 |
 |
 |
 |
|
Long ago there was a prince born in India and a prophecy that he would either become a great teacher or a great conqueror. The father of the prince wanted him to become a great conqueror, so he had a palace built for the prince so that he would never leave to teach people or see any reason to try to help them. Eventually, the prince got outside the palace and saw someone who was sick, someone who was very old, and someone who was dead. These things apparently had a huge impression on him because he had been so shielded his entire life. Immediately the young prince began thinking about these things day and night: What were these problems that people had to do deal with? Why do people suffer? Why do people get old? Why do they get sick and why do they die? He left the palace and became of wandering ascetic. In India there are a certain group of people called sadhus. You can still see them today. These are people who have given up everything. They leave their homes and families and sometimes don't even wear clothes. One of the spiritual practices that they underwent involved strict asceticism. The idea was that if you made your will so strong, nothing could weaken you enough to make you suffer. So, if you did all these things that were very hard to do, the force of your will would become very strong, and then when faced with the problems of life in general, your will would be able to accept them without succumbing to the pain. One fellow, for example, would hold up his hand for 20, 30, 40 years, and the hand would actually whither down to a stump which he still continued to hold up in the air. That kind of strength of will is the way they thought they could get beyond suffering. Prince Siddartha's practice was that he would not eat. So he limited himself to one grain of rice per day until at the end of six years he was little more than a skeleton. When he was about to die the Buddha said to himself “I can die, but I still haven't gone to the core of the problem behind suffering. My will is strong enough so that I can even face death but I have not really solved the problem of why people suffer.” He then knew that this kind of practice was not going to get him the answer that he desired. So he ate some food and became strong again. One thing that he realized was that all the suffering he experienced was in his mind. It all had to do with thoughts. For example, if someone were to come and knock any of us on the back of the head and render us unconscious there would be no way that we could tell something good from something bad. We would even be unable to distinguish ourselves from someone else, past from present, up from down. None of these distinctions are possible without the functioning of the human mind. So the prince knew that the answer that he was looking for had something to do with his own mind and how it functioned. So he decided to sit down and meditate to examine exactly what was going on in his mind--why it was that thoughts created suffering and why it was that without thought we did not suffer. So he sat down in meditation for seven days and nights and did not let anything distract him from his meditation. Then, on the morning of the eighth day he looked up and saw the morning star. When he saw that star he broke out of this concentration and immediately knew the answer to his questions. He knew how it was that consciousness worked and how it created suffering and what had to happen to consciousness in order to resolve a the problem of suffering. This is what we look at as our basic model of Zen insight, our basic problem as Buddhist practitioners. Why was it so important for the Buddha to sit in meditation? What was it that he realized when he saw the morning star? What is meditation? When we sit in meditation we sit very straight with our legs crossed. Do you know why we sit this way? One reason we sit this way is that it is a very stable way to sit for long periods of time. But that is not the most important reason: what we are really trying to do with meditation is simply to do something so completely that we are totally involved in it. I'm sure we have all experienced a time when we were so engaged in doing something that when we looked up we were surprised to find that two or three hours had gone by without realizing it. What happened to that time? Is there a qualitative or an actually quantitative difference in the various ways we experience time? Another example is when we sleep. When we wake up eight hours have passed, but usually we have no recollection of those hours. Is there a difference between concentrating on something so intensely that we lose track of time and sleeping or just getting knocked on the head and rendered unconscious? All three of these things are similar in that we somehow we temporarily lose the ability to distinguish ourselves from our surroundings. Perhaps that is some special clue...at the very least it is an interesting observation. Because we can't distinguish ourselves from the rest of the world while unconscious, I guess we could say that it is easy not to suffer if we are asleep or dead. Someone could even remove a vital organ or two from our bodies and we would not mind at all. The tricky part is to find some release from our problems while we are awake. That's the hard part. Zen pursues our earlier observations and posits that the way to find a release from any kind of suffering is to engage our surroundings completely. By that I mean whatever it is we are doing, we do it so intently that we temporarily lose all ability to form reflections about self or other. It is our mind that creates and continually reinforces specific boundaries within the universe. But is it true to say that the universe shares the same concerns about the boundaries of time and space? Zen posits that the universe doesn't care that a teapot exists in one spot and we in another. As far as the universe is concerned, ourselves, a teapot, and the space dividing them are each 100% the universe without any distinction. Zen asserts that when we objectify anything we imply, even if to just the tiniest degree, that it is unchanging. This of course contradicts the one action that is shared by all things within the universe....change. In the case of human beings we tend to want ourselves to become (and remain!) richer or stronger or smarter or even to live forever. Or perhaps we want all these things for those we love and not necessarily for ourselves. Isn't it really only natural to want the best for our children and spouse? When bad things happen, when everything is taken from us, or when we are given something that we don't want....which is inevitable in a universe of change, that's when we begin to say, "No, I do not want that to happen." Couldn't this be called the beginning of human suffering? Buddhism says that the core of human suffering is taking boundaries as not changing or, equally bad, trying to force them to change in only one particular way. Inevitably we and those we love will all get old, we will all get sick, and we will all die. How would we deal with this situation and not suffer? Reexamining our notions about boundaries is important because when we make a boundary around something we are implying that it is somehow distinct from its surroundings. We have the ability to objectify things to such a fine degree that whenever we talk about something or someone we tend to think we are accurately describing an unconditionally separate object that has a particular surrounding environment. The fact is, that as far as the universe is concerned, that object is never separate from its surroundings in even the tiniest of measurable dimensions. It is in a constant, completely fluid, boundless relationship with its surroundings. The same questions can be asked about time. How small is the present? When we say, "Now!" even as we are saying the word it is already falling into the past. However, whenever we talk about the present we all know what it is that we are referring to. All boundaries are negated by change and all things change continuously. What Prince Siddartha did was to look at the principal of change and compare it to how the mind creates boundaries and see what conclusions could be drawn from these two, seemingly different experiences. We've all had the experience of being in a room with some object. What exactly happens when we walk across the room and pick up that object? How has the relationship between ourselves and the object changed when we pick it up in our hands? Are we and that object still separate?...Or are they now connected? What does it mean to form a connection? Zen would say that anytime there is contact between my skin and some surrounding object over time, a new relationship is born which shatters the old relationship completely. When we hold an object there is a connection. Connection is something that can be understood as the destruction of boundaries. In Zen, we say that when two separate things come together, at that instant, those two original objects have ceased to be and something new is formed. This is called change or impermanence. There is no question that every action we see is equally the universe at work, yet we undoubtedly also have the capacity to distinguish between this action and that action and say, "That is a lamp and that is a dog," etc. So perhaps it could be said that the universe can be experienced in two ways. The first way is characterized by a shared single activity. The second is characterized by objective boundaries in relation to a particular self. (If we can understand exactly the nature of the relationship between the relative and the absolute then, could we assume that we have understood the universe?) If these two distinctions are accurate then to formulate an understanding of the universe based solely upon one of the two distinctions cannot yield an accurate description. I would like to suggest that typically we are in the habit of understanding ourselves and our surroundings from an objective point of view. But it is equally true to say that everything we engage in as individuals is also simply an expression of universal change. How then can we apprehend the expression of non-objective, pure universal change without resorting to an objective description of it? This is important because to be only able to understand and acknowledge the boundless aspect of the universe intellectually cannot prove its validity. An objective understanding can never end suffering because suffering is always the result of maintaining objectivity. Zen Buddhism teaches that in order to manifest the boundless aspect of the cosmos one must simply engage one's body and mind in a single purpose. That purpose must be so completely manifested by the person acting that reflection upon the situation is impossible. The only way that we, as human beings, can change boundaries and negate the distance between ourselves and the objects that surround us is to engage them. When we do something totally, and completely engage our bodies and minds in one specific action, we touch that aspect of timelessness and boundlessness that defines the universe as a whole. Because our mind is totally engaged and body totally engaged while manifesting that timeless state, Zen teaches that we cannot suffer. Everything we do is of course an expression of the universe, but the key to whether we experience suffering in the world is how attached we are to our self reflection while engaged in our everyday activities. Zen teaches that there is functioning and reflection upon functioning. The distinction may seem subtle at first, but in time, with practice, it is understood as not so subtle at all. Take pouring a cup of tea for example. One could be reflecting upon the action as one is engaging in it: "Oh, I am lifting this teapot. Now I am moving it towards my guests and filling the cup." Then perhaps various forms of judgment about how you or someone else pours tea can arise which give rise to even further ruminations . There is an alternative: What if one simply concentrated completely on the task at hand of lifting the teapot and pouring the tea without the background internal dialogue? Zen says that this is possible. When I observe mothers tending to their children, I notice a certain unconscious grace in their actions. Everyday chores are often done quickly without a thought of whether or not it should be done. I used to watch in amazement as my mother would fold cloths quickly and efficiently. I would think to myself; "How do you do that?" To my mind now, I would say that she was just giving without reflection on her own condition. The principle is the same in Zen meditation: to start with the simplest thing one could possibly do, just sitting and breathing. Our goal is just to do that action completely. The idea is to manifest posture and breath so completely, so intently that there is no room, no time for reflective thought. It's as though one is doing one's most favorite activity in the world, or, like one completely accepting a job and tossing aside any doubt as to whether or not one will accomplish that task in a given time. That kind of abandonment into what we are doing is what Zen teaches us to cultivate and bring under our power. So, again, we start with the simplest of tasks, sitting and breathing. Beginning with such a simple task is a double-edged sword: on the one hand, it is something that requires our whole bodies and minds to accomplish. On the other hand, because of its simplicity, one's mind begins to dialogue about other matters almost at once. Thoughts flood us. We find that we are not used to reining in our minds and that our reflective consciousness flails from one topic to the next without control. Whenever we notice that our minds are chattering within our heads while we are sitting on the cushion we immediately know we have stopped doing Zen meditation. Zen meditation or zazen is about just completely doing, with total abandonment, whatever it is we are engaged in. This is what the Buddha did for seven days and nights while he was sitting in meditation. You will hear stories about how, as he sat, there were temptations of beautiful girls and monsters or whatever, accosting him, trying to disturb his concentration. The Buddha was not distracted by any of these temptations. All he continued to do was to sit and breathe. We can take all of these stories of the fabulous temptations as nothing other than the creations of our own reflective consciousness while we are trying to focus in our own sitting meditation. You'll find that all kinds of monsters and tempters will continually arise within your mind, and this is a natural occurrence, but the trick is not to become distracted by them and to just continue to do wholeheartedly what it was you decided to do. Zen teaches that the principal we try to cultivate through our sitting practice (zazen) is acting at all times...in all activities. So that, in terms of where or when Zen can be practiced, what we choose to do is almost completely irrelevant: It could be anything. What we do in a Zen meditation hall is best thought of as choreography. It's as if it were a little class play where all of the moves are established beforehand: the bows, the way we hold our hands, the posture we take... all are simplified. Everybody knows exactly what they are supposed to do when they are supposed to do it . One can just engage in step A, B, C, without thinking too much about it. This frees up one's mind from petty (but often necessary) concerns and enables it to be engaged in whatever simple task is required of it at the time. This is what the Buddha did for the seven days and nights. Anything that arose either within his mind or outside of it would not distract him. It's all about giving one's self away in a focused manner. The story of Prince Siddartha goes on to say that after seven days the Buddha saw the morning star. What was the significance of that? Why was it about that sight that made such a great impression upon him? To explain this part of the story I would like to use the example of a pregnant lady. I'm sure you have heard of the debate about whether the baby, while it is inside the mother, is really an individual separate from the mother. Do we have the right to take the life of the baby before it is born or not? Does the mother retain some kind of individuality completely separate from the baby? Is it two people or one person? Who has rights and who doesn't have rights? Zen understands the condition of a pregnant woman as an expression of the state where the boundaries between self and some object are negated. Can we make the analogy between a focused connection through activity with our surroundings and the unborn child's connection with its mother? Zen purports that the principle behind both are exactly the same. However, after nine months of pregnancy the intimate connection between the woman and a growing child changes radically. Eventually the baby and the mother separate. The mother and child see each other for the first time as separate from each other. Can anyone deny that there is a special relationship between a mother and its child because of the intimate connection they have? And is it not correct to say that this relationship is not intellectual, at least in the usual sense? Nobody has to say to the mother "OK, now for the rest of your life you must give all your energy, time, and love to this new being and ensure that every need that it has is taken care of." This activity happens naturally, not as a matter of intellectual understanding. However, objectification is part of this relationship. Prior to birth neither the mother nor the baby could see each other. Just as pregnancy cannot last forever, whenever we are engaged in our surroundings completely, no matter how deep our focus, we cannot stay in that state of unification forever. Remember, the entire universe is characterized by continuous change. Therefore to remain in the state of non-objectivity would violate the principle of continuous change. So, what we observed in our experience of change is that when the boundaries between objects are broken and unification occurs, that new state of unification naturally gives rise to a new state of objectification. The question then arises: Is there some qualitative difference between the kind of objectification between a parent and child and a more mundane kind of objectification that doesn't spring forth from the experience of unification? Zen says resoundingly, "Yes!" Ask any mother if she feels the same way about a complete stranger’s children as she feels about her own. This same parent/child kind of objectification was what was functioning when the Buddha saw the morning star after his seven days of complete giving. Every new object that is created from the union of two other objects always has, as one of its characteristics, the ability to objectify itself from its two "parents." As our practice deepens we come to realize that this newly created object, in its simplest form, is space itself. We are all made up of a left side and a right side. We all have the ability to observe our left side and right side. In the same way when we give ourselves to our surroundings in the act of meditation we find that a new self is continually rising as the product of that giving. Why is it that instant after instant we continue as living beings? In Zen we say that objects continue to be born moment after moment as a natural precipitation of the activity inherent within the boundless state. When the Buddha saw the morning star it was as if the connection he had maintained so diligently for so long precipitated into all the objects he saw in the universe. Imagine the feelings one would have as a mother giving birth to not only one child or two children but to an entire universe of objects including herself! However, along with this feeling of giving birth, the Buddha also experienced himself as the new-born child of the entire universe. Delving deeply into this realization is what the practice of Zen is all about. Zen says that the entire process behind simultaneously giving birth to a child and being born as a child is the principle behind all actions ...behind all space. This was how the Buddha saw through the illusion of suffering. He understood that the problem was not about his imperfect relationship between himself and his surroundings. Suffering arises when we are asked to give that which we are not willing to give from ourselves or from our loved ones. The Buddha realized that life was not about "me" and how everything was eventually going to be taken away from "me." He realized that that was a totally erroneous way of looking at his condition as a living being. He realized that the natural state of the human being was to understand the world in such a way that giving of oneself was the natural response to ones surroundings simply because our surroundings can never be considered to be unconditionally separate from ourselves. Again, think of your mothers. So many mothers die in childbirth, and even if they survive, their bodies are irreparably changed. Their breasts whither away to nourish the baby and all their energy is spent raising the child. Do they begrudge this giving? Zen would say that the natural response to this question would be "No." When one understands that every object is an expression of the exact same principal, one understands that it is not suffering to give of oneself...it is love. Giving is precisely what you want to do; you want nothing held back from that which you perceive as an expression of yourself, i.e., your child. At the same time we realize that our surroundings, like a loving parent, are giving to us all that we could possibly want or need...and that in this giving our surroundings find joy, find release. That was the principal that was realized when the Buddha saw the morning star. It's all about freely giving and freely recieving. It's about manifesting the fact of impermanence as Love. So when the Buddha left his place of enlightenment people saw that there was something wonderful about the way he perceived the world and asked him how he understood the world. The Buddha replied that he had had a wonderful insight which anyone could have, but if this insight was truly to be realized one must truly understand the practice of both giving and receiving. There were many people that accepted this challenge and these were the first Buddhist monks and nuns. Eventually there was a large following of disciples of the Buddha. Eventually problems arose within the community: Some people were eating too much; other people were taking too much medicine; other people were concerned with too much money. The Buddha, in order to maintain harmony within the sangha (the ordained community), created rules of conduct which gave order to the assembly and allowed practice to remain focused and simple. These rules were called the Vinaya and the practice of Buddhism began to spread. From India it spread to China and from China it spread to Japan. Many styles of Buddhism arrived in China. When a particular style of Buddhism called Dhyana arrived in China it mixed with the indigenous Chinese character and that expression was the birth of Zen. The Sanskrit word Dhyana means "one pointed concentration." The Chinese pronunciation for this Sanskrit word was Channa. When this style of Buddhism moved to Japan, the Chinese character that was used to mean Channa was pronounced as Zen in Japanese. Tradition has it that the Buddha taught many disciples. Some of these he designated as successors or people that he felt were proficient enough in their practice to instruct others and take them to a point where they understood and were able to give themselves completely. These successors would in turn have students among whom they would also designate a successor. In this way Dharma lineages were established and are kept to this very day. Our teacher here is part of such a lineage.
|
 |
|
 |
