Explaining How the World Works

As my grandson and I go on our various adventures, I often explain things along the way. He’s just a year and a half old, so I try to keep it simple. ‘There’s someone on a bicycle. This red pick-up truck is parked here.’ And, being a teacher, I’ll often give him little quizzes to see how much he understands. ‘That’s one of the front wheels. Can you find another wheel?’ Mostly, he doesn’t react to my narrative, nor respond to my leading questions. Of course occasionally, to my amazement, he does. ‘Go get that puzzle piece across the room and bring it here so we can finish the puzzle.’ It may just be the context or the finger that points across the room or the random correlation of all things in the universe, but sometimes he appears to know what I am saying.

But I know that he is always listening and I trust that even my baroque explanations of how plants metabolize sunlight into sugar and other such mysteries do indeed lodge somewhere in his wondrously developing brain. His great grandmother who died six months before he was born taught me that. Her name was Sylvia Blacker and I had the great privilege of knowing her for a number of years before she died. I treasure many memories of her great forthrightness and fierce love. She was, till the last moment, full of life.

Melissa and I kept her company during her final week of life as she found a way to accomplish her final disappearing act. We had rushed up to her home, in Milton, MA one Friday night after getting a call from the Hospice worker who said the end was near. We arrived in time to talk with her, but she was clearly not ready to die so the weekend turned into the days of the next week. Melissa’s brother and sister-in-law arrived shortly after us. We all camped out in their childhood home house and did our best to keep her comfortable. She was so happy to see us but as the days went on, she began to talk less and less. By the third or fourth day she was rarely responsive.

One day, mid-week, someone was talking about her in her room as if she wasn’t there. Having read that people in comas sometimes report a keen awareness of what is going on in the room around them, I said ‘You know she can hear everything we say.’ At that point Sylvia, who had not talked or responded for several days, opened her eyes and said: ‘You bet I can.’ She then closed her eyes and went back to her internal processes. We were shocked and delighted. It was typical Sylvia. She died several days later, slipping off while Melissa, her treasured daughter, and I were out for a walk. But I’ll never forget her words.

So spending time with my grandson, I assume that he understands my words whether he chooses to respond or not. It may be that the sound of my voice is the full communication. It may be that his wildly pumping little heart is receiving the coded messages from my wildly pumping big heart. I do my best to be a gracious host to this visitor who has come from some unimaginable distance to stay here with us for a while.

In any case, I intend to keep chattering away as I appreciate the secret gift he gives me that allows me to see my own world with fresh eyes.

Sitting Long and Getting Tired

I just heard this morning that a second member of my first Zen practice community has died. Those of us that sat zazen together at the Living Dharma Center the early 80’s are getting to be of an age when death is not unexpected. But like most of the other people in that community, I had lost touch with her and was surprised to receive the news this morning via email. The community itself fractured after a few years with repeated revelations of sexual predation on the part of the teacher. He too is dead now—long after most of us had left to find other teachers or to strike out on our own.

Now we’re left with stories—though I suppose that is what we had even from the beginning. The original story was that: 1) We were a unique Zen group and the (only?) true inheritors of this wondrous tradition. 2) The most important thing in the world is to have an experience of enlightenment, of waking up. And 3) Students do not have the wisdom to truly understand the actions of a Zen Master. Though all of these statements have some kernel of truth, I no longer believe any of them.

But at that point, we did believe and we sat rigorous and silent retreats together for years—getting up long before sunrise and sitting as long into the night as we could manage. It was a badge of honor to be the last one out of the meditation hall and I remember long nights of secretly peeping out from under my lowered eyes to see how the competition was doing. Though it was a rather shallow motivation, I was inspired to push myself beyond what I thought was possible through the inspiration of my fellow practitioners.

We sat retreats in a large country house in Coventry, Connecticut. We were a wonderful community of idealists who were willing to work hard together. Though we barely knew each other, we grew close in the silence, struggle and comfort of the silent meditation hall. We supported and admired each other in this work of waking up that seemed of incomparable value.

As I recall, the majority of the members of the Living Dharma Center were women. Our teacher would pick one woman at a time to elevate to the level of secret consort. Periodically, this would become public knowledge, there would be a big meeting. Many people would then leave the community in anger and disappointment. Others, however, sensing the importance of the true teaching carried in this imperfect teacher, would stay.

St Paul once said that ‘All things are lawful, but not all things are helpful.’ He was speaking of the world of awakening—the world where we no longer live according to someone else’s idea of good and bad. When we realize that we are awake (something akin to what Christians call being ‘saved’) we have a new freedom. We are no longer constrained by the shoulds that have ruled our lives up to this point. We see that we are saved not by the merit of our own actions but by the grace that is the source of all life. We are free.

The danger of this place, however, is that we use our newfound freedom as my first teacher did—to satisfy the demands of ego. We can easily fool ourselves into thinking that we are somehow different from everyone else—that we get to make up our own rules—that we are no longer blind. We all now know the harm that teachers, spiritual and otherwise, can do from this place of solipsism.

But even though I came to see this teacher as a real danger to those around him, I am grateful for his teaching and for the community that briefly gathered around him. So these days I mourn the loss of my sisters Susan Parks and Elizabeth Pratt who were (and are) both role models to me. Thank you both for your gentleness, your fierce commitment to life and your passion to get to the bottom of it.

I peer out from under my sleepy eyes this morning and vow to continue the work we began together so many decades ago.

On Writing

This morning the sky is clear again, but not my head. As I lay in bed, my fuzzy eyes didn’t want to open. There’s no grand rush today. This is the last day of our vacation/stay-cation and I’m not even going to morning Zoom Zen meditation. Yet still, I do my best to get out of bed in time for this quiet writing.

I often wonder what I am doing in this daily writing and sharing. Certainly part of this practice is simply to help me clarify my own life. There are all these wonderful teachings that I know, but the process of living and integrating these teachings is a life-long venture. Writing helps me see what I see and know what I know. Writing helps me appreciate where I am, even if it’s some place I would rather not be.

I also write for the small group of friends, family and students that faithfully or occasionally read these posts. A couple times a week I’ll hear from someone who reports that something I’ve written has helped them feel more at home in their lives. I am especially gratified when something I write validates some wisdom or struggle in someone else’s life. My highest dream for my writing (and for my life) is that it might be of use to others.

Writing is a way of giving back what I have learned. Each of us has a particular wisdom that we gather and uncover through our lives. We seem to be born with some way of being in the world. For some it’s a natural sensitivity to the moods and struggles of others. For other people, it’s the capacity to see the positive side of difficult situations. For still others, it’s the ability to bear the darkness of human pain and survive to tell the story. We each have some truth or capacity that is so obvious to us, it’s hard to understand others don’t have this and that sharing this deep and evident perspective might be the gift we have to give the world.

As I write, I try to be as honest as I can. This is not an easy thing for a religious teacher and writer. The sound of my own voice can easily carry me into realms that sound quite lovely but are not so useful. This is a professional hazard. We fall in love with our own words and lose the essential connection to our life itself. It’s easy to say the right things, but saying the right things is not enough. There’s a wonderful saying in Zen that the teachings are so simple that an eight-year-old can say them, but even an eighty-year-old cannot live them. I’m only sixty-seven and a half and still working on this.

I’m much more interested in living the teachings than in proclaiming the teachings. Though the wisdom teachings of all traditions have a beauty and elegance that touches me deeply, they are merely pointing to a way of being that is more than any words can capture. The words themselves—though necessary, useful and part of the path—are also one of the places along the way we can (and will) get lost.

I’m trying to follow some emerging aliveness of life itself. This is what I love and what delights me—in the garden, in meditation, in playing with my grandson, and in this daily writing. When I write what I already know, it feels like hard work and I get bored. When I’m following something that is arising in the moment—something I don’t yet fully understand—I’m interested and educated myself by what emerges. I trust that if I am genuinely learning and moving deeper into my life, then what I have to say and share may encourage others to do the same.

Considering the Heat Wave

It’s cool and just a little breezy this morning. But the morning Globe reminds me we’re in the middle of a heat-wave here in eastern Massachusetts. Temperatures above 90 and even near 100 are expected for the next few days.

I’m finding it’s hard not to suffer in advance. Right in this moment, it’s a lovely day—clear sky and few wispy clouds illuminated by the sun as yet hidden below the horizon. I sit comfortably on the second floor deck and already I’m worried about this afternoon’s heat.

The next-door neighbor’s air conditioner units poke squarely out of two windows not twenty feet away. I suppose they are sleeping coolly behind their closed curtains and purring machines. Three sparrows chase each other—unconcerned through the open sky. A couple of large trees a few lots to the north rustle their leaves and prepare their shade to be ready with the rising sun. Do these native oak and maple trees mind this blazing summer heat? Do they notice the creeping rise over the decades? What is their plan for when things get bad?

These summer heat waves that I’ve known since I was a boy do seem to be worse. Or is it just me? I’ve visited some of the mansions of my childhood, all of them have shrunk to human-scale. It might be the successive heat waves and contracted the lumber, but I suspect it’s just the creative nature of remembering.

One of my all-time favorite bumper stickers is: ‘It’s never too late to have a happy childhood!’ (I can’t remember if there was an exclamation point at the end, but I insert it here because there should be, even if there wasn’t.) I have often pondered the true meaning of this everyday koan.

From one perspective it’s a blow against rigid determinism—an assertion of our power as adults to meet and transform the challenges of our childhood. What happened to us is, of course, a done deal, but we have the creative power to use our skills and capacities as adults in service of our younger selves. Terrible things happen to everyone. It’s not all equal, but each one of us can only meet our own lives and only in doing so can we learn to stand up for ourselves and for others as well.

Our past is right here and remembering is a creative exercise. The stories we tell ourselves are constantly being reworked in service of the present moment—whether we know it or not. Can we work consciously with these stories so they can support the next stages of our growth and development rather than be the burden that weighs us down? It’s not easy work, but reckoning with our past is the foundation of our current experience.

‘It’s never too late to have a happy childhood!’ might also be an encouragement to be right now who we did not feel allowed to be as a child. What if it’s OK to be silly and to waste time? What if it’s fine to get my clothes dirty and not to care? What if I can be fascinated by the little ordinary things of my life right now?

This is perhaps why some of us adults like to be around children. They help us remember what we have forgotten and see what we have lost sight of. Their exultations and tragedies allow us to better see the wondrous and ever-changing nature of the world around us. And in taking care of children, we take care of our younger selves—give the love and reassurance we had longed for—give the permission and the safety that might not have been there for us.

But it’s still going to be hot this afternoon. I suppose I’ll just have to remember to put on my sunscreen, drink lots of fluids and practice not being very productive while I sit with my grandson in his small plastic pool and watch him learn to not breathe in when he puts the hose to his mouth.

Before the Grandson Wakes Up

A small backyard in Waltham, Massachusetts. A carefully tended patch of grass held by a rectangle of granite stones lies still under the clear blue sky and the hum of air conditioners in the early morning. By the garage, two Jack-and-the-beanstalk type sunflower plants rise above a minor jungle of tomatoes and peppers. They hold their proud heads aloft to capture the first rays of the morning sun—already risen but as yet invisible to us shorter creatures.

I’m glad to be alone in the coolness and the contained beauty of this space. A brightly colored plastic toddler slide brings the disruption of real life to the contained orderliness of the yard. Life is happening here, within this growing family where I am just an occasional visitor—father, father-in-law and grandfather. I appreciate the complex web of interconnection that constructs the launch pad for the next generation.

As of yet, the little adventurer is still innocently toddling. Delighted by cars, trucks, flowers and dirt, he lives fully and fiercely within the benevolent containment of his privileged life. He knows only this—there is no possibility for comparison. He allows us serve and protect him without question. Without question we are delighted and amazed.

There is no other world for him—or for any of us.

No matter how big our vision, no matter how deeply we may penetrate the mysteries of the universe, we are all held and protected within the immensity of wonder. And yet within our necessary limitations, nothing is left out—nothing is lacking.

The warmth of my morning tea is pleasant against the coolness of the morning. Memories of and ancient life as father and husband of a young family flit within me like darting birds. Human families of all shapes, sizes, colors and clothings. Forever repeating and exploring the patterns of humanity. We play our preassigned roles with as much grace and determination as we are allowed—burrowing into the beating heart of things right where we are.