No Knowing

In the first case of the Blue Cliff Record, Bodhidharma, who at least mythologically is credited with bringing Buddhism from India to China, was asked by the Emperor of China, "Who are you?" Bodhidharma responded, "I don't know."

In Case 20 from The Book of Equanimity, Dizang asked Fayan, “What do you think of wandering?” Fayan answered, “I don’t know.” Dizang said, “Not knowing is most intimate.”

Seung Sahn also used to encourage his students, "Only don't know!"

What is this "no knowing" that is so celebrated in Zen?

As an English, philosophy, and Zen teacher, I have a hearty appreciation of language, definitions, and concepts. Indeed, each is an important aspect of the Dharma, the Buddha's teachings.

But the Dharma really comes alive when we acknowledge the limits of our knowledge. As we read in one koan, "we can only know our consciousness till now." Our ideas about things are always retrospective. In this moment, there is something arising that we have never known. 

It is humbling and wonderful to acknowledge how limited our knowledge is even of ourselves. Though we may know the dictionary definition of "I", we, like Bodhidharma, may not fully comprehend what this little letter "I" refers to. The 10th most used word in the English language becomes a dharma gate inviting us to look more deeply.

Like Bodhidharma, we all know our names. But as Shakespeare wrote, "What's in a name?" My name is Michael. But who is Michael? What is in this name other than letters? What does it point to? I can go on listing attributes, but every attribute is a relationally designated and impermanent characteristic. For example, I am a teacher only because I have students. No students, no teacher. So being a teacher is not something that exists intrinsically in my essence. Identities are provisional, born out of changing relations. Is there something that is just "me"?

Though it may have seemed dismissive and strange, Bodhidharma responded to the Emperor from a deep place. What carries this body around? "No knowing." And Fayan answered Dizang from a deep place. Rather than add anything extra, he let wandering speak for itself.

In Zen, "no knowing" is not the non-existence of thoughts or of knowledge. I know my name and birthday. I also know what I think of wandering. (I often find it quite pleasurable, especially in the woods or in ancient cities, and sometimes in my refrigerator!) Both Bodhidharma and Fayan could have told entertaining stories in response to their questioners. That is what is customary, after all. If Bodhidharma were worried about what Emperor Wu thought of him, Bodhidharma might have shared a story. Even if we are not sure about something, we tend to cover up our confusion by filling the space with stories.

But Bodhidharma and Fayan chose not to. This is because they were answering questions on a different level from our ordinary way of interacting. Their not knowing was not some kind of blankness or confusion. It was not the inability to recall facts. Rather, it was an acknowledgment that our concepts are provisional. In no longer preferencing knowledge over this sensory-world, we open beyond our conceptual maps to immeasurable reality. And it's not that this is inherently better than our conceptual maps nor of a different nature, but there is liberation in no longer being held hostage by thoughts.

When we get tangled in conceptions, we become blind. If we think we already know who our partners are, we may take them for granted and pay less attention to the emerging, magical presences before us. If we think we already know the flavor of our tea, we may never taste it again. If we think we already know who we are, we may never awaken to our true nature (which is no nature at all). As Barry Magid writes, "We must center our practice not on coming up with new answers to our questions, but on bringing to light the old answers we carry around inside us and which form the hard shell of Self that stands between us and Life" (Ending the Pursuit of Happiness, 150). No knowing means opening up beyond our ideas to how things are in this very moment.

There is an ancient Chinese story that illustrates how thoughts are just thoughts. Once there were a farmer and son who had a stallion who helped the family plow the fields. One day, the horse ran away and their neighbors exclaimed, “Your horse ran away? What terrible luck!” The farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?” A few days later, the horse returned home, leading a wild mare back to the farm as well. The neighbors proclaimed, “Your horse has returned and brought another horse home with him. What great luck!” The farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?” Later that week, the farmer’s son was trying to break  the mare, and she threw him to the ground, breaking his leg. The villagers cried, “Your son broke his leg, what terrible luck!” The farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?” A few weeks later, war broke out and soldiers from the national army marched through town, recruiting all the able-bodied boys for the army. They did not take the farmer’s son who was still recovering from his injury. Friends shouted, “Your boy is spared, what tremendous luck!” To which the farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?”

Like Socrates, the mark of the father's wisdom is his willingness to acknowledge that there is a bigger picture that we humans cannot comprehend, and that everything changes. The neighbors jumped to conclusions that did not prove to be true. Still, you have to give them credit for not getting stuck on their previous notions. Imagine if the neighbors had felt certain that they were right and then defended their points of view. "Of course it is bad news that your son broke his leg! Have you no compassion or love? We should take your child from you!" When we stake out a position, even when evidence suggests that there is more to the story, we often blindly defend our previous claim. There is even a name for this: confirmation bias. We can go on endlessly marshaling facts to support our point of view, even though there may be other valid ways of interpreting the situation, and even as the situation changes. Wars are waged when both sides are certain they are right.

Of course, we are the neighbors in this story. We are the ones who jump to conclusions. When we pay attention to how the mind works, we eventually see that our thoughts are just thoughts, and they, like all of our perceptions, are incomplete and biased presentations of an incomprehensible mystery. There are actually no fixed, intrinsic essences anywhere that we can pin down.

This does not mean that we can't know things provisionally. It was fine for the neighbors to state their reactions. Not knowing does not mean we have to abandon knowing what a red light means while we are driving. We need to differentiate between vegetables and weeds. We should not give up our sense of what is beneficial and harmful, nor of what is right and wrong. Without words and letters, concepts and facts, we could not survive, never mind be of service.

But imagining that our conceptions capture fixed essences or that they are in some way absolutely true closes our heart-minds to infinite possibilities. Most painfully, when we get lost in our thinking, we obscure our innate intimacy with the world.

Knowing is like a wave on the surface of the ocean. These waves are the relative truths or conceptions that we use to navigate the world. We need them to survive and distinguish skillful from harmful actions. These waves are sometimes beautiful, like a poem, and sometimes terrible, like a desire for revenge. But waves are also empty of fixed essence and ever-shapeshifting. They exist provisionally. For us human beings, such relative truths are a consequence of having brains and are not a problem unless we get lost in them. Then they can blind us to the depths of existence and make us feel disconnected and empty. Unfortunately, this is what usually happens! 

It is helpful not to be too attached to particular wave formations. Let them come, and let them go. Whether it is some sexy sense of self or a hateful condemnation, just "open the hand of thought" (Uchiyama). In letting waves simply come and go, we find ourselves opening beyond the waves to immeasurable depths. These depths are not merely another idea but are boundless reality manifesting as our life -- an intimacy beyond all compare.

This is zazen.

Nourishing Bodhisattva Practice

what to do with your goat in a drowning world

hear the helicopters come over the roof
water's up to my attic windows
and I'm stuck here with my goat
I can see my neighbor in the hole on his roof
he's got two dachsies and a tomcat
just across the rushing river is his sister
she's cradling her baby and a rooster
circling helicopters circling helicopters
will take me but not my goat
will lift me up from muck and flood
but they won't take my neighbor's dogs or cat
or his sister's baby's rooster
helicopters overhead nation to the rescue
take the people damn their friends
I'm not going without my goat
he's not going without his pets
baby won't leave without her rooster
lord oh lord why don't we have an ark
that's the helicopters leaving
that's the nation to the rescue
leaving us here in the dark
             - Andrei Codrescu

Buddhists are called by compassion to alleviate suffering in the world. While there are innumerable forms this practice can take, two that I have explored are social justice and environmentalism. But anyone who has dared to turn toward these issues can easily feel overwhelmed, like the tide is literally and figuratively rising around them, and, as a way of feeling better, slip back into denial.

For me, these issues sometimes seem utterly overwhelming and intractable, especially in the face of a White House that is so regressive. Though I may put solar panels on my house, if the Trump administration simultaneously denies the reality of global warming, pulls out of international climate agreements, and boosts coal and oil production, I can feel defeated. And as a teacher, though I may help a Latin American or Black student advance into a higher level English class, if more aggressive border patrols separate migrant families from one another and children die in record numbers while in detention, I begin to feel hopeless.

In the face of such overwhelming odds, it is tempting to turn away from these issues to avoid feeling so disheartened. We may thus swing like pendulums from feeling motivated and taking actions to feeling overwhelmed and disengaging. In moments of overwhelm, we may tell ourselves, "it's all just too much. There's actually nothing we can do to prevent institutional racism and the destruction of our planet. It's inevitable." We may even pretend that our "Buddha-nature" liberates us from caring. But this is a misunderstanding of our Buddha-nature.

As I have described, if our insight into emptiness is genuine, our compassion naturally increases. We are all interwoven. We are all part of the same systems. We breathe the same air. In awakening to the inherent interconnectedness and beauty of the world, we can't help but be moved when we see what we love being harmed. Though sometimes it offers temporary relief from this world on fire, escapism is ultimately no refuge from what actually is. If our practice is authentic, withdrawal will, in time, give way to a more honest sense of co-responsibility every time we hear about the disproportionate imprisonment and poverty you of people of color, about historic storms flooding our cities, or about the eventual potential destruction of civilization due to global warming. This sense of co-responsibility is not a flaw in practice. It is our compassion urging us to save all beings.

But how can Buddhists stay engaged with social and environmental causes in a sustainable and effective way given how intractable the issues appear? I decided to write this post for myself as encouragement in the face of tough odds. I hope that some of my advice to myself will be of some use to you.

First, for me, Facebook is not nearly enough to nourish or carry out activism. Social media stirs us into a frenzy with its extreme headlines, but the most common outcome is that I react to a few posts, maybe write one myself, and then slip back into feeling overwhelmed.

In terms of inspiring effective and persistent activism, we might begin by spending more time appreciating what we actually love. We are, for example, more inspired to protect nature when we remind ourselves of how much we cherish being in it. I'm lucky. My father took me on a tour of many of our nation's parks when I was young and brought us mountain climbing every year. I vividly recall him standing on top of mountains looking over valleys of fall foliage with tears in his eyes. My love of nature was implanted early. But in our high-tech, busy society, it is easy to lose touch with nature and our love of its beauty. We need to nourish this love. Take walks in a park among the trees. Sit on a bench and listen to the birds sing and the wind in the leaves. Watch chipmunks scurry through the ivy and chirp at one another. Listen to children play in a green field. Remember that this is their world too. By being attentive in a meditative way in the real world, by "practicing" being awake to what surrounds us, we find our inspiration to save all beings. And we can cultivate this appreciative attention on the cushion practicing zazen. There’s nothing that sustains me more than this.

Another way to nourish ourselves is to join with others doing the same work. In a culture where things may be going in a direction with which we do not agree, we can feel like whatever we do is, as one friend put it, "a squirt gun in an inferno." And we can feel quite alone, without a clue what to do. But when we join with others, we get ideas and energy from one another. Each of us can carry part of the load. This gives us hope. Thousands of buckets of water just might make a difference.

Morning Star Zen Sangha, my practice group, is initiating "Bodhisattva Practice Group” to choose a few local actions to do together. It is easier to live according to our vow to save all beings when we are supported by others with similar values. There are so many organizations and people doing excellent work. We can carry out local projects with them like challenging school boards to address the achievement gap, picking up trash off the beach, or gathering signatures for more renewable energy. Perhaps most inspiringly, when we join with others, our efforts add up. Many drops become a wave.

If our sanghas align in practice but less in activism, joining other organizations can help. Groups that advocate politically offers us a personal hope that we can sway public policies in an altruistic direction. Eli Broad offers democratic engagement as the most effective and empowering means of joining with others to transform a society. He writes in the New York Times, "When a society helps people through its shared democratic institutions, it does so on behalf of all, and in a context of equality.  Those institutions, representing those free and equal citizens, are making a collective choice of whom to help and how.  Those who receive help are not only objects of the transaction, but also subjects of it -- citizens with agency.  When help is moved into the private sphere, no matter how efficient we are told it is, the context of the helping is a relationship of inequality:  the giver and the taker, the helper and the helped, the donor and the recipient." While democratic institutions may not always deliver on our hopes, actively participating on the local, state, and national level offers the real opportunity for our society to live up to our ideals. And when we do so with coalitions, our voices multiply and reverberate.

Another thing I have been reflecting on is how our mindfulness can help us attend to issues one moment at a time. For example, we might notice the way we casually buy, use, and "recycle" plastic. But most plastic that we drop in the recycle bin is not actually recycled, and huge amounts of it end up in the oceans, dissolving and entering our food chain. (Turns out things actually are interconnected!) When we see how much we waste and the harm it causes, we can attentively curb our waste. These commitments, when shared among friends, begin to feel meaningful, like maybe we can turn the tide.

Finally, I need to remind myself to notice successes, not just failures. Even though there are many people who may buy styrofoam cups, if I don't buy one, there is one less cup for a whale to swallow. As a child, my daughter used to take the rings that held six-packs of cans together and cut them so they would not strangle sea turtles and birds. We can all become children again, taking great care of what we naturally love and feeling good about the small things we are doing. After all, each being we save is a universe unto itself!

So spend time appreciating what you love, join with others to take action, and celebrate the successes along the way. Most fundamentally, we need each other if we hope to save all beings. If we are left alone on the roof of a house and the flood waters rise, we will not be able to save ourselves, never mind those we love. But if we can build bridges to one another, we can save all beings, one being at a time.

Buddha's "Freed from Pleasure and Pain"

In the Bahiya Sutta, a wise yet humble devotee named Bahiya loses his confidence in his practice and seeks the Buddha. When he finds him, he asks three times, "Teach me." Buddha's response helps Bihaya realize and transcend the relative and absolute truths.

Buddha says, "Herein, Bahiya, you should train yourself thus: 'In the seen will be merely what is seen; in the heard will be merely what is heard; in the sensed will be merely what is sensed; in the cognized will be merely what is cognized.' In this way you should train yourself, Bahiya. When, Bahiya, for you in the seen is merely what is seen... in the cognized is merely what is cognized, then, Bahiya, you will not be 'with that.' When, Bahiya, you are not 'with that,' then, Bahiya, you will not be 'in that.' When, Bahiya, you are not 'in that,' then, Bahiya, you will be neither here nor beyond nor in between the two. Just this is the end of suffering.... freed from form and formlessness. Freed from pleasure and pain."

What does it mean to be "freed from form and formlessness"?

It is important to realize the context of the Buddha's teachings. Like many people of our time, in ancient India people believed in a self with an intrinsic essence. It is true that each of us has a different story that we might say makes us who we are, and we must honor one another's stories. They deepen our compassion for ourselves and one another, even inspiring us to alleviate suffering in the world. Also, without our "relative thinking" in which we differentiate one self (or object) from another, we could not distinguish poisonous weeds from food. We would not know what to eat when we were hungry. Relative truths help us distinguish me from you and this from that. We need our relative truths, our conceptions of reality, to survive.

And, though these relative truths are helpful and necessary, they are only relative truths that are impermanent and relationally defined. Each "self" is constantly in flux and therefore has no unchanging essence. Each entity is also a dependent arising, existing in dependence on other factors, and therefore without any intrinsic essence. This lack of an unchanging, intrinsic essence Buddha called "anatman," or "no self." It is this perspective that we refer to as the absolute truth in Mahayana Buddhism.

The absolute truth is offered as medicine for people who suffer as they defend their egos, their senses of self, from inevitable change and decay. We all grow old, sick, and die. We often speak of the absolute by saying, "no." As the Heart Sutra states, from the absolute perspective there are no forms, and there is no suffering.

Both the relative and absolute expressions are true. Most western philosophers would say this is not possible. There cannot both be form and no form. After all, the rule of non-contradiction says that since these statements countermand one another, these statements cannot both be true. Hamlet's response is best: "There are far more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

When we get a glimmer of both sides of the coin, the mind tends to flip-flop between yes and no, between either this or that, between form and emptiness. We can easily get caught in either the relative side or the absolute side of the dharma, then deny the other side of the coin. Or we can get caught in seeing both sides of the coin. And this is where Buddha met Bahiya. Ever the skillful teacher at meeting students where they are, Buddha's counsel points beyond the paradox.

In actuality, "relative and absolute are altogether blended" (Robert Aitken, The Mind of Clover). Put differently, though the relative and absolute truths are both true, they are also just constructs pointing beyond themselves to the great reality, and in that sense, neither is true. Zen itself is a human creation to help reveal our true nature, which is no nature at all. Things neither exist nor don't exist. There is no suffering, no cause of suffering, nor is there not suffering, nor no cause of suffering.

When we are freed from all dualities, life whispers in the trees, dances like statues of stone. There are no essences to be found anywhere, and still, there is this "dream," like shapeshifting clouds in the sky, like rainbows, like bubbles in a stream.

All we must do is receive things exactly thus, receive what is sensed without adding anything extra, think our thoughts without adding belief or disbelief, open our heart-minds without investing any fixed identity anywhere. Here self and other are the same, and both fall completely away.

Everything is exactly as it is. Emptiness is exactly form, form exactly emptiness. Practice just this, Bahiya. Just this. Free from form and formlessness, free from pleasure and pain.

Mono No Aware, Compassion for Life's Poignancy

My son is graduating from high school. He is my second and last child. My daughter graduated a few years ago and is in college. Soon, my wife Sandra and I will be empty-nesters. 

As part of a graduation present, I digitized a collection of videos from when my kids were young. Last night I watched those videos for the first time. 

Every parent thinks this, but in my case, it is true: my children were the cutest, most adorable creatures to ever walk the face of the earth.

Now, they are both quite mature adults, and they are headed into this world to make their mark. I am in awe of them both. I won't go on bragging about them. Not particularly seemly. But I am very proud. 

And I am also sad. 

A poignant nostalgia swept over me watching those videos as I transferred them to USB's to share with them. How I longed to kiss their rounded cheeks once again. The videos were filled with laughter and adventures -- trick or treating tigers and princesses, Godzilla destroying cities made of blocks, dances in puddles in summer rain, first bike rides and roller skates. Exhausting as those years may have been, I was fueled by love to engage with these two sparkling singing dancing laughing children. We played hide n' seek in the graveyard. We did treasure hunts and built ships of driftwood by the ocean. And somehow, without consciously thinking it, I felt that this family constellation would last forever. 

But now my son is off to drive across the country alone. He'll camp and hike in national parks across America. It's quiet here at home. And I am so deeply aware of how things change, of how everything is impermanent. 

My students at school also graduate and move on. I have been teaching for about 24 years. That's 24 classes of graduating seniors whom I have cared for who resettled across the world. And every year at the end of the year, I feel that goodbye.

Closer to home, both of my parents have died. I sometimes visit their graves. I can no longer ask them what I was like as a boy or where we first went biking together. I have only my own memories to remind me. And I feel memories of them slipping away. Of the many years we spent together, my mind only contains fragmented images, a few archetypal stories. These people I loved are gone. 

I am reminded of Dogen offering incense after his mother died, watching the smoke rise and ashes fall. We are touched by impermanence every moment of every day. So many moments coming and going, and we can't hold on to any of them. The present keeps slipping away. 

Sometimes it feels like the whole world is slipping away. As Buddha said, "All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature of change; there is no way to escape being separated from them"  (Upajjhatthana Sutta).

I suspect that at some point in life, all of us deeply realize that we are always saying goodbye, always parting with people, pets, places, and moments we love. 

The Japanese have a term that resonates with me. It is "mono no aware" (物の哀れ), an awareness and deep feeling of the impermanence of things that contributes to a poignancy and wistfulness at their passing, as well as a more lasting, deeper sadness about the transience of life itself. This awareness is revered as a form of deep appreciation. 

I think Americans are a bit ashamed of sadness when it comes. Kids, especially boys, are often bullied when they cry. All of us share our happy pictures on Facebook. "Look how happy I am!" I think maybe we identify happiness with success. So it has been a process for me to learn to appreciate sadness too. I think we in the US can learn from "mono no aware." It is so honest. Life is beautiful, and we lose everything we love. Cut off sadness and we cut off appreciation itself.

Even sadness is a dharma gate. When it arises, if we deny its presence, we cut ourselves in two. When we accept this touching emotion in ourselves, we open through it to the world as it is, present in these dewdrops of tears. We can be whole. 

And when we accept sadness in ourselves, we are more likely to accept sadness in others, making us more compassionate as well. After all, everyone is always losing people, things, and moments they love. We have this in common.

New moments are arising, and in these new moments we find the seeds of the past blossoming. In a very real way, nothing is ever lost. The past, present and future all exist here in the present. And still, everything is changing. The specific things that brought us joy disappear, and we feel their loss. So the joy we felt in the past becomes sadness now. And the joy we feel now is part of the sadness to come. Past, present and future are intertwined in the human heart. If we can open ourselves, we find all beings residing there. 

My son is beginning to pack his bags for his trip. I wish him great joy and adventure, not to mention a safe trip (I am a father after all). And as he drives away, there will be tears of love on my cheeks. 

Bodhisattva Practice: the Natural Result of Insight into Emptiness

There is a common misunderstanding that insight into emptiness and enlightenment liberate a person from concern about the state of the world.

One Zen teacher recently posted on a Buddhist Facebook page that a report by over a hundred scientists recently indicated that we have entered an era of mass extinctions largely due to climate change. The post encouraged taking care of the planet the way we care for our zendos. Responses were largely positive, but a few people responded that we should not worry but should just sit and become enlightened; everything is impermanent, so essentially, who cares? In other places, I have seen people make the case that since all things are empty of selfhood, there are no beings who suffer, so there is no cause for us to be concerned about beings who are suffering. Another take is that "I just cultivate my own inner peace, and other people need to cultivate theirs. Their suffering is just in their minds (and not in mine)." So there is this idea out there that insight into emptiness liberates a person from caring about people's suffering. This view can lead people to dismiss the suffering caused by climate change, racism, and poverty as fabrications of the imagination. It also elevates a separate sense of self (me versus those who suffer) that is actually born out of privilege. This is not my understanding of emptiness, nor is it my understanding of Buddhism.

The Dalai Lama writes in his wonderful book, Practicing Wisdom, that insight into emptiness deepens one's compassion and that if it does not, then one's "insight" is both misguided and worthless. He writes, "If as an individual meditator you have a sense that your realization of emptiness is deepening yet there is no corresponding increase in your compassion toward others, then this is perhaps an indication that your understanding of emptiness is not really profound or genuine.... If your understanding of emptiness does not contribute positively in any way toward [the development of compassion], there is no worth in it at all.... We should not have the notion that buddhahood is a state of total apathy, devoid of feeling, emotion, and empathy toward other sentient beings. Meditation on emptiness is not some kind of escapism, refusing to deal with the diversity and complexity of the conventional and relative world. The aim is to be able to relate with the phenomenal world in a correct and meaningful way" (27).

The Heart Sutra discusses emptiness at some length. In it, Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion (a bodhisattva is one who vows to awaken and save all beings from suffering), explains to Shariputra that "emptiness is exactly form," and insight into this fact transforms "all suffering and distress." The sutra goes on to say that there is "no eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind..., no suffering [and no] cause of suffering." Those who study Buddhism can be easily confused by these statements and come to believe that Avalokiteshvara means that nothing exists. If taken literally, this is a pretty nihilistic sentiment for a bodhisattva of compassion.

How we understand "no" in the Heart Sutra is important. Avalokiteshvara is pointing to the living truth. When we conceptualize reality, we tend to put things in separate categories that often do not reflect how interwoven and fluid things really are. For example, we might think that we see with the eye alone, that seeing is just a function of the eye, but this is not true. Seeing actually is a "dependent arising" that includes the eye, the mind that processes images, light reflecting off objects, and the objects themselves. If we remove any part of the entirety of seeing, we no longer have any vision. Therefore, we can say that there is no vision, no "eye," without the entirety of creation, just as there is no separate "I" that exists independently from the rest of the world. Our physical bodies are made of the rain, the food we eat, and the air we breathe. Logically, it makes sense that we would therefore care for the environment. Even our minds, which we often think of as entirely independent, are constituted of things that are not the mind -- fleeting thoughts, perceptions of sensory objects, etc. Things, including ourselves, do not exist as stand-alone, permanent entities. Reality is "empty" of unchanging, independent essences. This is not the same as saying things do not exist or that we cannot provisionally distinguish one thing from another. Rather, things exist as dependent arisings.

Insight into emptiness means that we come to see the way things actually exist. When we do, we realize that everything exists in dependence on other factors, and that there are no abiding, separate selves anywhere. To realize emptiness is not just an intellectual process, though we can use our intelligence to inspire practice and point the way. But in meditation, we can realize this interwovenness in a way that is non-conceptual. It is in meditation that we come to a nondual realization of emptiness in which emptiness is exactly form, sometimes described as "suchness." In this realization, there is neither negation nor affirmation. There is neither emptiness nor form. We start to feel some deep sense of intimacy with the world that exists beyond conceptions and with the flow of thought itself, which also has no fixed essence. We have to meditate, to actually look, to realize the way things actually exist.

When we awaken, the result is not apathy or a nihilistic understanding based on notions of emptiness, impermanence, or non-existence. Awakening involves a remarkable appreciation of the aliveness of each moment and the deeply interpenetrating nature of reality itself. When we hear the song of a bird, it floats through our own hearts. We are not separate from the bird's song. Sometimes this recognition is called "no self," but it does not mean there is nothing. This intimacy and fluidity is so moving, we call it awakening. As Torei Enji wrote, "Everything reveals the mysterious truth of the Tathagata. Things can’t help but shine with this light."

But here's the key: awakening is not limited to beautiful experiences. When we see suffering in the world, and when we feel the way all beings reside in our hearts, this suffering touches our own being. To realize emptiness is not some aloof state of negation; it is actually quite a vulnerable enterprise. 

This appreciation of how interwoven we are -- or of dependent arising -- is the root of compassion. Being interconnected, we are touched by the suffering in the world. Since suffering lacks fixed essence but arises out of specific causes and conditions, we need not identify with it or get caught up in reified conceptions of it, and this is liberating. This is one way insight into emptiness alleviates suffering. But there is still pain in the world and pain that touches our hearts. And since pain is not a fixed essence, pain can also be alleviated if we are able to remove its causes. Of course not all causes of suffering can be removed, but many can. So insight into the emptiness of phenomena often brings with it a sense of possibility and motivates us to take compassionate action to alleviate suffering whenever we can.

There are many beings who are suffering in this world. In paying attention and not turning away, we will see that climate change has already led to refugee crises and may cause the mass extinction of species. In America, there is great suffering caused by white supremacy, including historic and ongoing systemic racism, the disproportionate use of force by police, and the often unacknowledged biases and blindnesses we perpetuate within our own heart-minds. The notion that we should not care about these and other problems because we are somehow "enlightened" is contrary to the lived experience of realization. This is why Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion who offers the teachings of the Heart Sutra, is depicted as having tears running down her face and a thousand arms and hands with which to save the many beings of the world.

We personally don’t have a thousand hands. And we can’t work 24-7. The point isn’t to burn out. But we can see what speaks to our hearts, and do something.

The term "emptiness" as used in the Heart Sutra does not mean that nothing matters. Nor does it mean that there is some separate metaphysical entity outside phenomena in which we take refuge. On the contrary, it suggests that we are so interwoven that we care for all beings as ourselves, and there is the real possibility of alleviating suffering. It is this compassion that led the enlightened one, Buddha, to rise from under the Bodhi tree, return to his sangha, and teach them. "Bodhisattva practice," or activism inspired by the compassionate witnessing of suffering in the world, is a natural result of our deepening insight into emptiness. We can't do everything, but compassion inspires us to do what we can.

Is Zen a Spiritual Practice or a Religion?

Zen as Spiritual Practice

“Once religious rites and dogmas have become so rigid that religiosity cannot move them or no longer wants to comply with them, religion becomes uncreative and therefore untrue." Martin Buber

Many people today would describe themselves as spiritual but not religious. For many, there seems to be something off-putting about religion. Though raised Christian, as a teenager I came to feel like attending church meant someone would "preach" at me about what I should believe and do in order to avoid going to hell when I die. Seemed pretty "top-down." There was not much room in that for me to have an opinion.

Also, religious traditions seemed steeped in the past. While science moves forward offering new rational explanations for different aspects of reality, religions can seem stuck with old stories that can appear irrational. While the teachings of the Bible may have felt relevant in the times of old, people change. Societies change.

I think many people today often feel more comfortable calling themselves "spiritual" because it preserves a sense of independence from the doctrinal and dogmatic. People want something less hierarchical and more participatory, even democratic. People want something rational. In this society that values independence and freedom, fewer and fewer people want to submit to externally developed codes of behavior or beliefs. For many, to paraphrase Nietzsche, "the old God is dead."

During this time of religious decline, self-help and spirituality book sales have thrived. While people don't want to have to toe the line and adhere to some middle-man's interpretation of God's commandments, we still seem to want some sort of support in living a meaningful, spiritually satisfying life. In a sense, many yearn for what has been lost in the rejection of religious traditions. We want to experience for ourselves the living Mystery.

One reason I was drawn to Zen practice is because of how the teachings are offered. Most of us have heard the cliche, "if you meet the Buddha on the road, kill the Buddha." In other words, don't believe in a Buddha outside yourself. And it is common knowledge that Buddha said, in short, "don't take my word for it. Test these teachings out, and only embrace what you can verify for yourself." For American rugged individualists, this has a kind of On the Road Jack Kerouac appeal. Set out on a journey to find yourself. "I don't need anybody but me." Buddhist teachings even have appeal to rationalists. The arguments about non-self, for example, can be expressed as rigorous philosophical claims.

And generally, when the precepts, or moral guidelines, are offered, they are not offered as an absolute set of rules that Buddhists have to follow. Diane Rissoetto's book Waking up to What You Do says it all: practicing the precepts is not about adhering to commands but is about waking up. While the precepts do caution us regarding not killing, for example, there is this recognition that we have to kill to survive. We have to kill plants at a minimum. Our bodies kill off viruses in order to survive. There is no escape from killing. So while the precepts encourage us to minimize harm, there is some recognition that these precepts cannot be taken too literally. We need not be fundamentalists.

Also, we will all interpret the precepts differently depending on our life circumstances. There is not a single dogma that we all should embrace. This is because Buddhists tend to recognize something called "dependent origination." Contexts matter. While minimizing harm is the central ethic and requires that we no longer place ourselves at the center of the universe (this is the key to any ethical system), Buddhist ethics tend not to be deontological. We can't necessarily say that any "rule" is absolute, though some might come close. One might find that it is necessary to steal in order to save a life. One would try to avoid doing so, but I can imagine circumstances where it might seem necessary. So long as we are doing all we can to minimize harm, perhaps such choices are occasionally necessary. The key is being awake to our actions and living consciously and choicefully.

None of this is to say that Buddhism is "better" than any other religion, though Buddhism is my chosen tradition. I trust that every tradition has its aliveness and that most traditions are born of our yearning to touch what we might call the divine. But I do appreciate the way Buddhist teachings tend to help us avoid the pitfall of dogmatism. Americans can get behind a practice that allows us to maintain our sense of rationality, individuality and freedom, so Buddhism has great curb appeal.

Still, this self-reliance casts different shadows. Buddhism's curb appeal can also fuel a kind of self-seeking that misses the depths of the Dharma.

Zen as a Religion

Practicing Zen for many years has shown me that there is also a depth in Buddhist practice that I would call "religious." The flexibility in Buddhist teachings helps prevent it from becoming dogmatic or fundamentalist and breathes a quality of personal responsibility into a Buddhist life. But Buddhism simultaneously challenges the very same rugged individualism that draws many people through the door in the first place.

First of all, "spiritualists," as multiple book titles suggest, tend to seek liberation and appreciation of life's depths for themselves, but Mahayana Buddhism asks us to seek it for all beings. In my view, this is one of the most essential, challenging, and transformative teachings of Buddhism that makes it more of a religion than just spiritual practice. The longer one practices Zen, the more one realizes that we are all deeply interwoven and interdependent, and we do not exist as separate entities. We actually come to see that we cannot save only ourselves. We can't exist as separate, rugged individualists after all. This "failure" in our spiritual quest for personal happiness is our first success in our religious practice. Now we are truly living for something greater than ourselves, and this, to me, is what characterizes the religious enterprise.

Second, we may come to value the very "traditions" that at first repulsed us in religious practices. Things like bowing are often done only begrudgingly by initiates. They may feel like they do not want to bow to something other than themselves. "I came here to find the truth within, not to bow to some external god. In fact, I am here out of avoidance of such a thing!" More than a few who walk through the door come only once because of the practice of bowing. But if we keep showing up, bowing has a way of growing on us. At some point, we may begin to feel that when we fight reality, we lose. Things are as they are. This does not mean that we cannot also take action to change things, but the first step is seeing things as they are, and this requires accepting what is. Bowing is a kind of submission that in time feels beautiful. How lovely to bow, to simply accept what is, then go from there.

And then along comes a religious feeling. A feeling of opening and recognizing the intimacy of all beings. This easily misunderstood pointer does not mean that "I" am "one with everything" (a conceptual, self-centered understanding), nor that the relative truth of separate existences is erased, but that there is a way that all things are boundless, are interpenetrating, and can only exist together. Language points to this realization, but awakening itself cannot be realized by the rational mind alone. Here, our separate, fixed selves dissolve into a thusness that might best be described as a "religious experience" and that cares not for rugged individualism or rationale. Here we find that all beings reside in our hearts.

There are different kinds of freedom in this world. Sometimes we feel the freedom of going it alone. But sometimes we feel the freedom of opening our hearts to the vast, interpenetrating boundlessness that is our true nature in which we seek nothing, gain nothing for ourselves, and still, taste the deepest meaning of existence. For me, this is the heart of religious experience and is why I characterize Zen not only as a spiritual practice but also as a religious tradition.

Seeking Enlightenment is No Hindrance

There's this perennial debate among Zensters about whether Buddhist teachings should reference enlightenment (sometimes called kensho, awakening, or realization), and whether the term points to anything "real."

This debate goes back to ancient times when some suggested that seeking is a delusion, and others suggested that seeking is essential.

Nowadays, some argue that the notion of enlightenment is problematic because it is the basis of hierarchies (teachers are "enlightened" while students are "not"), and these hierarchies result in abuses. Also, some, particularly from the Soto tradition, suggest that the notion of enlightenment is problematic because it suggests a particular state of mind that exists in opposition to other states of mind, creating dualistic notions. Therefore, anyone using the term is actually deluded. Third, they say that this notion of enlightenment causes striving, which is counterproductive. Finally, some suggest that awakening itself is makyo -- a temporary illusion generated by demons that comes and goes like everything else.

Others, like Dosho Port, defend kensho, citing Buddha himself who, as the story goes, was enlightened and "together with all beings attained the way." (James Ford, my first teacher, lovingly tells that tale here.)

I am a Soto priest in Boundless Way Zen and have practiced in the trackless land of shikantaza for many years. We take the Buddha seat, "sit down, shut up, and pay attention," as James is fond of saying. There is a kind of faith and recognition in this practice that whatever life offers is exactly the Way. In this practice, we find the wisdom of no escape, an openness to whatever is as the very dharma we seek.

Still, we make the effort of joining sangha-mates for intensive practice periods. We put on our robes at the sound of the bell, offer incense to the Buddha, and follow highly choreographed forms. To leave home and practice like this requires great commitment and suggests that even though lying around eating bon bons is also the Way, doing so is unlikely to help us realize it.

Many of our Soto practices are based on the teachings of Japanese Zen master Dogen. In the early years of his practice, Dogen's driving hwadu was, in short, why practice? "If everything already has Buddha nature, and if we are therefore already enlightened, why should we practice at all?"

But Dogen did not then take this intellectual notion that we are already enlightened as an excuse to avoid seeking the truth. Dogen went on a quest, crossing the sea to find a teacher in China who could help him resolve this troubling matter. He traveled the lands meeting master after master and was not satisfied till he had his own enlightenment experience. The story goes something like this:

"Dogen studied with Master Rujing. One evening during the intensive summer training, in the first year of Pao-chang, 1225, Rujing shouted at a disciple, 'When you study under a master, you must drop the body and mind. What is the use of single-minded intense sleeping?' Sitting right beside this monastic, Dogen suddenly attained great enlightenment. Immediately, he went up to the abbot’s room and burned incense. Rujing said, 'Why are you burning incense?' Dogen said, 'Body and mind have been dropped off.' Rujing said, 'Body and mind dropped off. The dropped-off body and mind.' Dogen said, 'This may only be a temporary ability. Please don’t approve me arbitrarily.' Rujing said, 'I am not.' Dogen said, 'What is that which isn’t given arbitrary approval?' Rujing said, 'Body and mind dropped off.' Dogen bowed. Rujing said, 'The dropping off is dropped.'"

It is essential to note Dogen's sense of purpose, his sense of release, his checking with his teacher to confirm his enlightenment, and finally Rujing's encouragement that Dogen let go even of the notion that body and mind dropped off.

This enlightenment experience was transformative for Dogen. Dogen could not comprehend the truth of the dharma until he saw it for himself. Faking it based on some intellectual claim is no substitute.

Dogen subsequently returned to Japan where he assumed a teaching position and began to write. In his Genjokoan, Dogen writes, "If you say that you do not need to fan yourself because the nature of wind is permanent and you can have wind without fanning, you will understand neither permanence nor the nature of wind." We should not say that we do not need to fan ourselves (or practice) or we will not understand the living dharma. He continues, "The nature of wind is permanent; because of that, the wind of the Buddha’s house brings forth the gold of the earth and makes fragrant the cream of the long river." The gold of the earth and fragrance of the cream of the long river are already thus. And, there is no gap between the wind of the Buddha's house and the wind from a fan. Fanning is no hindrance to the wind.

The founder of Soto wrote about enlightenment extensively (e.g. "Enlightenment is like the moon reflected in the water"*). Still, I appreciate the cautions offered by those who speak against using the term. As for how the term contributes to hierarchies, there is truth to this, and hierarchies have their shadows that we must recognize. But in throwing out teachers, we would throw out the baby with the bathwater. I am deeply indebted to my teachers and could never repay them for their guidance and wisdom in helping cultivate compassion and cut through delusions. Still, we must learn from abuses in the past. We have seen again and again that even teachers with deep insight stray and cause harm. In fact, one of my teachers suffered at the hands of her first teacher who had some insight into the great matter. She had to leave him to find another teacher. So what can we learn? First, my teacher abandoned the abuser, not the dharma. We do not need to throw out the dharma because some fail to live up to it. Second, we can recognize that enlightenment does not mean perfection of character. In fact, enlightenment never means what we think it means. Regardless of spiritual insight, we need the container of the precepts to guide us. Third, we need structures in our sanghas such as clear ethical guidelines, means for students to air complaints, and real accountability to help prevent future abuses.

Now, what to make of the argument that we should abandon the notion of enlightenment because it creates dualistic notions? Actually, any teaching is dualistic. The moment we open our mouths we are in the realm of dualistic thinking. This doesn't mean we abandon the dharma. The dharma helps us see how yin depends on yang, how enlightenment depends upon delusion, how emptiness depends upon form, and how all of these notions collapse. In practicing with thinking, we gain our freedom as we see that even dualistic thinking is another dharma gate. Duality is no hindrance to nonduality.

Another complaint is that notions of enlightenment lead to striving. I would suggest that striving is not so bad. It can even be good! It depends what we are striving for. For me, practice sometimes feels like swimming upstream. Our conditioned habit minds are strong. So often we unconsciously long to get through this moment so we can get to the next one, which we often imagine will be better. We are conditioned to feel dissatisfied by endless TV commercials that tell us life would be better if only we owned this or that product. We can also be possessed by our judgments of right and wrong, so much so that we are blind to the people in front of us, so much so that we even kill one another. We get caught up in conceptual maps of reality, like a driver who imagines that looking at Google Maps is the same as watching the road. One reason we get so caught in our conceptual maps is because we are taught in schools to value "knowing" above all else. When we do not know something conceptually, we are labeled as failures. We desperately want to avoid that shame. Point is, if someone suggests that there is no reason to awaken, I would be concerned that a touch of hubris may have slipped into that person's view of themselves. All we need to do is pay attention for a few moments and we realize that "delusions are endless" and we do get swept along. So we "vow to end them." This doesn't mean we cut off thinking. We practice seeing our delusions clearly. This we call waking up! It requires intentionality.

Terms like awakening, enlightenment, and emptiness which convey something beyond conception help us realize that though our proud brains wish it were otherwise, our conceptual maps cannot "know" immeasurable reality. Sometimes we catch a glimpse of the "intimacy" toward which all this language points, and it make our eyes water. A pebble strikes a stalk of bamboo. A bird sings in our heart. A flash of lightning in a summer cloud. And with that opening, we begin to trust something that includes yet extends beyond words, that includes yet extends beyond striving. And in this boundless intimacy, language and striving are no hindrance at all.

As for the question of whether kensho is makyo, Dosho puts it this way: "If you think kenshō is makyō, you might consider the possibility that this thought itself is makyō."

My encouragement: if you are curious, follow that curiosity. Find a sangha with an authorized Zen teacher. Draw on all the "technologies of awakening" available to you. And go ahead and seek the truth. "Bind grasses to build a hut, and don't give up!"*


* Dogen's "Genjokoan"
**Shitou Xiqian's "Song of the Grass-Roof Hermitage"

Transforming the Three Poisons through our Bodhisattva Vow

Our children's future is at risk due to climate change, but in the United States, we seem to lack the political and personal will to address this very real threat. Why? And how can we address this intransigence?

Buddha's teachings offers three reasons why we are not taking action: greed, ignorance, and aversion. The dharma also offers a path to transform these three poisons into generosity, wisdom, and loving care. This path begins with our bodhisattva vow. Though we cannot know whether we will ultimately be successful, we can take responsibility for our own actions and live a life with integrity. It just might be contagious. And it just might save our planet for generations to come. 

The Three Poisons

Plastics fill the bellies of whales. Run-off from factory farms pollutes our waters. And most harmfully, the burning of fossil fuels harms our health (especially for those who can't afford to live further from power plants) and releases CO2 which blankets the atmosphere, trapping in warmth and causing climate change. There is near scientific consensus that climate change magnifies powerful storms, floods, heat waves, and droughts and raises sea levels by melting the polar ice caps, all of which contribute to refugee crises (the world's most vulnerable populations will suffer most), civil war, and the mass extinctions of species. We are at risk of collapsing our earth's ecosystem. Even if there is only a fifty percent chance of the more dire predictions coming true, we are playing Russian roulette with human civilization. Yet US national policy actively undermines efforts to combat pollution and the climate crisis. Why? 

Buddha understood human nature. He said that we suffer from 3 poisons: greed, ignorance, and aversion. All three are leading us headlong into harm. For example, ExxonMobil knew back in the seventies that greenhouse gases were a problem. Motivated by greed, they undermined climate science in order to maintain profits. Through their propaganda, Americans were kept ignorant about climate change for years. In fact, nearly a third of Americans, despite clear evidence, still believe climate change is a "hoax." 

In the US we are also caught up in acquisitiveness, another form of greed. As Christian theologian Sallie McFague says, "We human beings are so embedded in the culture of consumerism that being asked to consume less makes us almost gasp. And we do; we stop for a moment, and then we get back in our cars and our airplanes, and continue on." In fact, 70 percent of Americans would not even pay $10 per month to combat global warming. 

What is perplexing is that even though a majority of us now comprehend the devastating significance of climate change, few of us are willing to make sacrifices to address the issue, but we may misunderstand what is required. According to the NY TImes, “The main reason people reject the science of climate change is because they reject what they perceive to be the solutions: total government control, loss of personal liberties, destruction of the economy." We are ignorant of the alternatives.

Aversion to taking action may be the subtlest sticking point preventing Americans from dealing with climate change. The challenge sometimes seems overwhelming. Perhaps we just think the odds are stacked against us and can't imagine any way through, so we give up. It can seem like my actions make no difference in the face of powerful energy lobbyists. It is disheartening watching environmental regulations being overturned at this critical moment in history. Given the political challenges, it is common even for self-proclaimed environmentalists to slip into forgetfulness or resignation. 

We may also be averse to taking personal risks. We may recognize that life on this planet is in jeopardy but feel hesitant to risk being called "alarmist." Thirty years ago, I wrote an email to friends asking for support in an environmental cause. One "replied all" with a scathing (and brilliantly funny) satire about tree hugging teachers. Nobody defended my appeal. I didn't write to that bunch of friends about the environment again.

But maybe the biggest challenge is that we are averse to doing the work of writing legislators, protesting, or even switching to renewably sourced electricity. After all, by the time the climate crisis really hits the planet, many of us will be dead and gone. Why make sacrifices now if we won't get to enjoy the benefits?

The Importance of Vow

Due to the power of the three poisons, awareness of the developing climate crisis is apparently not enough to inspire us to take dramatic action. We need some call of the heart that helps us transcend greed, ignorance, and aversion. 

In Buddhism, our bodhisattva vow is to save all beings. When we first take this vow, we may do so  out of self-interest. After all, what goes around, comes around. We drink the water and breathe the air. If we pollute them, we personally suffer. If we keep them clean, we suffer from fewer diseases. 

But given the long-term projections involved in climate change, our motive needs to be greater than self-benefit. The Bodhisattva vow to save all beings transcends the desire for personal gain. The bodhisattva vow expands our circle of concern from limited self-centeredness to an infinite circumference that includes all beings throughout space and time. This commitment to save all beings, including our children's children, transforms greed into generosity and aversion into loving care.

In living for something bigger than what we think of as ourselves, we also learn a deeper truth. In caring for all beings, we awaken to the wisdom that we are "empty" of separate, fixed selves. We are not separate from the earth, sky, and rain. Indeed, we eat the food of the earth, breathe the air of the sky, and drink the rain. To care for the environment is like our left hand scratching our right. There is actually no gap between us and the environment. We are part of nature, and nature is in us, so we love and protect it. We love the way the bird sings in our own heart. The vow to save all beings is an expression of boundless intimacy with all beings and reflects the transformation of ignorance into wisdom.

Sometimes it makes us feel worse as we face into great challenges. But our bodhisattva vow to save all beings throughout space and time transforms our self-centeredness into a vast love that inspires us to do whatever we can.

Together Action

Environmental activism is an essential priority. If our environment renders life unsustainable, nothing else will matter. I am inspired by Greta Thunberg and many of her generation. Greta has exhibited the three virtues of generosity, wisdom, and loving care. Having learned about climate change, Greta stopped going to school in order to protest global warming. Driven by her vow to save future generations, Greta made significant personal sacrifices. Greta shows us that where there is will, there are ways to engage.

Most of us already know what we should do. Think globally; act locally. Insulate our homes, reduce fuel consumption, eat less meat, and waste less food and material goods (including plastic). We can also make donations to organizations fighting against climate change and for environmental justice, and we can join local protests and coalitions. And if we hope to save future generations, we must also support national and local representatives who will shift our energy production from fossil fuels to renewables, leading to a new clean-energy future, improved standard of living, and better local jobs and local economy. 

We cannot know in advance what the outcome of our actions will be. But in caring for something greater than ourselves, we manifest our boundless true nature, and this is of immeasurable value. 

It begins with our earnest vow to save all beings. Whether you have never made this vow or have made it a thousand times, you can take this bodhisattva vow right now. Consider repeating this every day: "I vow to save all beings throughout space and time." Let this vow touch your heart where all beings reside, and it will renewably energize our transformation. 

Meditating with Feng-hsueh

Let's play with a koan. 

Case 24 in the Gateless Barrier reads:

A monk asked Feng-hsueh: "Speech and silence are concerned with equality and differentiation. How can I transcend equality and differentiation?"

Feng-hsueh replied: "I always think of Chiang-nan in March. Partridges chirp among the many fragrant flowers."

Upon first reading such a koan, one might find it quite impenetrable. How do we even engage? How do we enter this conversation? 

To begin, it helps to have a sense of what the monk is asking. 

What matters here is not some historical question about the monk's intentions. What matters is what comes alive for you as you ponder his question. With that, here are some possibilities.... 

The monk seems encumbered by the way speech and silence are concerned with equality and differentiation. What exactly does this monk hope to transcend?

Equality here may refer to the oneness of all things, as "all things by nature are Buddha." 

Differentiation is what allows us to tell a poisonous weed from a cucumber. 

So the monk might be saying, “if all things are different, how are they also one?” It is not infrequent that philosophers are frustrated by this logical contradiction.

Or it may be that the monk has seen that all things are one and two, but he has not yet seen that they are also neither one nor two. “I see the oneness of reality in which self and other fall away. And I see that things are separate entities as well — that there is you, and there is me, and we are not the same. I fall into one perspective, then the other. How can I stop the pendulum?”

Other possibilities regarding the monk's quandary can be found in different translations of the koan. One translation goes like this: "Both speech and silence are concerned with ri (subjectivity) and mi (objectivity). How can we transcend them?" So the monk may be asking, "I have my own separate consciousness, yet there is also an objective reality 'out there.' How can I transcend this duality? How can subject and object be one?"

Perhaps you have other ways that his question comes alive for you? 

It is worth spending some time inquiring into the aliveness of the monk's presentation. The monk is not asking a question just to be playful. He sees that his life depends on finding his way through this thicket. 

A synthesizing, perhaps more fundamental way of hearing his question is this: "Help me! I am lost in dualistic thinking! Show me Nirvana!"

Feng-hsueh responds with cutting directness, I always think of Chiang-nan in March. Partridges chirp among the many fragrant flowers.

If his answer is not immediately apparent, this case has a gift to offer you. 

You might try sitting. Be upright, still, and silent. Pay attention. 

Take your time. 

Then, let the monk's question penetrate you. How can I transcend equality and differentiation? What is he really asking? 

Once the question is alive for you, once you feel the fire in it, let Feng-hsueh’s response fall like a gentle rain. Let his answer float in the atmosphere. Let the koan clarify the great matter.

Even when you leave the cushion, allow Feng-hsueh's words to walk with you. 


Partridges chirp among the many fragrant flowers.

As things become clear, consider visiting a Zen teacher who is authorized to teach koans. 

This is worth sharing.

Acceptance of the Five Remembrances

After an athletic, 51 year-old friend had heart surgery and a stroke, and after another close friend passed out potentially due to a heart issue and fell down the stairs causing a severe concussion and back injury, I decided that maybe I should address the heart thumps I've felt with increasing frequency over the last year.

I called the doctor, who surprised me by taking my condition seriously and telling me to stop doing vigorous exercise till we sort this out. I had been training for a half marathon. After hearing this advice, I skipped the race.

I have been an athlete my whole life. As a child, I would sprint barefoot through the grass just for the joy. (I can still feel the soft, wet blades of grass between my toes!) In middle school, I played soccer for a team that won the State championships. As a high school student, I lettered in swimming and track. In college, I won national championships in rowing, then trained for the national team and won elite nationals and the Canadian Henley. A few years later, I ran the Boston Marathon in under 3 hours. Training has been a great joy and has generated pride in my healthy body.

Perhaps you have heard the Buddhist teaching of "anatman" -- no self. This was Buddha's response to the Hindu teaching of Atman, or true self, which some Hindu practitioners sought through meditation. According to Buddha, there is no separate, fixed, unchanging self. This does not mean there are no senses of self, but that they are changing, ephemeral, without fixed substance, and made of non-self elements. My sense of self as a competitive athlete depended on my being able to train hard and race. There was never anything permanent or intrinsic about it.

When I realized I had to give up competing (at least for now), I watched the athlete in me cry out, "Don't abandon me!" A part of me was reluctant to accept my present condition and wanted to protect this sense of myself.

In Boundless Way Zen, we chant "The Five Remembrances" every time we gather together. The first four are that I am: of the nature to grow old, get sick, die, and lose everyone and everything I love. The last is that my deeds are my companions, and I am their beneficiary. These remembrances are found in a sermon of the Buddha called the Upajjhatthana Sutta, an early Pali text.

The first three remembrances, that we are all of the nature to grow old, to get sick, and to die, were what Buddha learned when he left his sheltered palace life for the first time. Buddha was motivated by recognition of these facts to overcome the accompanying suffering, so he left his palace to practice.

For Buddha, to overcome suffering did not ultimately mean what we might imagine. It did not mean that these truths no longer affect us. It means that we can turn toward these truths and accept them. So Buddha taught that we should remind ourselves every day of impermanence as a skillful means to allow us to accept our changing nature. Otherwise, we are prone to move into protectiveness and denial, which cause far greater suffering. After all, that which we run from controls us.

Acceptance

To "overcome" suffering is not to defeat circumstances but to acknowledge them. There is something about acceptance that transforms the heart. Shundo Aoyama writes that "True happiness means no matter what happens, it’s all right. If you become ill, just be ill. When it’s time to die, just die.... To face any situation and accept it with open arms molds the attitude enabling you to see that a wonderful way of living is possible. This is indeed something of consequence. As soon as this attitude is achieved, you have reached paradise, anytime, anywhere, and in any circumstances. Once this idea is accepted, spring must be everywhere" (adapted from Zen Seeds).

For me, this attitude of acceptance is not a change in how I think. In fact, my initial reaction to the news that I should stop training was not pure acceptance. It was the opposite! But I could bear witness even to my resistance and accept it as just thoughts and feelings, as just a sense of self crying out. It was like a light show, or like a dog barking in the neighbor's yard.

Time will tell, but I may not be able to compete anymore. And I am getting older anyway. I was already starting to slow down. But acceptance makes a new way of living possible. 

When we bear witness to the "full catastrophe," when we open our hearts to things as they are (including our reactions), the world offers itself to us as a sacred presence. Like Zorba the Greek, we can dance on the beach with tears on our cheeks. 

For the last week, rather than training as an athlete, I have taken gentle walks in the woods as the spring arrives. My deeds are my companions. I have appreciated slowing down. There are big, red buds on the trees that are just opening, and shoots topped by violet flowers sprout from the mud. Rather than running past them, I pause. I hear the birds chattering away with one another. Fields are greening, and water rushes past me down the hillside after the rain.

*Further testing has revealed that I am heart-healthy, but the lesson remains.

Empathy and Compassion

Empathy

When we feel empathy, we vicariously and imaginatively enter someone else's experience and emotions. It opens us beyond our self-centeredness. It widens my sense of reality, and it helps me consider issues from different points of view. If both people in a relationship are empathetic with one another, empathy helps us come to a deeper understanding of one another. If we are arguing, maybe we can come to a compromise and find a way forward that meets both of our needs.

But research into empathy also suggests that empathy can lead to increased bias. This is because we tend to identify through empathy with those closest to us and with those most like us, then take one side in an argument, ignoring the "other side's" perspective. This can happen in interactions ranging from world affairs to our own children, where we pit ourselves against others for the sake of the one with whom we most empathize. This can lead to policies that are unfair, privileging those most like us, and even neglecting others' rights.

When arguments are fueled by "extreme empathy," which I would describe as a form of identification that decreases our capacity to hear different perspectives, it can be nearly impossible to see the humanity of those with whom we disagree. We get so caught up in defending our own views that we shut out anyone who thinks otherwise. This often happens through dismissive judgments of other people's character.

I have seen good friends disassociate from one another because they empathized quite lovingly with different people. One friend might empathize most with the working class who have suffered from technological advances, globalization, opiate addiction, and a sense of betrayal by corporate owners and government representatives. Another friend might empathize most with the plight of people of color who suffer from the legacy of slavery and hundreds of years of systemic racism, right to this day. While there can be overlap in these concerns, what can happen is that each person, whose heart is in the right place, might prioritize one group over another, dismissing the unique concerns of the other group. Empathy with one or the other can fuel escalating competitiveness, all in the name of love and justice.

Or it can simply lead to neglect of those with whom we least relate.

Compassion

In Mahayana Buddhism, our call is not to repress our empathy but to cultivate a wider circle of concern. Avalokiteshvara is the bodhisattva of compassion. (S)he hears the cries not just of one side or another in a conflict but "hears the cries of the world." 

Avalokiteshvara embodies the mantra, "there but for the grace of God go I." Were I born into the exact same circumstances -- the same body and mind, the same upbringing, and the same causes and conditions affecting me -- then I would embody the other person's perspective. This does not mean that people have no personal responsibility for our views and actions. But without being touched by some sort of opening encounter, it is very hard to open beyond our conditioned perspective. Can we recognize that the person with a different view also has reasons for feeling as they do?

Mahayana Buddhism calls us to open beyond our conditioned, limited perspective to hear all the cries of the world. This is an incredible challenge, given the power of self-centeredness and given the power of empathy. We have a strong tendency to empathize with those ideologically closest to us and to polarize against those at a greater distance.

What would it look like to expand our circle of concern to hold all beings in our hearts? Perhaps our fear is that we will then abandon our values. But my experience is that this is not what happens. Compassion for all beings does not render one's sense of right and wrong meaningless. One can still take a stand for the sake of non-harm. And one can still advocate for those who suffer injustices. Empathy for those who suffer is not erased by compassion for all beings. But we can gain a wider, more inclusive circle of concern.

Compassion opens us beyond identification with one side's feelings. Compassion opens our hearts to the plight of all beings and allows us to care even for those with whom we disagree. If we can open to the possibility that we don't actually already know everything, by listening, we can develop a greater understanding of the motives of people with whom we'd disagreed, and perhaps we can find ways to address the needs of everyone involved. Rarely is it actually a zero-sum game in the way that politicization tends to suggest. Rarely is it true that we must meet one person's needs or the other's. We can address both the poverty of the white working class and the unique, systemic injustices of racism, and to set these two up as oppositional is a success of limited empathy, but a failure of compassion.

True compassion is challenging. In my experience, it is very hard to have compassion for people with whom I disagree or toward whom I feel revulsion. Arno Michaelis is the founder of one of largest white supremacist groups in the world. He admits to severely beating people because of the color of their skin. He said that when he was called a racist, his hatred only grew, and he reacted with greater intensity, becoming even more violent. The confrontational approach failed with him again and again. But when he was met with compassion, he softened. He tells the following story of how compassion began to transform him: "One time I was greeted by a black lady at a McDonald’s cash register with a smile as warm and unconditional as the sun. When she noticed the swastika tattoo on my finger, she said...: ‘I know that’s not who you are.'" He described himself as "powerless against such compassion." Michaelis went on to found a group called "Life After Hate" which, through compassionate witness rather than harsh judgment, helps people abandon white supremacist groups and find a healing path.

Compassion “as warm and unconditional as the sun” does not mean abandoning our sense of right and wrong. In fact we can take strong stands against those with whom we disagree. We do not even have to empathize with them. Compassion also does not mean remaining in abusive relationships. There will be times when we will just need to protect ourselves and those we love. We will probably not be capable of unconditional compassion all the time in part depending on our own situation and identity. But when possible, practicing unconditional compassion means not “writing off” those with whom we disagree. Instead, we listen and treat them with dignity, then we offer our own view. “I know that’s not who you are.”

One recent study examined a new approach to canvassing. The canvassers, advocates for transgender rights, [didn't] judge others or their opinions or "try to build rational arguments for why someone should think one way or another." Instead, they listened respectfully to the opinions of those they met. One canvasser said, "There's something special about caring about why [people] feel the way they do. You can connect to their values in that way.'"  Canvassers then shared some stories of their own. This form of canvassing reportedly had a more positive and longer term impact than traditional forms of canvassing. Compassion works. 

Save all beings

Buddhist practice is meant to challenge us to open our hearts. Can we remain open to all beings even as we advocate for justice and kindness in the world? In such polarized times, this is no easy task. I am not always able to live up to this teaching. But the teachings are meant to awaken us to what we do so that we can atone and vow to do better. Perhaps practicing compassion for all beings can increase our own equanimity and contribute to a more civil society.

Our bodhisattva vow is not to save some beings but to save all beings. It may be worth reflecting on those we have shut out of our hearts. 

The root of the word, heal, literally means "to make whole." When we divide the world into inherently "good" and "bad" people, the divisions we make in our own heart-minds manifest in the world. In allowing all beings to reside in our hearts, we heal ourselves. If we can stay in respectful relationship with those with whom we disagree, perhaps we increase the possibility for healing in the world.

Who Lives, Who Dies?

I sit on the deck behind my house this early spring day. A distant bird's chirp sounds like drops of water falling into a pool. The whoosh of distant traffic travels through the space of my heart. The adjacent fir tree's branches lift and dive in the wind, needles whispering, then settle into stillness.

"Who, who?" asks the mourning dove in a nearby maple tree. Though its branches are bare, I cannot find the source of this descending note.

The sun illuminates streaming gray clouds, turning them silver, warms my face, then tucks behind a bank of dark clouds. 

A dog's bright bark cuts through everything.

Somehow each element is distinct, yet vanishes into this edgeless world where beginnings and endings no longer matter. 

Who lives, who dies, in this eternal vastness? 

"Who? Who?"

What Happens if we Don't Turn Away?

I woke at 4 AM, and darkness took hold of me.

With dawn still hours away and my wife breathing softly next to me, it struck me that I had been with her for nearly six years. As a child, six years was a lifetime! Why was time slipping away so quickly now?

I wondered if perhaps I was no longer cataloguing memories in the same way as I did as a child. Then, each day included firsts -- a first touch of snow on the tongue, a first bash of my head into a cabinet -- whatever it was, it struck me with awe and wonder. Do memories no longer generate a narrative in the same way? Is that why time seems to disappear?

Then, from those mystical waters between waking and dreaming, a vague sense of dread arose as I peered into the dark. An unrecognized thought circled in murky water till it rose and took shape in whispered words. Could this be the early stage of Alzheimer's, when time no longer forms a story? This must be what my mother felt as her mind slipped with the rainwater down the sloped roof. Would that be my fate too? Are you already with me, death, stealing one memory at a time?

In the nighttime, the shadows come alive. Ghosts of people we loved and lost take shape as our own fears. Shadowy anxieties gather in our bedrooms, and they see right through us as we try to make them out in the dark.

It's tempting at such times to distract ourselves, go get a cup of tea, perhaps grab our phones to scan a newsfeed. But what happens if we don't turn away? This is Dogen's notion, ippo-gujin - translated as "studying one dharma to the very end" (here), or becoming one with "the total exertion of a single dharma" (here). This is the path of integration rather than escape; we meet each visitor as a sacred guest. 

I breathed. I did not put on my daylight armor. And the flutterings of my heart met advancing images from former lives. My mind's eye adjusted, and memories gathered in a procession of loosely associated griefs.

My mother and father now a few years gone were the first visitations. I let these incorporeal beings enter me, and sadness rose like tidewater. 

Then a stream of memories washed through me  -- memories of people I'd loved and lost. A dear high school friend. Two family constellations. So many of life's precious moments now evaporated. 

This is what I had feared  --  my own grief. Yet allowing tears to form was so fulfilling, so touchingly sweet.

I was not destroyed by these visitations. Welcoming whatever arises is often the greatest relief. Sometimes our fears just need to confess themselves.

Gradually, the rain slowed to a drizzle on the roof. The ghosts, finally recognized, dissolved into the air. I once again heard the sweet quiet breathing of my wife. And new tears formed in my eyes for she who was with me. As I drifted back to sleep, the early liquid song of a tiny bird poured into the hollow of my ear. "Just this," she sang again and again, accompanying me into a dream.

*Special thanks to Zach Horvitz for the pointer to Dogen's term.