Walking Backwards

Thinking is more interesting than knowing, but less interesting than looking. - Goethe in the Zen Calendar (March 1, 2009)

Day 26. February has, at last, come to an end. Whew. . . .

I dread the days when nothing is pressing to be blogged. I still feel a little surprised when something from my zen practice doesn't rush in to save the day when I'm blue, or bored, or crabby. Great. Yet another reminder of my failure to master "non-attainment." It's just that when it's good, it is very, very good, and when it's bad, it is horrid. I'm developing highly unrealistic goals for myself. That is, if you consider writing something brilliant every single day, always being wise, patient, compassionate and insightful, and remaining aware, non-attached and unceasingly in the moment as unrealistic goals.

My sitting session was restless and distracted and protracted last night. I just kept thinking, "Is it over yet? Is it over yet? Is it over yet?" and then felt terrible at the obvious ramification: I DO look at my meditation with a critical eye, an evaluative attitude, and the teeniest bit of attachment to moving a shade closer to Nirvana every time I assume the lotus position. I "know" the emptiness and non-attachment with which I've been taught to approach zazen; but I think about it nonetheless.

I chose tonight's quote because it connected with a couple of observations I had while walking my dogs in the woods today. We went to the trails where I'm usually racing along on my mountain bike. As if walking wasn't enough of a perspective change, we chose to go in the opposite direction so that we could yield to oncoming cyclists. Everything sure looked different. I've ridden those trails dozens of times, and realized today that I seldom "look" (of course, when you're on the bike, it behooves you to focus pretty exclusively on the next eight feet of trail). It was overcast, and muddy from the recent snow and rain. The trees were all leafless, and the branches stood out starkly against the sky. The ground was littered with fallen trees and broken branches from the ice storms, and lots of standing water pooled in the gullies. It was gloriously untidy.

While riding my bike, these trails have become so familiar and routine I know precisely where I am at any given moment. There were several occasions on today's walk when I paused, looked around, and had no idea where I was. I liked it. I'm usually concentrating on riding fast, covering ground, getting to the next mile marker and the next and the next. The typical Western focus on product rather than process. On destination rather than journey. On achievement, speed, technique, success. Today I just walked along with my partner and our two very happy dogs. No hurry, no destination, no time limits. We just hung out. And I looked a lot. Had the awareness that you can approach very familiar ground from a different direction, and you see entirely new things. Seeing things anew can catalyze unaccustomed thoughts. I suspect that fresh thinking may precipitate change in action.

What a beautiful sequence: new approach, new vision, fresh thinking, changed action. I should walk my trails backwards more often.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

On A Bicycle Built for Two

If you are not happy here and now, you never will be. - Taisen Deshimaru in the Zen Calendar (February 20, 2009)

Day 25. Let the Cycling Season Begin!

I say "cycling season" as though I'm preparing for something major like the Tour de France - or at least races known outside the state of Oklahoma. Not the case, although I am registered for a couple of out-of-state tandem rallies, which is a perfect segue into today's post . . .

We took the tandem out today into the glorious sunshine and (relatively) low winds. A cyclist's delight. Two cyclists' delight! I am the Stoker - the person on the back of the bike. The stoker is also the frequent recipient of the never funny observation from non-cyclists: "Do she do anything back there? Is she just back there for the ride? Hey, put your feet down and pedal!" etc. etc. I am extremely fortunate in that my Captain (the person on the front of the bike, and yes, usually the stronger cyclist) has a staunch appreciation for my pedaling contributions. He always speaks up in my defense with complimentary declarations of my strength and fortitude. He also calls me a Big Girls' Blouse (an adjective for "wimp" learned from English friends) on the rare occasions that I whimper. It doesn't happen often.

As the stoker, my mental capacities for executive functions like braking, shifting and steering are seldom needed. This leave me oodles of time for Monkey Cycling Chatter. One might think that cruising along on the back of a tandem would be quite conducive to philosophical prattle and existential wonderment. Not so for this Stoker. Perhaps it's because we never cruise; we zip along at astonishing speeds that leave me one heart beat short of what the aerobic charts say never to exceed when you are my age. This is, in part, because I am relatively new to cycling, whereas my Captain has been a serious cyclist for over a decade. This incongruence in pedaling experience has several influential consequences, not the least of which is my tendency to have a near death experience on every ride. Oh well, it's early in the season . . .

As usual, today's mental chatter was chiefly centered on the amount of Suffering I was enduring. We live in an area surrounded by hills (FYI for those readers who live outside of Oklahoma - contrary to the picture created by "when the wind comes sweeping down the plain," we actually HAVE hills!), and powering our less-than-petite weight up the steeper ones leaves my heart hammering and my legs a-quiver. I felt tired today, and kept chastising myself for playing too long on my Wii-Fit board the night before. My head hurt, my chest hurt, my legs were numb, the saddle was rubbing in all the wrong places, and my Wii tennis elbow was making it excruciating to hold onto the handlebar. I was definitely feeling like a Big Girls' Blouse. And I was not a Happy Stoker.

Somewhere around mile 20, I was in a tight tuck behind my captain on a breathless downhill. When gravity and a tailwind are working in your favor, tandem riding is exhilarating. We have rare form together: although our years of cycling differ widely we mutually share a dare devil, risk taking attitude that translates to a mantra of "Faster is Better." The stoker's job on descents is to tuck up tight, drop your head below the captain's back, be silent and HOLD STILL. The silent part is a challenge for me because I'd rather be hooping and hollering.

At some point during the thrill of that downhill, my mood shifted. I found the zen that had found me while mountain biking. I remembered that suffering only occurs when Reality is not matching up with the version of it that I prefer. It is ridiculous to be attached to pain-free cycling, especially when the season is just beginning, the north wind is howling, and the winter weight is jiggling around my middle. I sat up on the bike and began to breath through my center, right where I imagined my mudra guides my breaths during meditation. My Captain adjusted my seat -- just an eighth of an inch higher -- and I found a new set of legs beneath me. I felt immense gratitude for the sunshine, and the great number of fellow cyclists we passed in our lap around the lake. I dropped my expectations, my disappointment, my comparisons to late last season, my body loathing. Not surprisingly, the last 15 miles of the ride felt a lot different. Oh, I was still hurting - no doubt about that. I just wasn't obsessing over the pain, or expending energy on wanting it to stop. I began to wonder what my first cycling season while maintaining a regular meditation practice would be like. And laughed at the inevitable sense of anticipation that immediately followed. So much for non-attachment . . . .

My teacher used to remind us that our zazen practice would flow into aspects of our life in ways we could never foresee. It's early yet, but so far I love where it crops up in mine.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Finding the Real in Reality

"This ain't it." - My good friend Anna Marie

Day 24. Still February. Still cloudy. Still cold. Still too wet to mountain bike. I'm missing my adrenaline rushes.

I can't count the number of times I have quoted Anna Marie and her famous line, "This ain't it." She said that about a year after losing the love of her life in a freak car accident. In between brave bouts of rebuilding her life, she would call me to bear audio witness to what we affectionately came to call "acoustically correct" crying jags (i.e. her keening sounded best when wailed in her kitchen with the vaulted ceiling.) Though heartbreaking, I know this ritual was healing for us both. Through her grief and confusion, Anna tried on many different life scenarios in the aftermath of her loss. I'll always remember, after a particularly painful foray, her anguished observation, "Julie, I don't know what my life is supposed to be now . . . but this ain't it."

I told Anna Marie at the time, and I still believe it now, that knowing what "ain't it" is a useful step in moving toward what "IS it." Perhaps distinguishing what is real, what is significant, and what matters is our purpose on earth. Last night I found myself meditating on what is real (getting to that "no-thought" point appeared to be a losing battle). I heard the sound of a far off train whistle that seemed real. I scanned the sensation of the contours of my body coming into contact with my cushion, and that felt real. The feeling of my hands, resting knuckle to knuckle, was real. The brush of the chill bedroom air on my shoulders and knees was tangible, as was the pressure on my ankles while trying to hold a full lotus position. However, as I sat with this awareness, the certainty of reality began to get wispy around the edges. I sat up straighter and breathed on . . .

As the moment shifted, so did my perspective. This is happening more frequently in meditation: I seem to be experiencing (for lack of a less Western adjective) greater efficiency at returning my focus to breath. With abrupt insight, everything outside my breath ceased to be real -- or at least ceased to matter. My whole being felt like it had been reduced to Breath. My breath contained past, present, and future, Life and Death, the be-all, end-all, Essence of Everything. And then, miraculously, the "my" part of the breath fell away - at least for a fraction of a moment. It was no longer "mine" because there was no "me." Just this: Breath. Next - and again, in the span of a heart beat - "Breath" blurred into Love. I thought of my partner, my son, my parents, and they were somehow within the moment, within the heart beat. All joined in Love. It was light, and bright - infinitely important, utterly True, and indescribably REAL. My new yardstick for what is Real and what is not.

This is a blog that sort of wrote itself as I attempted to recollect the experience of last night's time on the cushion. I never dreamed I would be writing such things, and I must confess that in a non-meditative state, it all sounds a little hokey - pretty out there. But that's my ego talking. And it's not even real.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Wake Up, My Little Julie

. . . More than anything I wanted rest, and in that moment death seemed attractive, like the only way to stop doing and just rest, for ages and ages. Strangely, there was nothing depressing about it. I just envied the silence and stillness of the dead. - Lori Smith in "A Walk with Jane Austen"

Day 23. I have no profound opening remarks.

I found the above quote last night, and felt very connected with Lori Smith for writing it. My mother always cringed when I used to declare, "I will make a great dead person" (this from the woman who was terrified of cremation for most of my life because she was afraid she would "get to heaven and not have everything she needed." Thankfully, she has since evolved). I understand that, logically, it probably doesn't take special talent to be dead, nor is it something to be particularly competitive about. I think, beyond the shock value the statement carried when I was a teenager, I was referencing my great love for sleeping. It is one of my most treasured past times.

Since I was a little girl, I have had an odd and erratic relationship with sleep. My mom said I was a terrific napper (still am) and yet I could also lay awake deep into the night in utter dismay at my inability to fall asleep. In part, I have my first grade teacher to thank for this. One day she violently scolded a boy in my class when he fell asleep during reading period (that was around 1967. I'm hoping teachers follow a different protocol with sleeping six-year-olds in today's classrooms). I became obsessed and terrified that I, too, would fall asleep in class and evoke the fury of this cherished authority figure. I developed a bizarre nightly ritual that began at 6:30 p.m. to insure that I would be in bed by 8:00 so that I would arrive at first grade completely rested and capable of remaining conscious until 3:15. It really stressed me out. Of course, this was before several generations of my family had the awareness and vocabulary to describe our prominent Attention Deficit gene - the one that guarantees that none of us falls asleep easily because shutting down our neural pathways is like landing a lunar module; many parachutes are needed to slow our descent.

It's probably precisely because my waking brain only has one speed (Warp) that I am so enamoured with sleep, which provides a welcomed respite from the frenetic pace of wakefulness. As I enter my fourth week of sitting meditation each night, I have noticed that it is becoming increasingly precious to me. Yeah, I know, that sounds dangerously like I'm getting attached to it. Damn my ego! For me, sitting is by no means synonymous with sleeping; in fact, I never understood people who say that meditation always makes them fall asleep (then again, I don't do it at five a.m.). Sitting seems to be a magical bridge between sleeping and being awake; it somehow enhances both processes. Meditation makes my sleep sleepier, and being awake more wakeful.

My last sentence reminded me of a favorite Jimmy Buffet lyric: "I'd rather die while I'm living than live while I'm dead." I think my meditation practice is contributing to a most excellent change: when I'm in a particular state of consciousness, I can REALLY BE IN that state of consciousness. When I observe American culture, it appears that many people walk around stuck somewhere in between being asleep and being awake. When awake, they are exhausted, semi-conscious, distracted, and rarely fully present. Yet noone ever seems to get quality sleep, either. I constantly hear people lament about how tired they are because their sleep is restless, fitful, interrupted, and - always - not long enough. Bruce Springsteen says it so well: "I get up every morning and go to work each day. But your eyes go blind, and your blood runs cold. Sometimes I feel so weak I just want to explode."

I'm going to concentrate on sleeping when I sleep and, especially, on waking when I am awake. Fully awake. Eyes, heart, mind, soul - WIDE open. Chop my wood and carry my water. Single-task rather than multi-task. And when I sit, I'm going to sit as though my life depends on it.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Tinge on the Fringe

Soon silence will have passed into legend. Man has turned his back on silence. Day after day he invents machines and devices that increase noise and distract humanity from the essence of life, contemplation, meditation. Tooting, howling, screeching, booming, crashing, whistling, grinding, and trilling bolster his ego. - Jean Arp in the Zen Calendar (September 4, 2007).

Day 22. Three completed weeks of blogging. Forty-nine left to go (but who's counting . . . )

I chose the above quote for tonight's blog because when I was sitting meditation yesterday, the silence was astounding. I have never before listened so intently to nothing. I live in a city, with barking dogs fenced in the three yards surrounding mine - not far from train tracks and a block from a high school. It is never remotely quiet, much less silent. I felt deeply grateful while sitting last night - for the silence itself and for mindfully bearing witness to it.

I cherish silence. I thrive in it. I have one of those exquisitely wired nervous systems that registers all sensory input a little too intensely. So the lack of stimulation that makes most people anxious is a welcomed respite for me. A sensory deprivation tank is my idea of paradise. Thus, I sit. And was graced with several minutes of utter silence.

Perhaps the quiet was conducive to a deeper state of meditation. Or maybe the Monkeys were just taking a break. Whatever the explanation, I was able to still my mind to an unprecedented degree last night. No enlightenment, no nirvana, and my mind and body stuck around, but I did have a novel experience. That sensation I briefly described in an earlier blog -- the one of everything conscious sort of drifting to the fringes of my mind -- returned. And in the emptiness, there was this tinge of blueness. It wasn't so much like "seeing" the color of blue, it felt like "being" blue. And I don't mean depressed. I mean being the color blue. Now, those of you who associate this with some weird drug trip or something (oh, wait -- there is no "you" -- I am currently an unread blog -- Cool!) Anyway, if this sounds like some externally-induced alternative state, I am simply describing what I experienced. It didn't last long, and it didn't seem to prompt any particularly strong emotion in me. I guess I just kind of watched it from afar. Had some incomplete recollections of friends who also meditate talking about the significance of the color blue. Interestingly, on this night I forgot to take my phone of its chronic state of "vibrate," so the timer didn't sound at the end of 20 minutes. At 29 minutes, my feet were entirely asleep beneath my knees, and I had a sense of having been in meditation a really long time. Not the same as drifting off under a lotus for seven years, but nine Monkeyless minutes nonetheless.

I think the most important aspect of the Blue Tinge on the fringe of my consciousness was the lack of need to analyze it -- even now, while I'm writing and deeply submerged in my thinking brain. I'm sure that I will write more about the experience, but for now, I think I will just Sit with it.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

All Tapped Out (or The Power of Suggestion)

For studying Zen, one should have quiet quarters. Be moderate in food and drink. Cast aside all involvements and discontinue all affairs. Do not think of good or evil; do not deal with right or wrong. Do not intend to make yourself a Buddha, much less be attached to sitting still. - Dogen in the Zen Calendar (October 13, 2007)

Day 21. A reminder that I can always visit the stash of saved pages from my Zen calendar for a bit of inspiration. Or to be taken down a few notches when I've climbed too many rungs up the Ego Ladder. I think, despite my best efforts, I was becoming "attached to sitting still." Sometimes, it feels like a zazen practice holds so much promise - scattering light and wisdom across all aspects of life. Other times, it feels like passing eternity on a sagging sofa pillow while my knees cramp and my spine stiffens. Yin and yang. The agony and the ecstasy.

Yesterday's post carried the upbeat assumption that, like my boundless psychoanalysis, there will always be grist for the (blogging) mill. Not so. As I sit down to write tonight, I ain't got nothin. Except, perhaps, very poor grammar. But write I must, because this whole project is supposed to be about consistency. Remaining steadfast. Getting my butt on my cushion. At least I simply promised to write. Not write well, not write a certain amount, just write. Like the attitude I try to bring to meditation, I am sitting down at my keyboard with sincere intent. Yet still . . . nothing.

I have a new image to alight upon when my Monkey Mind starts to howl. Many years ago, it quieted things to envision the line of the horizon across a perfectly calm sea. Recently, I began to focus on the sensation of floating upon this tranquil ocean. On a couple of occasions, as I sank deeper into meditation, I had the sensation of actually dissolving into the sea, as though there was nothing to distinguish the point where my skin ended and the water began. For a fraction of a nanosecond, I believe the body part of my mind/body "fell away." It was too brief to fully trust. The concept left me feeling extraordinarily peaceful though. Unfortunately, my hyper-mind hastened in to analyze the phenomenon and all was lost. Cerebrally, academically, I've studied a great deal about the Buddhist idea of "no separation - no boundaries - all belonging to the One," etc. As usual, "knowing" something smashed in and disintegrated the living of it. This combined endeavor of sitting and writing is such a paradoxical challenge. I'm doing the former to facilitate the latter; while the latter inevitably hampers the former. I'm pretty sure an editor would destroy that last sentence, but it somehow made sense to me.

There are days I'd rather write, and days I'd rather sit, and days I'm not particularly thrilled about doing either. Thrilled or not, I'm going to keep doing both. Not that I'm attached to sitting still . . . . . . .

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

One Good Breath - For Real!

How wonderful! How wonderful! All things are perfect exactly as they are! - The Buddha

Day 20. The big Two-Oh. February tarries.

I swear I do not make this stuff up! It stuns and amazes me how each day offers up something to write about. And so far NONE of what floats to the surface of my blogging brain has remotely resembled those dream blogs I created before I actually sat down at my keyboard. Life is an interesting place in which to dwell. Since starting my blog, I often recall something my friend Whitney once said when we were discussing my (rather lengthy) analysis: "I don't think I could lie on the couch that long. After about three sessions, I'd say, 'That's it. I'm done. All tapped out.'" (Whitney is extraordinarily sane.) In the approximate decade I laid on the couch, I never reached the bottom of my psyche. Never seemed to run out of material. Evidently, my neuroses knew no end. I'm hoping that, at least for the next 11 months, my blogging muse is as interminable.

I stepped out of my office tonight into the crisp, cold winter air, and guess what? I drew ONE GOOD BREATH! Effortlessly. Thoughtlessly. Mercifully. Then I began to laugh out loud because I ALWAYS draw a breath like that when I first step outside at the end of a long work day - not just the day after I've written an entire blog about what a lousy breather I am! Customarily, I don't take this breath at the end of a long day without mindfulness, either. I always have an acute awareness of how beautiful that first inhalation of outside air feels after being inside all day. I register the temperature, the scent and moisture in the air, a breeze or gust of wind, the position of the sun if it is still out. Inevitably I say a quiet "Thank you" to the source of the breath.

My point is that, while obsessing over a good breath in meditation, I had entirely forgotten about this habit of breathing in deeply when I first step outside after work. My mind was so constricted, so focused on the status of my breath during meditation, when I'm "supposed" to be breathing in a certain way, that I disregarded the terrific breaths that occur in other contexts. I'm a pretty durn good breather in my Pilates class, where breath can be the difference between successfully performing a move and falling off my reformer. I must be breathing okay when I'm topping a steep ascent on my mountain bike - because my heart rate is about 190 beats per minute and I don't lose consciousness!

No wonder the Buddha smiles so much. If I watch carefully, there is a lot to get tickled about! Like missing what surrounds me - what is occurring naturally - because I'm so focused on the effort of making it happen - in my time, my way, my version of the universe. I cannot fathom how much I miss while living in the world so deeply steeped in my ego.

Humble bows once again to the wisdom of my practice. I'm headed for my cushion, and whatever breaths may come.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

One Good Breath

Day 19. February is taking FOREVER. It must savor each day because it's the shortest month.

I read over a few of my blogs this weekend. Figured I might as well, since my audience size appears to remain at precisely One. For now I'm enjoying the bliss of writing anonymously (well, as anonymous as one can be when projecting work out into the cybersphere!) Many of the blogs left me feeling appreciative of my practice of zazen and commitment to write about it. I also noticed that there was an awful lot of happy, hopeful, smiley, positive subject matter. Don't get me wrong - I like seeing the glass half full as much as the next person. It's just that I don't feel like my blog is representing the totality of me. I am, after all, known at my workplace for my famous quote: "Embrace your inner darkness."

Often, when I first begin to sit and the Monkeys are clamoring for mind space, several potential blog titles run through my brain. Early into this endeavor, I anticipated being able to write about "one good breath" because, Buddha knows, I spend a lot of time focusing on my breath. Alas and alack. So far, I don't think I've drawn a single, really GOOD breath. In fact, I'm starting to suspect that I am the world's worst breather. It seems like something that should come pretty naturally, being as how it keeps me alive and all, but I'm actually extremely bad at it.

How can I be so inept at something as organic as breathing?! And should I change the title of this blog to "Zero Good Breaths" or "Numerous Really Lousy Breaths"? I am vastly aware of how important focusing on your breath is in meditation. I just never dreamed that focusing would give me Breathing Stage Fright. You may be wondering, what, exactly, comprises terrible breathing. Or the inverse question: "What, exactly IS a good breath?" I'll answer the latter when I experience it. Thought I'd be drawing innumerable of them by now. Perhaps I should simply re-assess and trust that, like sex, Any breath is better than No breath. Especially since the LAST thing I should be doing is trying to attain a super good breath. I can't help it; this get-a-good-breath gauntlet has become a "thing" for me.

I'm remembering that one of my favorite aspects of Zen is the answer to everything is "accept." So I'm going to sit on my cushion in the imminent future and attempt to apply some of my best, most no-nonsense, radical acceptance. I'll try to accept that my breaths are choppy and awkward and unsynchronized. I'll also need to accept that my inhale seems to have a tiny hiccup to it, just behind my sternum. I'm certain that I never draw a breath deeper than about the upper fourth of my lung capacity, leaving the majority of my lower lungs dark and empty. My exhale escapes too quickly, and the following inhale usually has a bit of frenetic edge to it. My ribs won't expand and feel superglued in place - rigid and unyielding. My breath ain't got no rhythm and requires far too much effort. See what I mean? I'm a lousy breather.

So there it is: a hitch in the giddyup of my zazen practice. After all, breath is a pretty integral part of the whole process. Guess I'll keep working on it. I have plenty of time, since February is, apparently, never going to end.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Zen and the Art of Mountain Biking

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I'll meet you there. - Jalal-Ad-Din Rumi in the Zen Calendar (February 23, 2009)

Day 18. And what a day it's been!

So far, the "Buddha" part of "CycleBuddhaDoc" has probably dominated my blogging. Change may be in the wind. As weather permits, the "Cycle" aspect of my screen name will become more prominent. That's okay. Zen is everywhere.

Today it was right smack dab in the middle of the woods of Clear Bay Trail in Norman, OK. Due to a wet winter (read: poor trail conditions), I haven't been on my mountain bike near as much I'd like to. That changed today. We headed out to the trails at Clear Bay, site of a serious heat incident for me almost exactly a year ago (but that's another blog). Clear Bay is a challenging trail for me - in part because it's 18 miles once around, and in Bigger Part because there is lots of "up" (there are some really good "downs," too, but I ride them so fast they seem to make up a much smaller portion of the trail). Now, I'm by no means a pro mountain biker, but I am what I consider to be a Bad Ass Mountain Biker. Meaning I will ride anything I come to -- or at least give it a try until I end up in a ravine somewhere. Today was the first serious riding I've done since I returned to my zazen practice. And it showed.

It was the most remarkable day of mountain biking I can remember. Everything a meditation practice has to give was made manifest during my 15 miles on the trail (yes, I cut off a small loop because it started to rain and my legs were way past the stage we lovingly refer to as "jelly." ) The concept of "non-attachment" was particularly on my (non-) mind. Rather than fighting the steep climbs, the loose rock, the sharp rock that always finds a body part when I fall, the roots, the sucking, slippery, red mud, the numerous downed trees blocking the trail, I seemed to just flow with it. Everything about the ride was simply that -- a part of the ride. Today's ride. My ride. Every pedal stroke, every rotation of my wheel, every splatter of nature's and my own bodily fluids, every manic heart beat, even the screaming protests of my quad muscles simply WAS. The absence of a thought, criticism, or opinion of every trail condition and every ride event felt so different. I had so much more energy to devote to my bike. Together, we just WERE the ride. My balance, my technical skills, my timing, my reflexes, my stamina - EVERYTHING worked so much better without my Mind mucking it all up (incidentally, there was plenty of good ole Oklahoma red mud to do the mucking!) When my Brain wasn't in the mix with its incessant, "Watch that . . . Slow down. . . Speed up . . . You could have ridden that faster. . . . Why can't you keep up with your partner. . . I hate those trees (branches, rocks, climbs, mud, sand, mystery stumps hidden in the leaves). . . Are you sure you should try that. . . . Heart rate is too high . . . I need a goo . . . You'll fall . . . You'll slip. . . That's where you fell down the last time -- it was an amazingly different ride. Who knew? Who knew that you can just give yourself over to the trail, the woods, the misty, foggy sky, the camaraderie, the feel of the bike beneath you -- just BE the frickin' RIDE!

There were two junctures today when I was especially aware of the presence of Zen. They both occurred when I was perched atop a precarious drop into a deep ravine. Because so many trees were down, I kept holding back while my partner (superior cyclist and all-around good guy that he is!) rode a difficult section first, sort of a reconnaissance role to reduce the number of face plants I do. I'm sure it's no accident on the part of trail designers, but most of the time the lip of these deep drops has a conveniently situated tree, so that those of us that can't ride the entire area without stopping have something to lean on while we preview the more terrifying sections of trail. The situation is something like this: I'm perched right on the edge of a red earth drop-off, usually with roots, ruts, and other debris littering my path. Sitting upright on my bike, I clip the cleats on the soles of my shoes into my pedals (making me One With My Bike), and then the Moment of Truth Comes. The moment of Leaving The Tree. In the second before my front wheel drops over the edge, a lot has to happen: Get my hands on the handlebars, let go of all braking whatsoever (which is VERY counter intuitive!) pedal enough to get moving again, and regain balance in the act of going from a dead standstilll to forward motion. It reminds me of that stereotypical thing people say to sky divers, "Why would you jump out of a perfectly good airplane?!" Why would I let go of a perfectly good tree?! At the split second I release myself from the stability of this blessed stationary object I literally experience a Leap of Faith. Faith in my mountain biking skills, faith in my experience of careening down ravines, faith in timing, reflexes, strength, and -- especially -- faith in Letting Go. Trusting that I will be okay at exactly the moment I'm risking NOT being okay.

It's a powerful second. A heartbeat of time that precedes the rush of rocketing down an embankment with enough force to shoot me up the solid wall of red dirt rapidly approaching my front wheel and my face. You can't think too much. You'd best not think at all, or you'll never let go in the first place. And then you'd never get the rush. Or the Bad Ass feeling when you're on the other side of the abyss, looking back at what you just traversed.

I think this is exactly how practicing zazen feels for me. It's a drop into the unknown. A leap of faith. A rush. Best done if you don't think. Possible only when you are able to let go, even if everything in you is saying, "Hang on tight." You have to turn loose of what's known, what's stable and reliable, and rocket into the abyss. And then watch for the amazing places it can take you.

I know I am to approach my practice with the idea of "no attainment," but days like today remind me that, sometimes, you can't help but receive from your practice. And what a precious gift it is.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

The Deepest of Bows

You lose it if you talk about it. - Ernest Hemingway in the Zen Calendar (January 24, 2007)

Day 17. As I approached my cushion last night, I found myself in a deep and lasting bow. It made me feel very reverent and humble, which I suspect may be the original purpose of bowing. While leaning deeply forward, with my forehead pressed almost to my shins, I recalled a wonderful memory from a trip to Japan in the late 1990's.

I had traveled to teach on the Air Force Base at Yokosuka. Since my classes met in the evening, I utilized the day time for rampant exploration. Several of my students had suggested a train trip to Kamakura, so after much courteous bowing and pointing exchanged with several of the locals, I found myself deposited in that delightful city. It was a beautiful day - sunny and quite warm. Kamakura is home to the Great Buddha Statue called Daibutsu, and I easily found my way to the 40-foot outdoor shrine. I was expecting a solemn and formal temple site and the destination of serious religious pilgrimages, so imagine my surprise at the American theme park ambiance I encountered. Uniformed school children on field trips, raucous Japanese tourist groups vying for the best photographic angle, and colorful souvenir kiosks were spread throughout the temple area. I stood silently at the foot of the statue and wondered about the people who envisioned and then built it. I thanked them in my heart.

Stopping at one of the kiosks, I purchased a map of the numerous ancient Buddhist temples located throughout Kamakura. Since I was an industrious hiker (that was 12 years ago!) I struck out on foot through the sunshine. Skipped several of the larger, more tourist oriented sites, and soon found myself meandering further and further from the heart of the city. It didn't take long to realize that the map in my hand bore no resemblance whatsoever to the actual streets I traversed. After a couple of miles, I was meandering on a narrow lane in the hilly countryside. Backing up to the lane on both sides were ramshackle yards and gardens - many of which were planted with lovely flowering shrubs and fruit trees. I rounded a bend, and there, nestled on a steep hill, stood the 3,000 year old temple. I approached it cautiously, as there was no one about. An ancient wooden porch surrounded the screened-in central room, and on it were several pairs of tiny wooden sandals. I took off my shoes and stared at my enormous American feet. Looked at the doll-sized shoes and looked back at my feet. Shook my head, daunted and perplexed. I had every intention of honoring the Japanese custom of not entering a building wearing my outside shoes. At that moment, a robed monk - my guess was the priest of the temple - quietly appeared at my side and gently laid a pair of what could only be men's sandals at my feet. I smiled up at him, slipped on the shoes, and carefully stepped inside. There were only two other women within. They had taken their place on low benches in front of a candle-lit altar. The altar was laden with several items familiar to me from my teacher's zendo back in the States: a statue of the seated Buddha, burning incense, a vase with a single bud in it, an orange, a large gong.

Prior to departing for this trip, we had been practicing bows at my home zendo. That's right - practicing bows. We had been taught how to do the same elaborate and laborious ritual bow that my teacher had learned from Suzuki Roshi at the the San Francisco Zen Center. The bow ends with the student on her knees, leaning forward with the forehead touching the ground. With arms bent and palms facing up, we would raise our hands from the elbow three times, then stand erect and begin the bow again. It was beautiful to watch, sacred to perform. My teacher said that Americans had so much to learn that we should do a sequence of nine of the bows rather than the traditional Japanese three. So there I was: a blue-eyed, blond American who had appeared on foot in the countryside in the middle of a week day, wearing my men's sandals, performing nine perfect Zen bows in a 3,000 year old shrine. During the first three, the priest stood by respectfully, watching intently. For bows four through eight, he looked at me quizzically, and as I stood up after my ninth bow, I'm certain I saw a twinkle in his eye. I took my place beside the women on the benches. We began to chant.

As the chanting continued, I discreetly looked at my watch, and to my dismay saw how much of the afternoon had flown by. I had a train to catch and a class to teach back at Yokosuka. An internal battle ensued: leave the temple prematurely and risk confirming the locals' experience of yet another "ugly American" or stay for who knew how long the remainder of the service was and leave my students wondering about the whereabouts of their wayward professor. The priest was looking at me. I pointed to my watch, and reached up to mime the international signal for train by pulling its imaginary whistle. I must have looked stressed, and the priest must have been exceptionally intuitive. He smiled gently and subtly gestured to the opening in the front screen. I silently rose, deeply bowed, and exited the temple. I laced up my huge American shoes and jogged back down the lane to the train station.

As I write this, I can envision that temple. The sun was vivid, the sky a cloudless blue, the fields spattered with green. I had never felt so holy, so blessed, so spiritually moved. I was filled with gratitude and humility and a bit of ego-based pride at how I had represented an American who loved Zen, and who had been taught well. I had worshiped at a site built thousands of years before my country was born. I had bowed the deepest of bows. For then and now: Thank You, Buddha.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Regression Confession

When you learn to accept instead of expect, you'll have fewer disappointments. - Robert Fisher in "The Knight in Rusty Armor"

Day 16. I love to blog. It's all that Life Stuff taking me away from my keyboard that gets on my nerves.

I've come to heavily rely upon my interpretation of the heart of Buddha's teaching: Suffering is, essentially, that space between what we prefer (desire, expect, get attached to) and what IS. I often say to my clients, "Every time I take on Reality, guess who wins?" This understanding makes the "accept" part of the above quote much easier to, well, accept.

Take, for example, the erratic experiences I'm having on my cushion. I realize that I joke on here a lot about "not trying to attain anything" - and I know my Best Buddhist Self is committed to the notion of no-attainment. But theory and practice are two different things. I sincerely try not to carry any expectations into any given sit session. But I can't seem to help feeling stunned and insulted when things sometimes go very badly. Even during times when I think I'm sitting as if my life depended on it. Take, for example, yesterday evening. Every aspect of zazen felt like it was fighting back at me. I knocked my head on my closet door when doing my first side stretch. I could not seem to sit up straight for more than two or three seconds without slumping. My ankles and legs and hips hurt. My mudra looked sunken and sloppy. My mind would not even bother to produce Monkey Chatter -- it was too busy criticizing my slovenly sitting. Never felt relaxed, peaceful, focused, quiet, or even comfortable -- much less enlightened. For the first time in several days, I obsessed on the timer and the eternity of 20 minutes. I felt discouraged, regressed, and embarrassed as the name of tonight's blog flickered across my mind, and I knew I was going to be honest. Recognized I would have to table the writing of all my brilliant and creative ideas for yet another night.

At some point near the end of my ordeal, I felt my mouth curling into the half smile we so often see on representations of the Buddha. A light mixture of humor, relief, laughter, glee and grace bubbled up from my belly. Metaphorically, I poured a froth of acceptance into the mix and stirred rigorously. Abruptly, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for my zazen practice and all my teacher taught me. Zazen isn't good or bad. If we approach it sincerely, with genuine intent, we have done enough. There truly is nothing to attain. I teach my clients a concept called Radical Acceptance, and for a few moments last night, as I dusted off the imaginary dirt from my cushion, I was bathed in it. I knew that tomorrow, and the next night and the next and the next, I will return to my cushion.

Always an adventure, always a surprise. Never a disappointment.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

You Can't Always Get What You Want

"I caaaaaaaaan't." - Gloria, Paperhanger, Drummer, Lover of Wolves

Day 15. The dawning of Week Three. Fifty weeks left to my goal. Sometimes it feels like I can. Sometimes it feels like I can't.

Several years ago I befriended an amazing woman named Gloria. She hung wall paper by day, drummed in a band by night. Co-habits with four wolves. Singularly built an eight-foot high fence around her five-acre piece of land to protect the wolves. One of the strongest women I know. Once she expressed a feeling state that I'll never forget. We were meeting for dinner, and she arrived at the restaurant looking exhausted and drawn. I asked about her day. She said she had been hanging paper alone in a 4,000 square foot house. At mid-afternoon she approached the entryway with its spiraling cathedral ceiling. Bullied her extension ladder against a side wall, and dragged the wet, glue-laden strip of wallpaper up, up, up. Gloria said that as she reached to align that first strip of paper with the ceiling, her arms screamed and her eyes swam. Out of her mouth she uttered, with the exact enunciation of every two-year-old asked to stop crying when she's flailing in a Wal Mart aisle two hours past nap time: "I CAAAAAAAAN'T."

Now, Gloria is no wimp. Her paper hanging specialty is the 24-foot ceilings of newly-built mansions. But we all have our limits, and that day she hit one of hers. So Gloria, with her splendid and gallant good sense, climbed down off that ladder, wadded up that strip of paper, and exited that entryway. Went home. Came back the next day and got 'er done.

I learned a lot from Gloria. Learned about approaching things in realistic increments, and knowing when it's time to climb down off a ladder. Some nights, THIS night, after a long and harrowing day at work, the thought of posting a blog and sitting on my cushion for 20 minutes (effectively delaying the moment I can crash in my bed) fills me with the same emotion Gloria experienced high up on that ladder. But I'm not two, and a fall off my cushion is likely survivable. So I'm watching the thought, the feeling, the sound of, "I caaaaaaan't" and letting it float on by. And I'm going to get my butt on my cushion. Because that's what I promised to do.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Shaking Mudra, Flickering Flame 2

Some things can't be expressed in words. - My dear friend Chylene

14th Day of Meditation and Blog. I'm feeling centered and stronger. The love of close friends abides.

As I blogged last night, for the first time I became a little unnerved and executed Premature Blog Stoppage. It's hard to explain what happened. The concept I was attempting to describe was not that complex, but it felt enormously important and I experienced a tremendous sense of responsibility in trying to communicate it. The idea was as simple as this: When we drift away from center it begins to feel precarious; when we return to center we regain our equilibrium. Whew. There it is. Told you I was feeling centered and stronger. It was such a relief when I told Chylene about what had happened -- about my Blogger's Block -- and she answered, with her usual compassion and serenity, "Some things can't be expressed in words."

Interestingly, meditating on the block enabled me to set it aside tonight and compose a single sentence to express the idea. I'm pretty sure last night's difficulty with writing is attributable to the strong feelings caused by my experience with the shaking mudra. Sometimes the most simple and obvious things take on grandiose proportions when they are accompanied by a sense of wonder, discovery, awe, and "Ah, Hah!" The lesson I learned is that intense feelings don't necessarily turn the simple into the complex. The insight - the truth I bumped into - just sits there like it always has -- because that's the way of Truth. It just solidly exists as being TRUE, regardless of the silly human emotion swirling around it.

Which brings me to the Flickering Flame. During the same zasen time that I observed the shaking mudra, I also had an insight into the flame of the candle I burn while sitting. A lot can happen in 20 minutes! I realize the candle is not a sentient being, however, lessons can be received from its behavior just the same. I had this bizzare recognition that the flame of the candle did not care at all how it flickered. It just did. There was no discernable breeze or draft in the room, and yet the flame would flicker and be still, flicker and be still. There was no consciousness or monkey chatter for the candle, the wick, or the flame. Not an inkling of "Am I moving too much? Too little? Is my flame the right shade of blue? Does it fade to orange at the right spot? Too much lean to the left? To the right? Am I burning off center?" You get the picture. The candle flame just IS. I'm pretty sure I actually felt a twinge of jealousy at the utter and absolute freedom of the flame to simply FLICKER. No thoughts, worries, evaluations, perceptions, preconceived notions, expectations, or comparisons. It just lit up and WAS. I responded to the insight in much the same way I did with the Mudra Shakes. Emotion flooded through me. My desire to emulate the Flickering Flame was intense. The desire was followed by a startling realization: Don't emulate the flame. BE the flame. As if that wasn't earth-sharttering enough, another flash of insight shimmered: You don't have to BE the flame. You ARE the flame. Already. Just as you are.

Some things are so true it just doesn't take many words to tell about them at all. So now I can stop, and it's not premature. I'm headed off to burn. Just as I am.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Shaking Mudra, Flickering Flame

Each of you is perfect the way you are . . . and you can use a little improvement. - Shunryu Suzuki in the Zen Calendar (September 12, 2009)

Day 13. The necessity of blogging has me robbing AA batteries out of the TV remote to fuel my hungry mouse. To think that I used to avoid all things electronic . . . .

As I sat in zazen last night, I tried to really concentrate on the basics -- on my "Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind." Back straight, shoulders relaxed (a difficult combination for me) eyes two-thirds shut and cast down. Inhale through my nose, exhale through my nose. Count my breaths to 10. Begin again. Vaguely notice that I have mastered the technique of counting my breaths to 10 while STILL the Monkeys chatter. Not the kind of multi-tasking I'm shooting for. I've had a couple of images come to my mind that seem to help still the cacaphony in my brain. One is a carryover from my zen practice of years ago. I simply imagine all the curvy, bumpy, jolting, gyrating gray matter in my mind becoming very smooth -- actually so absolutely slick that any thought that tries to stick just slides off into the abyss somewhere around the top of my spinal chord. For some reason the image of a smooth cerebellum halts my scratching synapses and fills me with calm.

So I'm concentrating like mad on doing some "good" zazen (which, by definition, breaks every definition of whatever "good" zazen is) and my awareness shifts to my mudra. My hands are beginning to tremble. I feel tension in my wrists and fingers, and my thumbs won't stay poised where that mythical rice paper could slide through. In the moment, a shaking mudra feels like a serious thing to me. I observe that my hands have slipped forward and away from me, rather than nestling closely by my belly, where my breath enters and exits my body. In one of those weird insights that can only come while sitting in a half-lotus on a couch cushion, I interpreted my mudra message as something like this: "Hey, scoot me back in, closer to your body. I've drifted out away from your center, and it feels shakey out here. Pull me back in, next to you."

Like solving a tricky koan (which, by the way, was NOT emphasized by my teacher in our practice), I suddenly intuited an understanding of every "shakey" circumstance in which I've ever found myself. Feeling shakey -- getting the shakes -- ALWAYS occurs when I have drifted away from center. From spiritual center. From self center. From relational center. I feel shakey when I'm uncertain, when I'm cold, when I'm exhausted, when I'm scared, angry or lonely. Each of those feeling states involves getting off centered, or away from that which centers me -- from something I've learned, from warmth, rest, and familiarity, from rational thought and loving connectedness.

In the instant following this realization, the solution to the uncomfortable feeling of shakiness lit through me. Like pulling my mudra in close to my body, so that my arms, wrists, hands and fingers could relax and hold firm, the anecdote to "shaking" is always to Pull Back In. To Return to Center. We hold upset babies close to our breast and they are soothed. We embrace our friends, lovers, children, parents and sometimes perfect strangers to still their fears or comfort their despair. Watch Olympians before the start of an event, and after a mistake or fall. Inevitably they draw inward - back to center- by shutting their eyes, taking a deep breath, or some other centering technique that may have been taught by a sports psychologist but is likely simply instinct. Watch a student look to her master, a toddler who has strayed too far from his mother, a soldier who loses sight of his sergeant in battle. When things start shaking, it's instinctive and adaptive to pull back. We look to that which centers us - to another human being, to a spiritual solidness, to a certainty within ourselves.

Writing tonight is giving me the shakes -- it feels so important and the words just aren't flowing. I think I need to go sit on my cushion. You know, to get centered.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Down Days

I thrived on doing and forgot how to be. When I finally went to counseling to work through depression, I was in a state in life where I couldn't even make myself a cup of tea. I watched my roommate make tea and wondered how she could take the time to do such a thing, to let the water boil, let the leaves sit, actually slow down enough to drink it. Everything in my life was about doing. - Lori Smith in "A Walk with Jane Austen"

Day Twelve. Still Week Two. Time oozes. . . .

I woke up to snow today. Not that big a thing -- especially since a great deal of the country is currently buried under record snow falls. It was just that yesterday was very warm and somewhat sunny, and I was quite surprised to see snow on the ground this morning. I considered it a bit of a Valentine's gift. Snowy Sundays certainly are a gift, at least in my book. And this one came along at an opportune time, since I can't remember a thing about last night's sit. Nothing. Nadda. So much for mindfulness. I think I had a vague awareness of not being near so focused on the passing of time. Not exactly a Zazen Triumph, to say the least. I can't even remember a single line of the Monkey dialogue, although I'm certain there was some. Now that I'm thinking about it, I could have written my shortest blog to date, but my Waking Monkey Mind (which is actually conducive to being a Prolific Blogger -- that is, if Word Counts matter) came up with something else to write about.

I have a theory about the occurrence of "down days" - those days when weather, illness and other natural and unnatural disasters require us to stay inside - holed up and cut off from the outside world. Though down days can be externally or internally imposed, I interpret them as a whopping big gift from the universe; a wake up call to stop being Human Doings and practice the art of Human BEing. I frequently point out to my clients, especially those too young to remember the Test Pattern days on television, that the "world" used to allow some natural down times for its inhabitants. When I was a little girl, the TV went off at midnight on week nights, and (I can't remember exactly) maybe a little later on weekend nights. Stores were closed on Sundays. With the exception of maybe two gas stations in my city, nothing was open for 24 hours. People had the etiquette and good sense not to call one another after nine p.m. on week days. No texting, IM-ing, e-mailing, surfing the net, or the countless other ways we've found to bother one another round the clock. There was just some quiet time. People slept and went home because there was nothing else to do. It was a beautiful thing.

The times, they are a-changing! I will have so much more to write on this subject in future posts, but for now I think I will just brag about the developing expertise with which I approach my down days. Naturally, I credit zazen. I used to alternate the expenditure of down days with rabid activity (resulting in exhaustion and resentment when the day was over) and virtual slugdom (resulting in exhaustion and resentment when the day was over). Today I struck a balance. Love that Middle Path. On the one side, I slept in and took a magnificent two-hour nap. Since I felt rested, I busted out a couple of minor projects for work on the computer, walked the dogs, worked a puzzle, and watched some kick-ass Olympics. Oh yeah, and consumed a whole bunch of sugar and fat grams. All-in-all, a heckuva a day. And now that it's ending, instead of exhaustion and resentment, I'm feeling tranquil and content. Not enough angst to write a stellar blog, but I bet I sleep good tonight!

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Angels On a Pin Head

Live the questions now. Perhaps, then, someday far into the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer. - Rainer Maria Rilke in the Zen Calendar (June 26, 2007)

Blog Number 11 (But Who's Counting!?)

Peak Experience! I went to my trusty pile of saved pages from the Zen Calendar that my son gives me every year and there - right on top - was a quote that seemed perfect for what I planned to write tonight. Serendipity at its finest!

During a recent Cushion Sit (it's actually very difficult to find synonyms for "zazen"), an interesting memory from one of my favorite undergraduate classes floated up to my (rather vacant at the time!) mind. The class was History of Psychology, taught by Dr. Chance -- and what a happy chance it was to get to take the class with such a brilliant and provocative professor. I was 20, with a teeming and fertile mind ripe for sowing. To my delight, the history of psychology begins with a look at Aristotle and Plato and Socrates - of whom Dr. Chance spoke like they conversed nightly. I can vividly recall the lecture I still title in my mind, "The Day That Thought Got Free." I'm sure I have some of the content blurred (after all, age 20 was a LONG time ago!) but the essence of the message continues to reverberate through my being. Dr. Chance was speaking about the influence of The Church at the time of Socrates and Company, emphasizing the choke hold the institution held on the mind, the body and the spirit. In the midst of the lecture, Dr. Chance looked up from his notes and gaped out at the lecture hall chock full of sophomores. With eyes wide and burning, he declared ". . . . . AND THOUGHT GOT FREE!" I will never forget it (though I have managed to forget most of what came before and after that point in this life-altering lecture). He spoke with such animation and excitement that the room buzzed similarly to what I imagine happened at that magic moment so many thousands of years ago. Dr. Chance was asking us to contemplate the explosion of all those constricted minds at the moment that Original Thought came crashing through. In a calmer voice, he then speculated that the scholars of the time sat around at dusk as the stars appeared and mused over intriguing questions such as, "How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?"

Counting angels on the head of a pin? Why the hell were these Original Thinkers wasting their time on a question like that when they could be solving the meaning of life, defining the reason for death, and similar meritorious pursuits. Until my recent insight during zazen, I approached the question from time to time in an embarrassingly literal and concrete way. I found myself envisioning these molecular sized deities and wondering about the mathematical formula necessary to calculate the exact area of a pin head (geometry was not my strongest subject).

So . . . . two nights ago I'm sitting on my cushion in a (relatively) deep state of meditation, and the answer comes to me -- fragmented and incomplete, but an answer nonetheless. We're not talking REAL angels here! At least, not in the sense that "real" requires matter and substance like other tangible things in our physical world. My answer to the question (which is resplendent with my subjective interpretation and distortion -- just as Socrates would wish) has to do with juxtaposing the metaphysical and the physical. The spiritual and the earthly. What we can observe with what we Know. The answer shot through me with crystal certainty: As many angels as want to can dance on the head of a pin! There are aspects of the universe that transcend quantification. That are not bound by physical perimeters. It wouldn't matter how diminutive a dance floor a pin head could provide -- it would be an immense space on which angels could dance!

In a non-meditative state, I'm having difficulty recalling why the realization filled me with such delight. I guess that's just the emotion that bubbles up when Thought Gets Free. There was something thrilling about Knowing that there is intricate interaction between the spiritual and the corporal. The expansiveness of it all. The wonderment that there is SO MUCH MORE to what our usual state of mind observes and grasps. The reminder that, for thousands of years, human beings have felt curiosity about what lies beyond the matter our senses can perceive.

You need intuition and imagination to think about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. And I needed a neuro- nudge to remember to think outside my box. To be humble at how much I don't know. And to be open to how much I do.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Crowding Out The Pause

"How're your legs?"
"Shit. Yours?"
"Same."
- Entire conversation during a 34-mile tandem ride with my partner (January, 2010)

Day Ten. The Big One-Oh. Very Cool.

There are some places (experiences, occasions, encounters, occurrences) where words do not belong. Unfortunately, the default for most of us lies not in silence, but in word production. Take, for example, my attempt to get words to my experience of "dwelling in the pause" during yesterday's blog entry. When I sat on my cushion last night, I couldn't help but bring some kind of expectation - a bloated anticipation - of what The Pause would offer. Not surprisingly, (nothing startles us in hindsight!) I could barely sense the pause at all. The assignment of words, and the ensuing analysis and reflection, crowded out the pause. It filled up the space where I "lived" the pause while sitting last night. I revisited a lesson learned long ago: there is an important distinction between effort and flow. Both processes are necessary in life, but the one can preclude the other. No amount of effort could recreate the sensation I had entered previously. As the country western song I so often quote says, "This ain't no thinkin' thang. . . . ."

Lesson learned. There will be sacrifices in the year to come as I balance the living of my practice with the recording of my blog. I'm closing early to go watch Opening Ceremonies for the Winter Olympics. I'd write something about it, but from the glimmers I've caught so far, there are no words.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Dwelling in the Pause

I think Dr. Seuss was the first rapper. - My mom

Day Nine. Tomorrow I will be a Blogger with Blogs in the Double Digits. Feels like a bit of a milestone.

Usually, I try to open with a quote that is at least remotely related to the content of my blog entry. Not so tonight, though I'm always open to the serendipitous unveiling of an unintentional connection. My mom just popped out that amazing idea during a phone conversation we had tonight. I thought it definitely worth preserving.

I realize that my commitment is to simply sit every day for 20 minutes. No expectation. No reward. No promise. No payoff. And certainly, NO attainment. However, I can't help but notice that it feels differently to sit on Day Eight than it did on Day One. Naturally - the moments on Day One came and went and were unique to that particular block of 20 minutes. What I mean is, I think I'm getting better at zazen. Blasphemy! Sacrilege! Impiousness! This is NOT something to be getting better at -- it is simply something I Do! Oops, I mean NOT do. Oh, what a tangled web I weave, cup I wash, wood I chop, water I carry, single hand I clap, (all while failing to hear the tree falling in the woods 'cause I'm not there). The world of Zen can definitely hurt your brain sometimes. But I try not to get attached to the pain. . . .

Hmm. That was weird. That was Blog Monkey Chatter comparable to the best Zazen monkeys I've heard so far. I must be particularly tired and not up to my usual level of editorial hypervigilance. Better make this short. What I planned to write about was the seemingly increasing time I'm spending in "The Pause" - that moment when your exhale is complete and your inhale hasn't begun. When I first began to sit, I watched my inhale rush in with a frenzy, almost blowing my mudra apart, gulping down air like it was the last molecule of oxygen in a scuba tank at 95 feet, and flush it back out again before I could even feel my ribs expand. If there even WAS a pause, it was miniscule. Last night after my tremendous, protracted exhales, I sort of just - well - hung out. Watched that space in between the exhale and the inhale. Observed it from afar, like, "No big deal. Just chillin' here for a while, not breathing, killing time in the space when breath is neither coming nor going." The observing brought on a tremendous calm. When my brain tried to have a thought about it (I staved off those dang thoughts for as long as I could -- approximately 2.5 seconds) it produced a certainty that I had discovered the space where both life and death dwell. Couldn't really distinguish between the two. It felt sort of like just merging with everything outside of me and all I encounter when I'm not sitting zazen. I found myself just concentrating on that Pause Place, and with each exhale, the pause seemed to become the teeniest bit more prolonged, and my acceptance of it just a tiny bit more complete. A sense of gratitude and release and surrender filled the pause, right up to the moment when my inhale, in much less of a hurry, ever so gently ushered in my next breath.

Upon reading over that last paragraph, it sounds pretty Out There and Intense and Significant. Except that none of those words fit the sensation at all. It just Was.

I'm thankful I've been practicing my Steady States.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Cycling Insyte

The real cycle you're working on is the cycle called yourself. - Robert M. Pirsig in the Zen Calendar (July 3, 2007)

Day Eight. Week Two. Yeeee Haw.

Sometimes (many times) Zen moments happen outside the context of sitting on my cushion. Take today. I was on my trainer (the miserable Oklahoma winter has forced me to log way too many bike miles around my living room, rather than in the streets or on the trail) pedaling away to a DVD featuring Lance Armstrong's coach (hey - a girl can dream!) After the required warm-up, the workout progresses to these very intense intervals, in which you are basically pedaling a cadence just this side of puking interspersed with a complete recovery interval (i.e. five minutes on and five minutes off). Following this maniacal sequence is a more moderate segment of the workout called "Steady State." The goal is to maintain a high, but not absurd, heart rate while alternating between different cadences and different gears (i.e. you switch between pedaling fast and easy on the legs to slower and more heavy on the legs). Speed stays pretty much the same, and the physical demands on the body remain constant throughout.

It occurred to me while pumping away at my Steady State (sounds more fun than it is!) that this section of my workout was a metaphor for living a Zen life. A regular practice of zazen is conducive to a feeling of centeredness, of steadiness, of constancy (not that I'm trying to attain anything.) The condition is not synonymous with boredom or tedium. On the contrary, a healthy steady state allows for a degree of expansion and constriction, ebb and flow, reap and sow. The Steady State segment of my workout is one of my favorites because the time passes quickly. I'm not exerting myself to the brink of sanity, and the frequent alternating of cadences and gears is stimulating and requires that I pay attention. I think that's a good way to live life. Zazen helps me feel like I exist from a solid place - like I emanate from a core. Participating in life with mindfulness makes things vivid and interesting while the practice of non-attachment contains experiences within reasonable boundaries. Perhaps that's what is meant by the "Middle Path." From a psychological standpoint, an understanding of Zen is like riding in a steady state on my bike. Life is varied but comprehensible. Vivid but manageable. Stimulating but contained.

The coolest thing about Steady State training is that there is a real conditioning benefit. I'm becoming a better cyclist. I challenge my body enough to get stronger, but don't over stress it so that it breaks down. Reminds me of climbing really difficult routes while on belay. The elation of success after surmounting a challenging climb is made possible by the security of the rope that prevents me from smashing to the canyon floor. I like climbing. And I don't mind being safely tethered while I do it.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Anaylsis of a Screen Name

I'm erecting a barrier of simplicity between myself and the world. - Andre Gide in the Zen Calendar (March 14, 2009)

Day Seven. Seventh Heaven. My Blog is now a week old. One week down, 51 to go. I'm feeling good. I'm feeling pumped. I'm feeling slower, and a tiny bit empty. In Zendom, those are positive things. Not that I'm aiming for anything. Not that there is anything to attain. Actually, in Zen, those are just things. You really try not to get bogged down with qualities like good and bad.

I wonder how different my blog would be if I hadn't opened it in tandem with resuming a meditation practice. I've blogged in my mind for years, and the writing that flowed from my nightly neuro notions was fluid, intelligent, and substantive. Syndicate-able. Solved several historic enigmas, contributed to world peace, and posed provocative insights into the workings of the human psyche. Instead, I'm writing about my ineptness with electronics and the monkeys chattering nonsense in my brain. So much for syndication.

While sitting last night, I had this sensation I called, in the moment, of "being on the fringe." The answer to "The fringe of What?" didn't seem to matter at all. I heard my teacher, probably quoting HIS teacher, saying, "What did your face look like before your parents were born?" Talk about provocative! For a second there, I thought maybe my mind and body would fall away. They didn't, but there was this tiny awareness of "me" being gone - the "me" that, in non-meditative states, grandiosely assumes that she is running the show of my Self. It was a humbling and mildly elating sensation. Sort of like taking a nap when you're supposed to be awake, and nobody finds out. Irony is - and this just came to me when I re-read that last sentence - I'm pretty sure the absence of "me" occurred because I was AWAKE while everyone else sleeps. Very cool. Not that there is anything to attain.

I thought perhaps I would explain the obvious components of my Screen Name. As previously noted, I am grossly inexperienced with meanderings on the internet, and am not clear on the issues of anonymity and being cyber-known. When I was opening my blog account, it asked for something like a screen name, and I found myself simply combining three of the more salient facets of this Self that I am trying to transcend. Cycle because I've grown passionate about riding my bike. I've found a team (more like a club) to ride with, and the sense of belonging has been immensely gratifying. There are training rides that capture much of what I'm (not) shooting for when I'm on my cushion. Buddha because, well duh, I'm pretty intrigued by the study of Buddhism, especially when juxtaposed upon the third facet of my screen name - Doc, i.e. when Eastern thought and practice is interwoven with my work as a psychologist. If I disclose much more, I won't need a screen name because my identity will be clear. How many cycling, Buddhist, female psychologists are there in the state of Oklahoma?! If I throw in the "f" word (which "feminism" is, in this state), and the fact that I'm vegetarian, anyone who has met me in the past 20 years will immediately know my identity.

So there you have it: the history of the composition of my screen name. That's an awful lot of personal data taking up space on a blog designed to facilitate my quest for selflessness. I'm suddenly bereft of my meditative progress - think I'll head for the fringe.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Get Your Butt on Your Cushion

"I have the attention span of a gnat." - Ryan Cocklin

Day Six. I suppose it's a little early in this endeavor to whine, but every fiber of my being is screaming, " I don't wanna! It's late, it's cold, it's cloudy, I'm tired!" To which my compassionate and caring teacher would respond, in his most empathic voice, "Get your butt on your cushion and sit" (or some words to that effect). I'm forever reminding my clients that suffering shouldn't require a litmus test of legitimacy, but . . . come on. It's only been six days. And it's not like I'm cooking my way through a French cookbook or something challenging like that . . .

Reflections on my last sit; let's see. Hmmmm. It occurred to me that if I happen to reach Nirvana, samsuri, or some other enlightened sense of eternal bliss, as the great Zen Masters of the past say, "Mind and body will fall away." So IF I ever actually have any readers, and IF I sit so intensely that I become One with my Universe or whatever level of transcendence envelopes me, my readers may discover on the following day that NOTHING IS WRITTEN on my blog, and now they will know that my mind and body have fallen away, and there is nothing left to say. In the mean time, stay tuned. If I were a bettin' woman, I'd bank on many, MANY posts yet to come.

I'm mortified to experience a waning of my Medi-Blog enthusiasm before I've completed a week of my goal. The first book my Zen teacher ever recommended to me was "Zen Mind Beginner's Mind" by his teacher, Suzuki Roshi. It was a great introduction to the practice of zazen. Roshi reminded us that, when we are brand new to something, we are in a remarkable state from which to learn. A "beginner's mind" is not yet cloudy with the burdensome and interrupting impediments of thought, opinion, evaluation and criticism. Watch a toddler encounter something for the first time. She will usually approach it with curiosity and wonder and perhaps a little caution -- all feeling states that enable her to more fully and authentically experience the new thing. Though the information explosion has provided us with many miraculous advantages, I've observed that a down side is our loss of wonder and astonishment. That's where zazen becomes relevant. If we learn to quiet our minds and pay attention, we can return to connecting with the world as it truly is. And the world TRULY IS astonishing.

That's why my teacher's solution to everything was, "Just sit." We didn't have to sit and like it or sit and be interested in it or sit and be particularly good at it, or necessarily improve our sitting from day to day. We were just expected to get our butts on our cushions. He used to tell us to "Sit with diligence. Sit as if your life depended on it." The beautiful thing was that getting your butt on the cushion was enough. Just drawing breath was enough. We Westerners tend to make something so utterly simple into such a complicated matter: What's the pay-off? Am I sitting better than the guy next to me? Will I achieve enlightenment today? Are my legs stronger, my back straighter, my posture more balanced? Is my memory clearer, my wife nicer, my checkbook balanced, my salary raised, my recycling sorted? What's in it for me? And why didn't I get that yesterday?

It was, and continues to be, a tremendous relief for me to grasp that "nothingness" is just that: Nothing. Do the bows, hold the mudra, and breathe. Might get relaxed, might not. Might quiet my mind, might not. Might have some terrific insight, might not. Might feel happy (sad, worried, angry, tired, sore, bored, frustrated, disappointed, hopeless, elated) -- or not. I'll always remember my teacher's answer to the question, "So what happens if I DO attain samsuri?" He just grinned and replied, "Then you come back tomorrow and get your butt on your cushion."

That's where my butt is headed right now.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Jubilation and Rolaids

Think about exactly that feeling, the food on your tongue, in your mouth. Take one breath thinking about that feeling, and then let that feeling go away when the breath goes out. That is what meditation is: You see the thought and you let it float away, see the thought and let it float away. - from "Breakfast with Buddha" by Roland Merullo

Day Five. Blogger time doesn't pass, it oozes. I should clarify: when I'm actually blogging, I fall down a black hole of timelessness, only to discover that vast quantities of it have disappeared when I emerge. But each day when I sit down to write, beginning with a tally of how many days I've kept my goal, I'm stunned at the slow accumulation of essays. It really parallels my time spent in zazen, where 20 minutes feels longer than the last decade of my life.

I committed to blogging every day; luckily, I didn't promise I would blog WELL for every entry. After all, it's Super Bowl Sunday, and I'd hate to miss any of those pricey commercials. I'll simply record a victory regarding my time keeping ordeals. I had my game face on prior to my last sit, feeling confident that I had mastered the intricate workings of my cell phone. I sat up straight, held my mudra, counted my breaths, and let the time tick down. At the magical 20 minute mark, I noticed that my cell phone, which I had carefully placed face down on the carpet beside me, was blinking. No sound, no alarm. That would be because I had the phone on vibrate. The above-referenced jubilation arose because my eyes had been downcast but still open, per proper zazen form (read between the lines: I wasn't asleep!) So the timer accurately measured the 20 minutes, visually signaled me since I neglected to take the phone off its chronic position on vibrate, and Voila! Jubilation! I've conquered my Time Tribulations.

I read my post detailing the ritual of zazen as I learned it from my teacher, and decided that a blog on ADD will be forthcoming. I completely forgot the finishing aspects of the ritual. Typical Westerner: try to still my thoughts for 20 minutes, but the second that timer goes off (or not!) I'm off my sofa cushion like a shot and on to the next thing to DO. The finishing ritual goes like this: I sound the gong, bow gratefully forward to release the tension in my back, and repeat the sequence of three stretches to each side. I stand up, bow to the sofa cushion, wipe off the imaginary dust on both sides (the ritual clearly originated at a time when zazen was not conducted on wall-to-wall carpet) and carefully store it on the chest by my bed. One more bow as I lay it to rest until tomorrow. I think I've described the entire ritual now (the chattering of the monkeys varies!)

Every night when I'm finished meditating, I've had an unusual stomach ache. So reaching for the Rolaids is fast becoming part of the ritual. I could analyze this, but I'm going to sit instead.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Trust Your Timer 2

. . . Rinpoche went quiet. And shortly after Rinpoche went quiet, my mind became a combination circus/symphony/rock concert. Seven television stations on at once, in the same room. Grand Central Station but with a band marching through it now, advertisements being read aloud, the babbling of fifty voices. - from "Breakfast with Buddha" by Roland Merullo

Day Four. The fourth day of doing something I've committed to for 365 consecutive days feels a bit like being on "Arkansas" when I was memorizing the state capitals in fifth grade. Of course, that was waaaaaay before Google made memorization obsolete . . .

I've been thinking of the bizarre juxtaposition of meditating AND blogging. Meditation is supposed to quiet the mind, and, for me at least, blogging revs up the ole synapses like the green flag at Daytona. I'm probably not the first blogger to compose page upon page of eloquent nuance in my mind, only to sit at my computer and draw a total blank. The paradox is that, when I'm sitting on my sofa cushion where the goal is to MAKE my mind a total blank, the thoughts start racing like an eight lane section of the Autobahn. Oh well. It's only day four.

I guess a good writer is supposed to set the stage for their brilliant novel somewhere BEFORE the fifth chapter. I had forgotten the formality of the practice of zen meditation, and each of the past four evenings has proffered an additional piece of the ritual I performed nightly those many years ago. Maybe I've invented Incremental Mindfulness. The entire sequence is supposed to go something like this (as taught by my teacher, a serious student of Suzuki Roshi): enter the zendo in absolute silence, such that my teacher doesn't even hear me arrive. In silence, lift my zafu and zebulon and place them soundlessly on the floor, in front of the book case. Bow to the zafu while facing it. Turn, and bow with my back to it. Lower myself to the floor, sit on the zafu, slowly turn around to face the bookcase, my back to the interior of the room and the other members of my sangha. Cross my right leg over my left in a half lotus and hope my hips and knees stay remotely pliable for the next 40 minutes. Lean right for a gentle stretch, then left. Repeat two times. Carefully form my mudra by placing my left hand, palm up, resting gently upon my right hand, palm up. Look down to be sure that the creases of the knuckles of both hands are resting one upon the other. Hold my thumbs ever so slightly touching one another, or, as my teacher instructed, just at the distance from one another that he could slip a piece of rice paper between them. Lower my mudra so that my arms are resting on my thighs, and the space cupped by the mudra creates a perfect window through which my breath can enter and leave my body: through my middle, my center, my Self. Back straight, crown of my head reaching toward the sky, shoulders dropped and not straining toward my ears. Eyes cast forward and down, just past half-closed. Wait for the gong; hear it with every fiber of my being, as though the single chime carries every note sounded since the beginning of time. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

So that's the ritual. Silently, mindfully, humbly, gratefully, I would perform it every Sunday at 5:00 p.m. in the safety of the zendo in my teacher's home. My gracious, compassionate teacher. Forty minutes of silence - at least on the outside. Within, the monkeys chattered . . . . .

And now I return to that ritual, and have as yet to perform it in its totality. Last night, during another foray into techno-exploration, I bypassed the alarm on my phone upon discovering that it also has a timer. Who knew? I set the timer for my 20 minutes, performed my bows, side stretched three times, lowered my mudra, cast my eyes downward, (forgot the gong!) and sat. Counted my breaths. They came a bit more evenly than during nights past. I focused on the Here and Now. Got the eight lane autobahn down to about three. I even felt the chill of the air in my bedroom resting on my bare thighs. And then the chatter started: time, time, time, what is the time, where is the timer, did I set it right, why hasn't it gone off, how much past 20 minutes has it been, does it just count down or does it sound off, why didn't I give it a trial run before I started sitting. I won't, won't, won't check it. I'm not budging from this cushion. I'm not interrupting my breathing, not collapsing my mudra, not reaching for the phone. Except that -- I did. I opened my eyes and looked at the phone. And there were five minutes and 59 seconds left to sit. The timer was patiently, methodically, systematically counting off the seconds. So I sat for the remainder of the time, grinning sheepishly at the realization of what I would be admitting in my next blog. So much for eloquence. So much for beautifully constructed descriptions and flashes of pristine insight. I can't even get past time regulation.

It dawned on me that I could lie on my blog, and skip yet another post on Time Trials. Lying at this time is especially easy to rationalize, since I'm fairly certain that my current blog audience consists of exactly One. Which reminds me, while I still have the safety of anonymity, I can fess up to a blogger occupational hazard that I didn't anticipate: Blogger Zits. Am I the first? My chin is breaking out from thoughtfully stroking it while I proof and edit and obsess over my blog.

Enough humiliating disclosure - the Truth hurts. But being congruent with my Higher Being feels pretty good.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Trust Your Timer

Ring the bell that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in. - Jack Kornfield

Day Three. Hot Damn. Go Team Bloggitate. Or is that Mediblog?

I mentioned my aversion to American Narcissism in my last post. Blogging seems impossibly self-centered, but I'm not sure that is always a bad thing. I love to read books about writing (it's what we wannabe writers do rather than actually write) and one of my favorites is "Writing Down the Bones" by Natalie Goldberg. I'm also a huge fan of Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird." Both writers talk about the potential rawness of writing -- the uncensored, get out of your head, relinquish the "committee" that sits inside with its constant commentary and criticism style of writing. That's the kind of writing that I suspect is not as much self-centered as self-centering. I've been a shrink for 22 years now, which I figure is about 22,000 hours of client contact. A person gets to know a lot about humanity when she sits day after day in the privacy of the therapy office while people disclose the most intimate aspects of their being. Some universal truths emerge over the years. It's one of the great privileges of my profession: You are privy to constant reminders that we humans are much more alike than different. One of the truths I've learned is that we're all greatly soothed by the sharing of human experience. When someone writes honestly, bravely, boldly about this bizarre journey called Life, we all benefit. The most intricate and vast bonds of human connection are spread through words. It's why I love to string them together.

I planned on writing about my cyber-conquest after last night's meditation. I was quite excited that, after writing about my aversion to all things computeresque, I had located the alarm on my cell phone. I was terribly pleased with myself for embarking upon the risky exploration culminating in this discovery. "Wow," I thought smugly, "I can time my meditation right here from the floor, and my cell phone can signal when my time is up." Carefully, I calculated the correct alarm time for my 20-minutes of zazen, placed my phone at arm's reach beside my sofa cushion, and began to sit. Remembered tenderly the early instruction of my Zen teacher. Deep breath. Count 10 of them and start again. Watch my breath breathe itself in and out. Use my mudra to envision a swinging door through which my inhale and exhale pass. Back straight, crown of my head reaching up toward the sky. Watch my mind become still (or listen to the chattering monkeys inside. . . .) I'm feeling good, a bit cocky - which my teacher would find amusing and unacceptable - because I actually make it to 10 a couple of times without my breath sequence being interrupted by my usual frenzied flight of ideas. I focused on "The Pause" - that magic space of silence when my exhale is complete and my inhale hasn't started yet. So tuned into my body that I felt the reflexive expansion of my stomach just before my inhale -- as though my body were making room for the incoming air. Very cool. I sat. And sat. And sat. Heard the dog next door bark his soprano shriek, and didn't even shudder. Exhaled my annoyance and just kept sitting. My cockiness began to wane, and the inevitable obsession with time snuck in. Whew, I've been sitting a long time. How long can 20 minutes be? It HAS to be past 20 minutes. Breathe some more. What happened to my alarm? Hang in there, time always slows in meditation. I want to look I want to look I want to look. Surely it's been 20 minutes. Ten more breaths and the alarm will sound. I know I set it to go off in 20 minutes.....

The alarm never went off. With my predictable electronic ineptitude, I had set the time, but not saved the changes to activate the alarm. I got up off my cushion with the usual creaking of bones and tore into the den to check the time on the cable box. 27 minutes had elapsed. I had meditated seven minutes longer than intended, though I'm pretty sure the extra seven minutes were devoted to worrying about, well, the extra seven minutes. I began to chuckle, and remembered my early understanding of why the Buddha smiles. Silly human. So much for mastering a new form of time keeping. Reality always sitting right beside me, calmly licking its chops. This meditating year is going to be some adventure.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Monkey Mind

. . . and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do - determined to save the only life that you could save. - from "The Journey" by Mary Oliver

Day Two. Meditate and Blog. Every day. For a year. What the hell was I thinking? And by the way: Thanks, Mary -- Thanks a whole lot -- for writing your lovely poem "The Journey" -- you know: the one that inspired me to take on this ridiculous task. Oh yeah, and I just remembered that I promised to try and write in grammatically correct sentences. This just keeps getting better and better . . . . .

Upon a 24-hour reflection, I have concluded that I am unequivocally the most ill-equipped blogger and meditator to ever lean on a keyboard or perch on a zafu. First of all: my "keyboard" is an ancient computer in the morass of my teenager's bedroom. Simply booting it takes more than the 20 minutes I've alloted to my meditation (do we even say "boot" anymore? I'm not very hip when it comes to cyber-lingo!) I don't own a laptop. I don't drink coffee. I've never read another blog. I don't Tweet, Twitter, BlackBerry or otherwise commune with electronic devices. I've never been the object of a Face Book profile. I rarely look at my e-mail more than once a week. I have no idea what sound my cell phone would make if I ever took it off vibrate, and I even left it in a hotel room once and waited three days before bothering to call and ask that it be mailed to me. When it comes to traversing cyberspace, I am NOT, as they say, in my element.

Second: I don't own a zafu at the moment (though I'm going to order one with my birthday money). So I'm sitting on a couch cushion. Sounds very earthy and Zen, and normally I am all about abstaining from the purchase of a nonessential product, but a zafu is much easier on the lower lumbar of the sitter. Especially when said sitter has a pretty good curvature of said lumbar (thanks, Mom, for passing along that Scoliosis gene). That said (it probably isn't grammatically correct to say "said" as many times as I just did, but it was kinda fun) I shall proceed to a description of the first of my 365 consecutive meditations.

It sucked. I sucked. I have the worst case of Monkey Mind that ever chattered within the folds of a prefrontal cortex. While I sat perfectly still, erect on my sofa pillow, drawing deep breaths which I patiently counted and awaiting my first glimpse of enlightenment, the Quiet Mind I was intent on achieving streamed forth with something like this: Oh my God I can't believe I used to do this daily Oops was that my second or third breath don't know better start over at zero...what? I think my eyes just closed and I'm supposed to have them gently gazing slightly downward while still open...what will I blog gotta blog can't wait to blog wonder what I'll blog about...how long will it take for my blog to be discovered who will play me when they make the movie Meryl Streep is too old and Kate Hudson is too young wonder if Cameron Diaz would be upset if asked to play a 49-year-old...that is so narcissistic you're only doing this because you want to show yourself that you can commit to something that lasts longer than a sitcom ...my back hurts my hips hurt my ankles hurt my cheek itches how can 20 minutes take so long is it over yet?.......

. . . and so on. I could record much more of my stream of consciousness in the midst of attempting to transcend consciousness, but you get the drift. I'm pretty sure that not a second of my 20 minute First Sit was spent in quiet. And I thought cooking your way through Julia Child's cook book was a difficult endeavor. I'm absolutely convinced that there is nothing more difficult for an American to do than Nothing. All I could think about while trying not to think was thoughts about not thinking. My Monkey Mind chattered away with thoughts, opinions, memories, reflections, evaluations, revelations about past meditations. I kept wanting to meditate on meditating. I am a Meta-Meditator. It's like sitting down to blog and discovering that all I'm blogging about is blogging. Great. I'm a Meta-Blogger-Meditator.

So there it is: Day Two and I'm already feeling like a dismal failure as a blogger and a zafu-sitter (make that couch pillow sitter). I wanted to write about American Narcissism and how opposed I am to it and how blogging has to be one of the most self-centered acts ever invented. As though anyone else cares about my stream of consciousness. As though there aren't innumerable alternative acts I could be engaging in other than Practicing Nothing. Thankfully, I had a teacher who helped me internalize the certainty that Practicing Nothing is, in reality, the noblest of pursuits and a most compassionate act. More on that later. I have to go meditate.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc