A Fork in the Path

A roshi is a person who has actualized that perfect freedom which is the potentiality for all human beings. He exists freely in the fullness of his whole being. The flow of his consciousness is not the fixed repetitive patterns of our usual self-centered consciousness, but rather arises spontaneously and naturally from the actual circumstances of the present. The results of this in terms of the quality of his life are extraordinary - buoyancy, vigor, straightforwardness, simplicity, humility, serenity, joyousness, uncanny perspicacity, and unfathomable compassion . . . " - Richard Baker quoting Trudy Dixon in the Introduction to Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind.

Day 140. I am stuck in the fixed repetitive pattern of my usual self-centered consciousness. I would trade it for buoyant vigor in a heartbeat.

I have been meditating and blogging for almost five months. The month after that will be my half-way point. In Hollywood movie timing, this is when the plot is thickened by excessive conflict and turmoil designed to make us wonder if the protagonists can possibly triumph. Caring about the outcome usually requires the willful suspension of disbelief.

Internally, I feel like my plot is thickening. Sitting zazen makes me wonder what size mind I have. What size heart? How much courage, authenticity, hope? What to doubt? What to accept? Where to commit? What if I slam or sneak or stammer my way into Buddha mind and it requires me to change? There is a fork in my path to enlightenment. One path stops abruptly at a sign reading, "This is it. Just this. You are here. You have always been here. There is nowhere else to go." The other path twists and winds up and up, disappearing into a mist. I can't see a sign, but words are dropped like stones along the way: "Move. Explore. Grow. Learn. Challenge. Change. Expand." Sometimes I sit stock still on my cushion, breathing into the moment and basking in Just This. Other times I zoom about the cosmos, curious and thrilled and urgent. Google Maps rejects my request for directions. All roads lead back to my cushion.

In concrete terms, I am questioning everything. Where do I want to live? What do I want to do? With whom do I want to do it? I want beauty; I want nature; I want intellectual stimulation; I want travel and music and culture. I want to do kind things with substantive impact. I want to sit with other Buddhists across the globe, watching and chanting and learning.

Then I stumble into the pages of my Zen Calendar, which remind me that every acorn contains an entire forest of oaks. Huh? I have everything I desire within me? Then why the constant yearning? Why is emerging restlessness and taunting confusion the byproducts of sitting? If I model a roshi and my consciousness arises naturally from the actual circumstances of the present, I fear I will be conscious of a middle-aged woman with a sinus infection and mosquito bites who loathes the Oklahoma heat. I'm not sure this is the quality of life I am seeking.

There is only one way to tolerate this gnawing, itching restlessness. I must sit. Sit and watch the yearnings come and go. Sit for clarity. Sit for sanity. Sit in the absence of any motivation or reason at all. Unbelievably, for 140 days, my zazen has not faltered. At least there is one thing I'm not confused about.

Gassho,
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