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Newsletter of Dharma Rain Zen Center Portland, Oregon Volume XXIII Number 5 September - October 1998
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Ven. Yantra Amaro in the meditation walk at the Center House |
I often think I first began my Buddhist practice in 1973, at least a year and a half before I knew much at all about Buddhism. I was visiting my mother in Los Alamos, standing on her front lawn with my brother. He asked her, "How do you achieve Nirvana?" She replied, "Tell the truth!"
Probably because I was so unhappy, I took what she said to heart. At that time, I was selling for The American Tobacco Company and very confused about who I was and where I was headed. I had, for the only time in my life, seriously comptemplated suicide. But, within six months of "telling the truth," my life had changed. I was selling books in a bookstore, had returned to college, had given up my car for a bicycle, and was eating healthful food. I was going to school, I told myself, "to learn." I had always been a poor student and I was single and lonely. I had two burning questions. One was whether I had any intelligence at all. The other was, "Why haven't I found a wife?"
One day, in my monastery-like apartment, I was standing by my kitchen table. I had the sensation of falling into a void, becoming smaller and smaller. At the point of extinction, I became very frightened and "pulled myself out of it." I felt as if I could have been standing there for a mini-second or for days. The experience was beyond time and space and it was immensely powerful.
I soon read Journey to Ixtland and loved Don Genaro's description of grabbing his ally. In his fanciful, allegorical way, he described being jolted, spun and disoriented. He wanted to return home to Ixtland but didn't know the direction. He saw people as phantoms he could not trust until he realized they could not hurt him. When asked what was Genero's final outcome, Don Juan responded, "There will never be any final outcome. Genaro is still on his way to Ixtland."
I felt as if I had awakened from a dream and everything was clearer than ever. I felt free from many of the fears that had driven me. I was free from the opinions of others, knowing those opinions would change with the wind. I quit my job on principle at a time when I had little money and few prospects. Somehow, things worked out fine.
I had changed fundamentally. I realized intelligence was not something one "had" and life was full and wonderful even without a wife. I began making As in school and six months later I was working at the State Hospital, which was right livelihood for me. There, I met my first wife, Kathleen.
In 1974 and 1975 I took my first classes in Eastern Religions, and Buddhism seemed to address my experience, specifically what my instructor called the "Great Death" or "Kensho."
In the early 1980s, my wife, three-year-old son, Matt, and I moved to Portland where we knew no one. I had drilled one too many dry holes in the oil business and was broke and angry. Down and out, my interest in Buddhism again rose, particularly Tibetan. I began reading and attending lectures. I visited one monk who spoke very little English and told him of my anger. He said, "No!...No!...No!... Patience Practice!...Patience Practice!", and I took that to heart. I was still unaware of the Precepts, but from that lesson, I practiced "Cease from Evil" and I began watching my anger.
It wasn't that I was ever abusive, but very confused, and anger poisons one way or another. Whenever I needed to parent my son, for instance, I would do nothing until I knew on a deep level my action was right. Inaction has its consequences, I think, but not as great as wrong action, especially when it comes with anger.
I watched my anger and learned much. What I thought made me angry was almost never what I was truly concerned about. What was pushing my buttons was not the source of my anger. The anger was within me, not out there, and was ancient.
My wife started meditating at the Oregon Zen Priory, now named the Dharma Rain Zen Center. I followed her in 1985 or so and took the Precepts in 1988. When our retail business was failing, I further developed my ability to surrender, saying "God help me." At the heart of compassion is acceptance, surrendering to what is. Once you accept what is, you can see the pain of others. Kyogen said, "Training for the sake of self is the level of acceptance and stillness through which we transform our greed into compassion, the heart of Kanzeon." This surrendering led to an exercise that has been at the center of my Buddhist practice since, thinking on Kanzeon.
Kanzeon is a female form of the bodhisattva of compassion, Avalokiteshvara, known as the one who hears the cries of the world.
"To calls from every quarter She responds...
When people hear Her name, and see Her form,
and think of Her not vainly in their hearts,
all forms of ill, in all the worlds, shall cease...
She is a light pure, spotless, like the sun.
With wisdom does She darkness all dispel,
subverting all effects of wind and fire.
As thunder shakes the universe does
She control Her loving body, and Her thought of great
compassion, like a cloud from which a rain of Dharma
comes, as nectar, down, destroys the flames of evil
passions all...She is all pure and holy and a refuge true"
According to one source, her "limitless compassion expresses itself in (her) wonderful ability to help all beings who turn to" her anytime or anyplace.
I remember first "thinking on Kanzeon" while working with the chronically mentally ill. I found that if I truly allowed the spirit of compassion into my being that tense situations were relaxed. The more I practiced, the more my fear and the fear of those around me subsided. This was significant, I realized, as I practiced.
Another step I took at this time was to begin to learn contrition. In the Shushogi, by Dogen, we read, "The Buddhas and Dharma Ancestors have flung wide the gates of compassion to all living things. Although karmic consequence is inevitable at some point in the three points of time, contrition brings freedom and immaculacy -- as this is so, let us be utterly contrite before the Buddhas."
At work, I was responsible for arranging meetings of a half-dozen staff from three different agencies. Several times in a row, I failed to invite an important participant, rendering the meeting useless. People were upset with me and they arranged a gathering to address this problem of mine. The Director of my agency, my immediate supervisor, and I were invited along with the Director and several other members from another agency. In the meeting I was truly contrite. I wasn't defensive and made no excuses, I simply sat up and acknowledged what I had done and said I would do better. All the wind in my detractor's sails evaporated. The meeting was over in a few minutes. I felt the freedom that comes with contrition.
With the spring of 1989 came the deepest and most powerful period of my Buddhist practice when we learned that Kathleen had cancer. I truly adored her. She was to die at forty-two, leaving me and our twelve-year-old son.
It was a time in my life when I went from task to task without a break. I rose early in the morning, gave Kathleen her medications, prepared breakfast and drove an hour to work. I case-managed the chronically mentally ill, an emotionally demanding position. After driving home in the evening, I again administered medications, prepared supper, tended my son and wife, and headed for bed. We were often up at night, with many trips to the Emergency Room. This work, of course, was heart-breaking. Someone once asked me if I was meditating much. I wasn't. Life itself was meditation, mindfulness practice at its best. My capacity for compassionate acceptance opened immeasurably and surrendering to the Truth was all I could do. "When we practice for the sake of others," said Kyogen, "We cultivate loving kindness through action. Anger is transformed into Love, the heart of Fugen."
She died on Sept. 27, 1991. The moment she died I was struck with a question: where is my wife? Two other questions arose from that. What is the nature of a human being? What is the nature of a relationship? Elizabeth Kubler-Ross says we are made up of four quadrants, physical, mental, emotional and physical . I had seen her body waste away. I had seen her mind fail. Her rage and panic of a week earlier had given way to a quiet and stillness leading to her death. She seemed to glow the way artists paint saints. In spite of the ravages of illness, she was absolutely beautiful. But I wondered - what happened to my wife? Where is she?
I received grief counseling from Kaiser, and my son and I attended the Dougy Center. It's an organization that assists kids and their parents through grieving the loss of a sibling or parent. I was a term student at the Zen Center, where my statement of practice was "to better understand and accept Kathleen's death."
Once, long before, Kyogen had suggested that during meditation we look for the source of our thoughts. Where do they come from physically, mentally, psychologically, and spiritually? I decided, in my meditation, to look for the source of my feelings. As I began to emerge from my state of shock, I realized great anger and confusion. I found that the source was never "out there" but always inside. I found that it bubbled up. Large bubbles might last for weeks or years, small ones for moments.
When I meditated, as I sat in the middle of the anger, I would eventually come to the bottom of a bubble, to the source. There I found a space, a quiet place. Then inevitably, a new bubble would arise. Fear would always arise after finding the source of anger. Then I would sit in fear, sometimes for hours. I kept a diary, and for the first nine months after Kathleen's death, I mentioned anger often and never fear. For the second nine months I recorded mostly fear. When I got to the bottom of the fear and found the space, a new bubble would arise. This was one of incredible sadness and compassion, and I would sit in it.
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Nineteen months after her death, in May of 1993, I was training to be a facilitator at the Dougy Center. We were asked to make a collage of our grief. As if sleep-walking, I rummaged through National Geographics for materials. To the right of my paper, near the top, I placed a picture of some Muslims in prostration. They represented devotion. I found an image of the Tibetan God of Death with two young boys prostrate at its feet. It belonged at the top of the page. To the left near the top, I placed a photo of peasant women carrying heavy loads, representing the huge effort we all expend. Below was the picture of anger, a school of frowning fish who had turned away a predator. The bottom of the page held a photograph of a deer caught at the moment of awareness. The deer, having realized danger, was aware of life and death. To the right I wanted, but could not find, a representation of the ripping of my heart. I placed in the center a photo of two men crossing a raging river on wires. This represented the plunge into the void I had touched years ago. |
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The next morning, I was sitting zazen during service at the Zen Center. I remember thinking of Kathleen, and imagined my hand very tentatively letting go of her. We were chanting a scripture and came to the line, "Here born, we clutch at things, and then compound delusion, later on, by following ideals." As I let go, sensations crossed my body from left to right. My legs felt as if fire-crackers were exploding across them. The left side of my head opened and the warm light of unimaginable love poured in and across. What I touched was infinite, beyond time and space, beyond words and concepts, overwhelming, impossible to describe. Once again I was frightened, but I had the answer to my questions. What is the nature of a human being? What is the nature of a relationship? The answer was, She is with me.
For days I felt as if I were floating with an incredible joy for life. I was reminded of Don Juan's description of other humans as being luminous. They appeared luminous to me. Instead of feeling heart-broken, I felt very lucky and grateful for my marriage and the relationship I had. I realized how few were so lucky. I was perfectly happy with, and accepting of, the life I was living.
My practice vow since then has been to integrate what I learned on the pillow into my daily life. I' m remarried and very happy. I'm often overcome with the knowledge of how wonderful, precious and short life is. It still can be painful and I am often confused, caught in samsara, but my perspective is different. Kyogen says the precept "Do good for others" partly means to "..allow the world to affect you, so that the suffering of the world becomes part of your own mind of meditation... be open to it... accept it... (this) is to do good for others" As Dainin Katagiri says throughout his book, Returning to Silence, "This can be pretty hard." When I do my best practice, I begin to realize what a "baby Buddhist" I truly am "always going on beyond, always becoming Buddha."
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Under the Zafu by Richard Fumyo Mishaga |
Denkoe Twilight
Time-space is only the light and only the dark,Only the hushed, black-clad forms sitting across the zendo -
Karst-like, unmoving forms casting shadows in the dusk.
And each shadow flows, in turn, unimpeded and frictionless,Across concrete and wood,To interpenetrate the asexual dimness,To affirm, in all directions
Everything in this chiaroscuro universe,Just as it is, as it should be,
So the teacher begins. . .She retells the ancient tale of Rujing, the last of the Chinese Ancestors. In the familiar format of the Denkoroku, the teacher states the Main Case, describes Rujing's personal history, and summarizes with the Capping Verse, all interspersed with her compassionate insight. The tale fills the Denkoe twilight and I feel Rujing's presence in the zendo. Rujing trained his monks by cutting to the heart of the practice, by stressing zazen to the exclusion of other devotional practices. He often tells his disciples, "The beginning of Zen study is to have the heart of the way." This thought catches my consciousness. And like the shadows on the zendo floor, it moves about me during the sesshin.
The Heart of the Way
On one plane, Rujing's "heart of the way" can be viewed as the essence, the resolve, the aspiration to practice purely, without the trappings of the form and without extraneous devotional pastimes. However, this view strikes me as being too mental and more like the "mind of the way" or the "mind that seeks the way" than the activity of the heart. On another plane, "the heart of the way" can express practice itself, particularly practice expressed through deep zazen, or samadhi.
The "mind of the way" is familiar to all of us who are on this path. We have all experienced it; we are here because the unconditioned thought has arisen within us. We feel the vague anxiety of dukkha and have caught a glimpse of the white ox out in the distant field. With the aspiration and determination of the mind of the way, we start to sit, learn the precepts, and accept difficult Buddhist concepts, such as sunyatta. Our bodies adjust, we develop awareness and concentration. We feel that we have made progress, we're pleased. But look closely. Although we appear to be headed in the right direction, all our progress with the 'mind that seeks the way' has been intellectual, we have only used our normal mental processes, mere mental constructs. With the 'mind that seeks the way', we do not yet experience the superior activity of no-mind, where the stone maiden dances.
With the heart of the way, samadhi, we descend to a deeper state of awareness, past our normal mental processes, to a place where we can experience reality directly with our whole bodies. Only when we reach the heart of the way can we validate our beliefs through direct personal experience, and only then does our practice become transformational. Since samadhi, the heart of the way, is beyond discriminative thought it is impossible to describe to someone without the experience. But, like the heart in our bodies, the heart of the way is very real, it is physical as well as spiritual, and it lies at the very core of our being. It is always active, always beating, and is always vitalizing every cell that forms the totality of our existence, whether or not we are aware of it.
To experience the samadhi of zazen is truly the beginning of the study of Zen. It is what actualizes and transforms all the intellectual preparation that comes before. In a sense, the heart of the way is the foundation of our Soto Zen practice bacause without it any personal transformation is incomplete. And since samadhi, the heart of the way, is attainable to anyone who is willing to go deeper into zazen, it is no wonder that Rujing insisted that his trainees did not waste time and that they focus only on zazen practice.
As we approach fall term and our summer activities give way to those introspective thoughts accompanying the changing of the season, I urge all trainees to heed Master Rujing and to renew your efforts to practice zazen. Let's all make this term the time when we truly begin the study of Zen.
by Andy Wickens
Sonoma Mountain Zen Center (SMZC) seemed to me to be very rooted. Founded fewer than 25 years ago by Roshi Jakusho Kwong, disciple of the late Shunryu Suzuki, it seems to have that 'steeped in age and tradition' feeling that old cathedrals and other religious places have. Sixty acres of oak and madrone hide tidy, raked-gravel paths, the zendo (a converted cow-barn, zen-solid redwood, with a 20' statue of Kanzeon inside), yurts and other residences, the office/commons area, a lotus-filled pond, bath house, and various shrines. SMZC offers, in addition to regular services, two month-long Ango training periods (summer/winter) and a live-in residency program. Roshi Kwong has incorporated some Korean and Rinzai traditions into the daily practice schedule: 108 morning bows greet the Ango attendees; and the kyosaku is regularly offered. This variety is nicely complemented by the international make-up of the Sangha.
I attended Ango at SMZC in the summer of 1997. Participants at that time had flown in from Poland, Germany, Iceland, and England, as well as from various parts of the U.S. My particular interest in SMZC lay in the opportunity to work in their garden while rooting about in my own motivations for practice, my founderings, flounderings and uncertainties. If time and money permits, I highly recommend any type of extended practice, and like most Buddhist centers (probably), along with the stark rigors of practice, SMZC is fun, funny, and forgiving (and has good food - great Tenzo there).
One day, during sesshin (the third week of the Ango), formal tea was scheduled. (Note: no cookies. Be warned, ye intrepid warriors.) Roshi Kwong and Shinko (his wife, also Chief Junior for the Ango) served the tea to the participants. Silence. Absolute stillness. A pinecone lands on the zendo's aluminum roofing with a crash. The great redwood doors open, mosquito netting parts, and Roshi enters to offer tea first to the altar Buddha. Two steps in, and the teacup somehow leaps from the tray onto the floor, tea spreading outwards on the floor towards the thirsty Sangha. Roshi cries "AAH!!" and quickly retrieves the cup, exiting to refill it and resume the ceremony. Later, after tea, as we sit again in silence, raucous laughter drifts over from the kitchen area. It's nice to know that mistakes are not taken too seriously. In fact, the next day, Roshi's Dharma talk centered on that incident. He said that it was the first mistake he can remember making in a ceremony in over ten years. I was deeply honored. He also talked about the importance of "making space in your practice for mistakes." And in life in general. I think it has been said that we learn most through mistakes, and that they are a vital part of the path. It ties in with another theme that Roshi kept bringing up - that a bad situation is a good situation, and a good situation is a bad situation. Gee, how Zen. I think the point was that difficulty should be embraced and faced, because of the important learning that it fosters. Tea ceremonies always make me think of what Worf once said in a Star Trek episode: "Good tea; nice house."
Keizan's Other Disciples |
Last fall, Dr. Ryushin Azuma, head of Komazawa Women's University, visited Dharma Rain Zen Center. He gave a lecture about our ancestor Keizan, who dedicated his practice partly to opening the Japanese Soto Zen path to women. Keizan's efforts to make the practice available to all, and the human path welcoming to all, are why we call him our "greatest" ancestor - the 'great' refers in part to this breadth of offering. Dr. Azuma feels a kinship with Keizan and has also spent a good part of his Buddhist practice helping to restore equal respect and opportunities for women in Buddhism. To our great delight, he provided us with a list of the known female disciples of Keizan. None of these women had enduring lineages, a fact Dr. Azuma attributes directly to political and cultural oppression. They are nevertheless an important part of our family in the Dharma, and their efforts to tread the Path have certainly made our own a little softer. The list was translated by member Mikio Ohgushi.
Sho'zen: (' indicates that the syllable preceding it has a long vowel.) "Sho'" means nature, as in Buddha nature. She donated a bunch of rice fields to Eikoji in 1323. Keizan stipulated that the sangha would honor her forever by annually celebrating the day she passed away.
Mokuhu Sonin: "Moku" means being silent. "Hu" means something written in an orderly manner. "So" means ancestors or origin. "Nin" means enduring. She is Sho'zan's daughter. She became a nun in 1319. She might have been ordained earlier than Kinto' Ekyu'. She impressed Keizan deeply during Mondo between them in 1321. She was assigned as the first abbot of Entsu'in.
En-I: (- indicates there is a short break between n and i. It's not a "ni" sound.) "En" means circle. "I" means intention or will. She donated rice fields to Eikoji. Keizan gave her the same kind of honor as for Sho'zen.
Myo'sho Enkan: "Myo'" means bright. "Sho'" means shining. "En" means circle. "Kan" means observing, seeing or thinking. She is Keizan's cousin. She was ordained by Keizan in 1325. She became the abbot of Entsu'in after Mokufu Sonin and also the Boshu (perhaps an abbot?) of Ho'o'ji. Conventionally, Ho'o'ji is said to be the first Japanese Sotoshu nunnery. But Entsu'in might be the first.
In June we enjoyed a visit from Ven. Yantra Amaro, accompanied by six of his monks and a small staff of lay followers. Ven. Yantra came to Portland to give a talk at Portland State University and dropped in on us after Zazen and Morning Service June 21st. Kyogen sensei invited him to give the Dharma Talk that day, which he graciously did. Later that day he gave a public talk at the Center with a slide show. On the following Wednesday he and the monks returned to pick up a slide projector and stayed for their noon meal. The photo at the beginning was taken that day as Ven. Yantra tried out the meditation walk in the garden. Meanwhile the monks enjoyed the company of Eppie, the Temple cat.
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