If We’re Lucky

I covered the hydrangeas
in the Temple garden
with a sheet last night
in hopes of protecting
their tender buds from
the predicted bitter cold.

Their azure future,
precariously held
on the brown tips
of old stalks is
nothing to look at
now, but in July,
if we are lucky,
their deepest blue
will survive the freeze
and extravagantly appear
in puffy balls of blossoms
held aloft on the same
woody stems that wobbled
through the long dark winter.

Virtually Touching

It was a year ago yesterday that we had our last in-person meditation service at the Boundless Way Temple—and a year ago tomorrow that we had our first Zoom meditation service. Since then our daily attendance at morning sessions has increased four or fivefold and our overall attendance has doubled. Our ‘regulars’ are no longer confined to the greater Worcester region and now live in Boston, Hartford, Pittsburgh, Atlanta, Tulsa, Los Angelos, Brussels, the Isle of Wight, and beyond. Almost every day we gather virtually to meditate and to support each other in walking the path of awakening.

Religion and spirituality are almost always communal endeavors. Just setting off on a personal journey to find God or to wake up or to be saved is rarely enough. Of course, it is about that personal existential journey however we define it, but this journey is almost always taken with the support, guidance, and encouragement of other like-minded spirits. Hermits and recluses, though a revered part of many traditions, are the exception rather than the rule.

Most of us need each other. We humans are herd animals. Like horses, when we gather, we sense and respond to each other’s energy and intentions. The first time I ever galloped on a horse, it wasn’t my choice. I was simply carried away on my horse who was carried away with the energy of the other horses around us. We were riding one early summer morning through a dewy pasture when we came to a small hill. One of the riders decided it would be fun to gallop up the hill. She began and the other (experienced) riders urged their horses to follow. The small group of horses gathered energy and surged forward. Before I knew what was happening, my horse was galloping up the hill with all the others. It was astonishing to feel the power of the horse and rider community manifesting through the four-legged being I was riding. We quickly reached the top of the hill and paused—horses and riders were all elated.

It was somehow similar when I began going back to church in my early 40’s at the local Unitarian Universalist church on Main Street here in Worcester. I was amazed at how powerful it was to gather with people and to turn our attention together toward these ultimate questions of life and death and the meaning of existence. I found myself delighted to be sitting in a large room with people I knew from other roles in the community, and for once we were all setting down our organizational and political agendas to sing together and to listen to inspiring words that caused us to think deeply about our human existence.

In the Zen tradition, we have honored this ancient wisdom of communal worship in its simplest form. We sing together (mostly just on one note) and listen to inspiring talks, but the heart of our worship (which we call ‘practice’) is simply sitting still together in silence. And in this stillness and silence, even as it is conveyed over Zoom, we find some ineffable, undeniable, and ever-changing connection that supports us.

In years past, I probably would have refused to participate in a virtual meditation session. I would have said that authentic Zen has to be in-person. Zen practice is a physical practice—one position yoga, we sometimes say. An upright, balanced and dignified posture—or as close to that as you can come—is essential. But the energy we generate, share and receive as we practice together is not some physical, measurable substance that has a limited range of effectiveness. Just like the power of prayer that is conceived as reaching beyond the room where you pray—just like the correspondence of the spin of related particles that shift instantly with each other no matter the distance—our connections to each other and to life are not as limited as we imagine.

In our Zen community, we are now talking about how and when we will return to some form of in-person practice. With the vaccine rollout progressing so quickly, we are hopeful that the early summer will see us physically together again in some form. But we are clear that we are not simply going back to how it was. We are adding in-person local practice to the vibrant and virtual community of practice that has so surprisingly emerged over this year of the pandemic. How to mix and match virtual and in-person will (hopefully) be the learning of the year to come.

Dreaming of Reality

I was talking with a friend the other day about Arny Mindell’s trinitarian model of reality. He says there are three levels of reality that are operating all the time. I’ve heard these levels referred to with different names, but the ones that stick with me are consensual reality, the dream world, and the source world.

The first level is consensual reality. This refers to all the stuff we can see, touch, measure, and agree on. The green couch, your to-do list, bank account, and what you ate for breakfast are all on this list. Consensual reality is the world of rational thought, analysis, and problem-solving.

The second level is the dream world. This includes everything present that is amorphous, intuitive, and what cannot be precisely pinned down. Your hopes and dreams, the odd thought that flits through your head, the glance that passes between you and a friend, all this is included. The dream world is not rational and cannot be measured or precisely pinned down.

The source world is the third level. This is the unspeakable source of all that happens. We might also call this the Tao, the cosmic origin, or the Prime Mover. It is the origin of everything—before language and thought. We can point toward and perhaps even follow the movement of the source world, but we can never fully describe, name, or comprehend this realm.

Mindell’s teaching is that everything that happens is happening at all these levels, but it can be useful, in working with persistent or important problems, to consider which levels are being ignored. Usually, we get stuck in consensual reality. Anyone who has tried to reason through a recurring problem with a partner or a parent can verify how little success this approach yields. A discussion of the persistence of crumbs on the counter that focuses on the crumbs themselves is unlikely to lead anywhere productive.

Our western-rational-analytic bias often undervalues the dream-like quality of our lives. From consensual reality, I am here and you are there, but in the dream world, things are much more fluid and provisional. You are a part of me and I am a part of you. The issue we are dealing with is not just the content, but also includes the history of our relationship and many people and events that are not physically present.

The Buddha also taught that our lives have a dream-like quality. In the Diamond Sutra, he encourages us to ‘view this fleeting world’ as ‘a phantom and a dream.’ While life is certainly not a dream (if you jump off the top of a tall building, you will certainly end up in a crumpled heap on the ground), this teaching points to the co-existing truth of the evanescence of life.

We can talk about yesterday afternoon when it was mild and the sun was shining—or reminisce about a year ago, before the pandemic—or tell stories of things that happened decades ago. But where are all these events and conditions now? And have you ever spent a single moment in the future? All our planning and worrying never leads anywhere but to this ever-changing moment.

So perhaps today, while you honor the many demands and plans of your life, you might try going a little dreamy. Let your gaze soften and your focus go fuzzy. What if the tree branch moving in the morning wind is dancing or waving to you–signaling something or singing a song? What if you are the tree? Or you are the wind? What if you jumped up so high that you could see the whole world and could spend the day gazing down on the beautiful and intricate patterns of everyday life? What if the whole world is your dream and you are the dream of the whole world?

I think of the lovely small song attributed to the Ojibwe Indigenous American tribe:
Why do I go about pitying myself, when all the time I am being carried on great winds across the sky?

Sleepless in Worcester

Awake at three a.m. with a mind not interested in rest, I try not to wish my life away. Appreciating life is easy on a sunny afternoon that is unseasonably warm and spring’s first flowers are poking out of the frozen ground, but it’s a little more challenging in these places where we clearly wish it were otherwise. This morning’s too early awakeness is not terrible, just inconvenient and slightly irritating.

I have a strict rule with myself that I don’t get up at these times. Anything before 4:30 is still night. I reason that even lying awake in bed has some restorative qualities so I don’t get up and start writing or reading or meditating. I stay where I am and try to be patient and gently interested. Is a particular place my thoughts are going? What is it like to lie in bed and want to go to sleep? What is there in this familiar place that I have never noticed before?

Sometimes I think of an old woman I once saw in a documentary film about the lives of people who were Japanese National Living Treasures. She was a weaver and must have been in her eighties or nineties. Her health was poor and her vision was deteriorating. She said she often woke very early and lay awake in the dark before someone would come to help her get up. She claimed she didn’t mind this at all. With a twinkle in her eye, she said that she listened to the birds and lay there excited with the knowledge that soon she would be able to get out of bed and sit at her beloved loom again.

She came to me again last night. She is always kind and gentle. Comparing myself to her, I see how young and impatient I really am. Apparently, I am a slow learner. I write and I teach and I practice Zen and walk attentively in the garden because I don’t yet get it. I mean, I can say the right things and point in directions that people find sometimes useful, but I, myself, am still a work-in-progress.

The great abstract expressionist Willem de Kooning painted huge canvases and would spend weeks, months, and even years on the same painting. Over this time, there was a lot of painting, but there was much more just looking. Even after it was nearing completion, he would spend hours and hours smoking cigarettes and just staring at what was in front of him. I suppose he was trying to figure out what he was doing and what, if anything, to do next. I still appreciate his tenacious patience and wonder if I should take up smoking. Probably not.

This morning, I longed to release back into sleep but some part of my brain clung obstinately to consciousness. Looking around for things to think about, I started thinking about this book I am working on and came up with a provisional title. The book will be a second collection and arrangement of these daily writings. For now, I’m calling it: How to Live: Consolations, Reveries and Reflections. But since I also have a rule not to turn on the light and didn’t have a pen handy anyway, I repeated it to myself over and over in hopes of not forgetting.

I liked it better in the dark early morning, but even in the light I still think it captures some of my intention and describes some of what the book will be. I’m glad I remembered it and wonder if I should consider changing some of my rules so I don’t keep myself awake trying to remember all my good ideas.

Honors and Ambivalence

When I earned my black belt in judo, the paper in Nagasaki, Japan, where I was living for a year as a Rotary Club exchange student, sent a reporter to my home for an interview. My host mother and father and I met with the reporter in the living room of our house—the only room that contained western furniture. I remember feeling proud and uncomfortable.

Earning a black belt in judo in Japan was not such a big deal. Most young people of high school age were able to do it in several years of intensive practice. It was the equivalent of being on the varsity sports team in your local high school, a mark of dedication and modicum of talent, but not much more.

We usually think of judo as the standing throws that are so quick and flashy. Two people stand facing each other grabbing onto each other’s jacket and suddenly one goes flying and lands with a thud on the mat. These throws are called nage-waza, throwing techniques. If the throw is clean and well-executed, the thrower wins the match, but if it is less than conclusive, as it usually is, the match continues on the ground, which is where ne-waza or grappling techniques come into play. It’s not as dramatic or elegant as nage-waze but ne-waza wins a lot of matches. And having been a minor star on my American high school wrestling team. I was very good at ne-waza.

My black belt competition was a city-wide event with students from all over the region coming to compete with each other and earn points toward earning a black-belt. As I remember, we had to demonstrate a certain number of required throws and then we competed in five matches to demonstrate our skill. I won all my matches, even a few with throws, but it was the final one that drew attention to me.

My opponent was skilled and tough though considerably smaller than me. I couldn’t throw him but eventually got him down to the mat where we grappled. Now part of ne-waza is joint immobilization techniques and chokeholds. When your opponent locks you in such a hold, you ‘tap out’ and the match ends with the other person winning. After a lot of back and forth, I managed to trap my smaller opponent in a strong choke-hold. I held on tight and waited. He refused to tap and finally, the referee called the match, but my opponent did not get up. He had passed out rather than surrender. Worse than that, he began convulsing. He was taken to a hospital and recovered fully, but at the time I was quite shaken though my coach patted me on the back and I said I had done well.

I earned my black belt, but the article written about me in the paper was mostly because I was an American. Out of the other twenty or thirty other black belts awarded that day, I was the only one who got his own newspaper article. I sat uncomfortably in the rarely used western chairs, in my judo uniform with my blond hair coming down over my forehead.  No one mentioned the convulsions or the chokehold.  My host mother was clearly very proud of me and, as usual, I couldn’t tell what my host father made of the whole thing.

About a week later, the coach of my judo team told me that the coaches of the other high school judo teams had gotten together and decided that since I wasn’t a fully matriculated high school student, I could not represent my high school in the upcoming matches. He said they were just afraid because I was so good. Whatever their reasoning, I was happy to not have to choke anyone else and never practiced judo again.