Now You See Me, Now You Don't

Think enough and you won't know anything. - Kenneth Patchen in the Zen Calendar (May 23, 2009)

Day 34. Remember that song with the lyrics, "Rainy days and Mondays always get me down"? Today was Monday AND it's rainy.

For some reason tonight (see above), the task of selecting a title, a quote, and then writing the actual blog feels almost more burdensome than I can bear. I'm experiencing this bizarre sense of responsibility and obligation to produce something profound. I KNEW it was risky to let others know that my blog exists. How could I possibly have performance anxiety when it is highly likely that no more people are reading this today than yesterday? This white box staring back at me from my computer looks exactly the same as it has for the past 34 nights, and yet it seems to be taunting me: Write something Good! Write something Good! I have to get over this. And fast.

I think, perhaps, that my zazen cushion and a really good novel (not necessarily in that order) are competing for my attention. Not to mention that everything feels anticlimactic after my weekend of mountain biking. I am trying to return my focus to the original intent of this blog: MEDITATION! Most nights, when I first begin to sit, there is a brief period when the Monkeys protest and do their best jabbering. My mind usually responds with an extra cerebral flex in an attempt to silence the chattering. Of late, the technique my mind reaches for is centered upon a quote I first heard from my teacher. I believe he introduced it as, of all things, a mental device on which to concentrate while meditating. Imagine that! The quote goes something like, "What did your face look like before your parents were born?" I know; it's right up there with the infamous ". . . sound of one hand clapping." Interestingly, in a state of meditation, these buggers really do provoke a deeper sense of calm.

I've spent a fair amount of meditation time over the past couple of weeks with this question floating around and in between my Ham's and Sah's. It has the effect of knocking my ego down a few notches. I am reminded of the stark reality that there was, definitely, a time before the "me" as I know me existed. And the world continued to turn. I was beginning to grasp the idea of "time before Julie" when, a couple of nights ago, it occurred to me that there would, indeed, be a "time after Julie." How self-centered for it to take nearly half a century for me to begin to wrestle with this Truth!

Remember that spending time with a new concept in meditation is quite different from contemplating the abstract in a traditional state of consciousness. Each night, as I pose the question and enter the wonderment of my appearance prior to the birth of my parents, I am filled with a sense of tranquility and relief. To me, it feels incredibly peaceful to rest with the knowledge that "I" - complete with all my worries, fears, anxieties and attachments -- don't even exist. I'm not sure how to reconcile the two simultaneous realizations that arise: First, "I" in the sense of being separate and individual am an illusion (and am therefore exempt from all the worry and expectation that accompanies separateness), and second, I am free to live a spectacular life void of fear and apprehension because there is no "me" to be hurt. This must be why monks meditate for hours on end. You just can't wrap your mind around the stuff that emerges in meditation. Which is exactly the point.

Again, the second I try to put words to these insights, they evaporate. My proverbial Sit/Blog dilemma. I recognize to a much greater extent why my teacher used to pose such provocative (and unanswerable) queries. I move deeper into meditation because my brain is trying to shut down so it won't blow up. I know that this particular question will linger for a long, long time. I'm strangely satisfied and content with "practicing" the idea of relinquishing my ego and remembering that there is time both before and after my conscious existence. It's delightfully freeing. The awareness that most threatens to explode my brain is this: The dual truth that nothing matters when I am not attached to it, and yet I have a somber responsibility to live this "non-life" to the fullest - with joy and love and growth. Very odd indeed. Stay deeply invested in my life while totally relinquishing my hold on it.

I'll never know what I looked like before my parents were born. Probably a lot like I'll look after I die. And I'm strangely okay with that.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc