fancy concepts: “Everything is perfect in being as it is.” “We’re all doing the best that we can.” “Things are all one.” “I’m one with him.” We can call this Zen bullshit, though other religions have their own versions. It’s not that the statements are false. The world is one. I am you. Everything is perfect in being as it is. Every human being on the planet is doing the best he or she can at this moment. True enough. But if we stop there, we have turned our practice into an exercise of concepts, and we’ve lost awareness of what’s going on with us right this second.

  Good practice always entails moving through our concepts. Concepts are sometimes useful in daily life; we have to use them. But we need to recognize that a concept is just a concept and not reality and that this recognition or knowledge slowly develops as we practice. Gradually, we stop “buying into” our concepts. We no longer make such general judgments: “He’s a terrible person,” or “I’m a terrible person.” We notice our thoughts: “I
wish he wouldn’t take her out to lunch.” Then we have to experience the pain that accompanies the thought. When we can stay with the pain as a pure physical sensation, at some point it will dissolve, and then we move into the truth, which is that everything is perfect in being as it is. Everyone is doing the best that he or she can. But we have to move from experience, which is often painful, into truth and not plaster thoughts over our experience. Intellectual people are particularly prone to this error: they think that the rational world of concepts is the real world. The rational world of concepts is not the real world, but simply a description of it, a finger pointing at the moon.

  Take the experience of having been hurt. When we’ve been criticized or treated unfairly, it’s important to note the thoughts we have and move into the cellular level of being hurt, so that our awareness becomes simply raw sensation: our trembling jaw, the contraction in our chest, whatever we may be feeling in the cells of our body. This pure experiencing is zazen. As we stay with it, our desire to think comes up again and again: judgments, opinions, blame, retorts.

  So we label our thoughts and again return into our cellular experience, which is almost indescribable, perhaps just a light shimmering of energy, perhaps something stronger. In that space there is no “me” or “you.” When we are this nondual experiencing we can see our situation more clearly. We can see that “she is doing the best she can.” We can see that we are doing the best we can. If we say such sentences without the bodily component of experiencing, however, we will not know what true practice is. A calm, cool, rational perspective must be grounded in that pure cellular level. We need to know our thoughts. But that doesn’t mean that we must think they’re real, or that we must act on them. After observing our self-centered thoughts, moment by moment, the emotions tend to even out. This serenity can never be found by plastering some philosophical concept on top of what is actually happening.

  Only when we move through the experiential level does life have meaning. This is what Jews and Christians mean by being with God. Experiencing is out of time: it is not the past, not the future, not even the present in the usual sense. We can’t say what it is; we can only be it. In traditional Buddhist terms, such a life is being buddha nature itself. Compassion grows from such roots.

  We all have our favorite concepts. “I’m sensitive. I’m easily hurt.” “I’m a pushy kind of person.” “I’m an intellectual.” Our concepts may be useful on an everyday level, but we need to see their actual nature. Unexperienced concepts are a source of confusion, anxiety, depression; they tend to produce behavior that is not good for ourselves or for others.

  To do the work of practice, we need endless patience, which also means recognizing when we have no patience. So we need to be patient with our lack of patience: to recognize when we don’t want to practice is also part of practice. Our avoidance and resistance are part of the conceptual framework that we’re not yet ready to look at. It’s okay not to be ready. As we become ready, bit by bit, a space opens up, and we’ll be ready to experience a little more, and then a little more. Resistance and practice go hand in hand. We all resist our practice, because we all resist our lives. And if we believe in concepts instead of experiencing the moment, we’re like Nasrudin: we’re sprinkling bread crumbs on the flower beds to keep the tigers away.

  STUDENT : Concepts are sometimes necessary. What’s the difference between a concept that serves me and a concept that confuses me? For example, “Look both ways before you cross the street” is a useful generalization.

  JOKO : That’s a good example, a sensible use of the human mind. Much of the thought going on in our minds is not related to reality, however.

  STUDENT: If the generalization or concept comes from a self-centered emotion, then it may not be useful.

  JOKO : In the young woman’s phone conversations, the judgments came from hidden emotions and opinions; they were ego-centered. Her judgments about him were expressions of her own need and had nothing to do with him. False generalizations—harmful concepts—always have a personal emotional shade. On the other hand, observations about how to get work done efficiently or how to solve a math problem have little or no emotional context. That’s useful thinking.

  STUDENT: The experiential, cellular level seems so covered up to me.

  JOKO : Remember that the experiential level is not some strange, exotic thing. It may be a tingling of the skin or a contraction in the chest or a tight face—the experiential level is quite basic and never far away. It’s what we are right now. The experiential level is nothing special, and the longer we sit, the more basic we know it to be. In the early years of practice, however, there’s more to experience, because of the emotional turmoil we’re in, which generates a lot of sensation.

  We never completely avoid the cellular level. Even if we’re with our breath for only a split second between thoughts, we’re at the cellular level to some degree. The more we label our thoughts and keep coming back to whatever’s going on in our experience, the better. Moving into a more experiential life will sometimes go very slowly and sometimes very quickly, depending on the intensity of practice. When we realize that we need to practice twenty-four hours a day, it’s impossible to avoid the experiential level.

  STUDENT : A concept that at one time is very emotional for me may not bother me at all at another time. For example, I may be worried about getting a job. Before the interview, I’ll be really worried about it, and I’ll generalize about the state of my career. After the interview is over, when I think the same thought, I can’t imagine how it could have bothered me.

  JOKO : All thoughts occur in a specific context. That’s the whole point: to see the specific context, not just the general thought. Our reaction to a person or thought will be different today than next week, depending on each situation. If you had a million dollars in the bank, you probably wouldn’t care whether you got that job or not. You’d sail in calmly and just enjoy the interview. All reality is specific, immediate. We can meet the same people and have one thought about them today, yet next week (depending on the changing personal situation) they’ll look different to us.

  STUDENT : If I’m always paying attention to sensations in my body, how can I pay attention to things around me or tasks that I have to do? For example, how can I play cards or drive a car and still pay attention to my bodily sensations?

  JOKO : We can focus on one activity while still taking in a wide range of sensation. For example, as I talk to you now, I’m also well aware of everything that’s going on with me. That doesn’t mean I’m not paying full attention to you. “Paying attention to you” is part of the total sensory input that is my life right now. If we have full sensory awareness of our life it has to include everything. When a student and I are talking in daisan, my attention is totally on the student, but I always am aware of my life. I’m acting out of that total context and not just out of my head.

  STUDENT : Concentration on what I’m doing right now is not exclusive. When I’m doing data analysis on my work, my mind is fully on my data analysis, but I can have full awareness of my body. It’s not that I dwell on my body; I don’t have time to do that. My bodily sensations are not the major focus of what I’m doing. But it’s important at every moment to have awareness of physical sensations and also my reactions to everything that’s going on. So I can be in the middle of statistical analysis and yet at the same time be aware of other things. Sometimes, of course, I get so engrossed in a particular activity that I become oblivious to everything else. But for the most part, my awareness is not that focused and exclusive.

  JOKO : The essence of Zen practice is to be totally what you’re doing. But we’re not that way very much. When we’re not, then our focus needs to shift back to our body. When we do this, it becomes easier to enter totally into what we’re doing. We can be totally concentrating on one activity or aware of several. The point is to experience whatever is happening. A great chess master, for instance, has an enormous accumulation of learning and intelle
ctual background; yet in the middle of the game, his awareness is totally on the present moment, and the right move just emerges. The technical learning is there, but it is subordinate to his intense awareness, which is the real master.

  STUDENT : In practicing music, it’s important to stay aware of all the levels of one’s experience. When I am practicing something new on the piano, if I ignore my body I’m likely to

  develop tendinitis, for example. This often happens with new students. If I’m just noticing my emotional thoughts, I get careless about the notes I’m playing.

  JOKO : Even a minimal awareness of how much time we spend buying into our self-centered thoughts is useful. Of course, in a few minutes, we’ll all be doing it again.

  Listening to the Body

  Practice is not about adjusting this phenomenal self that we think we are to our life. In a way, we are phenomenal selves, but in another, we are not. One could say that we are both—or neither. Until we comprehend this point, our practice will founder.

  Labeling our thoughts is a preliminary practice. On the phenomenal level much of our psychological self is revealed by labeling. We begin to observe where we get hung up in our likes and dislikes, in all of our habitual thoughts about our self and our life. This preliminary work is important and necessary—but not it. Labeling is a first step, but until we know what it means to stay with our experience, we won’t taste the fruits of practice. If we don’t taste the fruits of practice, we won’t see what practice is and we’ll complain: “I don’t understand practice; I can’t see what it’s all about.” The fact is, I can’t tell you what it’s all about; what I’m trying to explain really cannot be talked about. Fundamentally, practice is different from improving a skill such as tennis or golf; much of such learning can be described in words. But we can’t explain our zazen practice in words.