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