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MY PRACTICE and I’m sticking to it by
Bill Krumbein
It was at a friend’s suggestion that I checked out PZI. “It’s [long pause] really, really good,” he said. I’ve stayed. My life is good. I’m a part of this community and the community is a part of me. I attribute this to my practice of meditating twice a day, having a teacher, koan work, attending two or three week-long retreats each year and volunteering time to the community. In other words, I have to work at it. If
this way moves you … and you simply follow it, Hakuin
Ekaku: Praise Song For Meditation Allow me to give some examples that show, I believe, how my uneven and sometimes capricious practice has changed my view and responses to what life puts in front of me.
“A-n-y-t-i-m-e-n-o-w,” I thought. “The traffic light is green.” Ever-so-slowly, the car in front of me began to move. A woman was driving, an elderly woman, whose short silver-white hair barely showed above the seat back. As we turned onto Hahman Drive, I noticed my impatience growing. The speed limit is 30 MPH and there we were, rolling along at a notch above 15. Although I am not one of those rageful drivers who cause traffic accidents, I could sense the heat of anger rising, emerging like the first bubbles to appear in a pot of near-boiling water. Then
something very strange happened. My emerging anger vanished, overtaken
by an overwhelming sense of empathy for this little old lady still able
to drive her car. Probably in her 80s, I supposed that most of her friends
had lost this freedom. Feeling
good in what had transpired within – I wondered if my meditation
practice had anything to do with this. The Scent of a Rakusu* I
wear my rakusu every day when I meditate. In December, 1999, at our
Refuge Ceremony, I formally took my vows. Both John Tarrant Roshi and
Joan Sutherland Roshi signed the back side of my rakusu. John gave me
the dharma name of Shindo (Forest Path). Then one day the answer came. It was the fragrance of my father (and he died in 1985!). Not only could I smell his body, but I felt a closeness to him as never before. It felt so good to be with him. My father was a good provider, but not available to me emotionally. Never did I ever hear him say, “I love you.” But now, on my cushion, I feel a mutual closeness. I wonder if sitting with Mu for a couple of years had a play in this? *A
rakusu is a bib-like garment worn around the neck. It's a miniature
'buddha robe' that signifies that the wearer has taken refuge and a
vow to follow the Bodhisattva precepts. Mom On My Cushion I
believe it was a summer sesshin (retreat) with John Tarrant presiding.
Joan Sutherland was also teaching. (She has since formed the Open
Source Project, her own group.) Joan was leading one evening,
an exercise where she asked us to invite our greatest demon to our cushion
– to sit with that which troubles us the most. That would be my
mother.
She was the opposite of my father: she ran the household, she was the controlling authoritarian, with no room to deviate from her or question what was on her mind. In 2000, when my sister called to tell me that mom had died, my first emotion was that of relief, not grief. Relief — not grief; all the more to confound my relationship with her. Well, I “invited” mom to sit with me on my cushion. I was uncomfortable, as I always was with her, not knowing if I was doing this the way she wanted. But we sat together nonetheless. And
then, certainly not of my own cognition, my cushion was turned upside
down. Sitting next to me was not the authoritarian mom, not the raging
mom, not the mom who made me feel so guilty – a different mom
appeared. Here was the mom who bought me my first baseball glove. Here
was the mom who bought me my first fishing rod. Here was the mom who
was doing double duty, being a mom and a dad to me. Torn Rakusu I know, Buddhists are supposed to practice NON attachment; but I cherish my rakusu. From the day I first placed its straps over my head, I felt a connection to the ancestors and a sense of belonging in finally finding a path to follow — which brings me to another sesshin experience. I’m face-to-face with Joan Sutherland in the interview room. For those who may not know, interviews with Zen teachers can be quite animated and physical in nature. That was the case here - I’m feebly attempting to explain a koan when Joan insists, “Show me, show me!” From my kneeling position I jump up and at the same time hear a ripping sound – it’s my rakusu! Unbeknownst to me, I was kneeling on it when I leapt. Now both straps had been partially torn. Now what? “Oh, my rakusu is torn,” I noticed, but no anger, no guilt, no blame, no judging; there was nothing upsetting to me. Shouldn’t I be smoldering in regret? It never happened. I found a couple of safety pins to secure the straps so as not to tear more. A revealing experience. Aren’t we all torn in various ways? Who among us doesn’t show the scars of living? I still value my rakusu. Perhaps even more now that it shows signs of wear and tear. Why didn’t I get upset over this incident? Why did this turn out to be a good lesson? A
Zen student (sorry, I do not recall his name) was being interviewed
by a local newspaper reporter. The student told the reporter, “There
are no benefits to meditation.” A puzzled look came across the
reporter’s face. The student continued, “… but the
side effects can be great.” Tennis Balls in the Dojo For various reasons, some folks need to sit on a chair for meditating instead of on a zabuton (cushion). We, at PZI, have no problem with this. But when a folding chair is placed directly on top of a zabuton, this is a problem, as the chair’s feet will eventually wear holes in the fabric. To prevent this, I collected a bunch of tennis balls and cut an “X” opening in each ball. We ask those using chairs to place a tennis ball over each foot of their chair. I’m at retreat again. You know how one’s mind can zero in on matters. I notice that a woman on the other side of the hall has placed her folding chair directly upon a zabuton. I find myself becoming the tennis ball cop, thus defining my meditation topic for the 25-minute sitting period. She shouldn’t be doing this. She’s ruining our zabuton. Doesn’t she care about our property? Doesn’t she know to use tennis balls? Maybe it’s her own zabuton. Then she ought to take better care of it! Back to my breath. I should tell her to use the provided tennis balls. Or should I tell the practice leader about this transgression? Back to my koan. Then, in the form of a question, came a satisfying shift of consciousness: at break time I queried, why not attach the tennis balls myself? What a concept! No need to confront her, no need to bother the practice leader. I did just that (she was not in the room). My turmoil vanquished and our zabuton saved! I returned to my cushion, returned to my breath, and returned to my koan.
John Tarrant has often stated how one’s practice can get very deep on a cushion, but what good is that if it disappears once you start your car and back out into traffic? I seem to be carrying my practice where ever I go – or is it my practice that’s carrying me? I don’t know what’s happening here, but I like it. |
