Just Behind the Mudra

How clear it is! How quiet it is! It must be something eternally existing! - Tao Te Ching in the Zen Calendar (July 26, 2004)

Day 67. Less than 300 blogs to go. No book deal as of yet, but I'll ride through it.

I read over some previous posts today, and recognized that, inadvertently, they basically follow a formula: select a title (usually provided by the Chattering Monkeys), find a relevant quote, attempt a coherent presentation of an idea or realization or interesting thing from the day (try to have it remotely connected to zazen and Buddhism), end with a a succinct and clever closing sentence. Blah, blah, blah. It occurred to me to mix it up a bit tonight, but frankly I am way too tired. Creativity is incredibly draining for us obsessive-compulsive types. Finding a formula and sticking to it ad nauseam is second nature.

A few nights ago during zazen I was focusing on dropping down into my lizard brain and hanging around the amygdala until the monkeys settled down. In one of those meditative flashes of insight, it dawned on me that perhaps I could envision getting out of my brain altogether. I Buddha smiled while realizing that it had taken me upwards of two months to imagine consciously abandoning my cerebral habitat. It's true: left to natural inclinations, my consciousness permanently resides in the frontal lobe. I'm hoping to change that.

Breathing slowly, I gently steered my awareness further down my spinal column, boldly going where it had never gone before. At some point, I let go of the wheel entirely and tried to relax, letting my awareness meander. Left to wander, my mindfulness came to rest just behind my mudra. My breath slowed and deepened, as my being spiraled and settled in a place deep within. Gradually, I experienced an increasing sense of vastness in this space behind my mudra. My brain scuttled briefly to reclaim the driver's seat in an attempt to stave off anxiety. Instead, I breathed through it. The sensation of palatial immenseness started to feel exhilarating and vaguely familiar. Each time my gray matter tugged consciousness upwards, something gentle and kind resisted. "Stay here," said the instinct. "Rest, breathe, float."

Before long, my ambivalence surrounding the state of not suffering surfaced and chased away the vastness. It was good while it lasted. Hopefully, I can hang out behind my mudra again, and stay a little longer. That's why zazen is called "practicing." These things take time. And good things come to those who sit.

Gassho,
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