Wandering in the Wilderness

To learn to see, to learn to hear, you must do this - go into the wilderness alone. - Don Jose in the Zen Calendar (July 27, 2002).

Day 184. College football started today, minus one strong safety with a bum left hand. My son mentioned he spoke to his roommate (and former teammate) today. I asked if he felt a twinge. He said, "Yes. I woke up in a bad mood." I'm glad. I would have been worried if he hadn't. Grief is like the proverbial garage mechanic: "You can pay me now or pay me later." I believe in paying them both now. That way, you accumulate less interest.

I'm wandering in the wilderness alone. I don't mind. Most of my sublime moments have occurred when I am alone. I am much better at it than at being coupled. The main downside is this nagging expectation (mainly on the part of others) that I explain myself. In Oklahoma, if you are over the age of - oh, say 24 - and uncoupled, it makes other people nervous. They wonder about you. A twofold assumption accompanies others' interpretation of your single status: 1) you are miserably unhappy and 2) you are diligently looking for someone with whom to couple up. It's bizarre. I have not encountered this perception among the many states and several countries I've traveled. The possibility of 1) being happy while single and 2) consciously choosing to remain single is tolerated quite well in many parts of the world. Some of the most intact adults I know are not coupled up. Come to think of it, none of them live in Oklahoma . . .

Forty minutes on the cushion seems to suit me. Perhaps I'm just a "sit-for-an-even-number-of-minutes" kind of gal. I feel a mysterious sense of connection to my teacher and former sangha, since that is the length of zazen we sat together. To be honest, the first time I set my timer for 40:10, I felt an unexplainable sense of anxiety and apprehension. I am not sure why. It was just five minutes more. Forty minutes feels serious and solemn and official. It triggered elements of Zen Mind Beginner's Mind.

I have been very focused on my breathing during zazen. After six solid months of sitting, I am still the worst breather on the planet. It should be so elemental. Breath in. Breath out. I've been doing some version of it for just over 49 and a half years. While self-consciously hauling breath in and puffing it out last night, I thought about my Pilates teacher's observations for the first three years I learned from her: I overdo EVERYTHING! The rigidity and excessive efforting housed in my body astonished her. I over-correct, overextend, over-clinch, and over-think every instruction she issues. It is so metaphoric for my life. I suspect it's grounded in mastering and applying the extreme coping measures required for survival in my household. Erring on the conservative rarely resulted in positive outcomes. Anticipating the worst and preparing accordingly was generally a very adaptive strategy.

These are counterproductive in mastering Zen. There is nothing to anticipate, nothing to prepare for, no right outcome to prefer. Let it happen rather than make it happen. Any athlete or performer recalling a peak performance will tell you they were "out of their mind" during a time of supreme achievement. Phrases like "riding the wave," "in the zone" and "just flowing" are similar expressions. It is becoming increasingly difficult to enter these states of surrender. The world is so self-conscious. Too much psychobabble has trickled to the masses. We think too much, read too much, consult too much, compare too much, surf the internet too much, know too much. It is tragic.

Surrender requires trust. Trust that the universe will buoy you up at the moment you let go your hold. Trust in the innate goodness of something larger than ourselves. Trust that beyond ego control lies freedom and bliss. Trust that we can wander in the wilderness alone and ultimately emerge into the light.

I entered this year a skeptic of surrender. My trust has been violated in some pretty profound ways. Sometimes it feels impossible to relinquish my hold, even at the level of allowing my lungs to draw a relaxed and full breath. In the past six months, however, I've become less skeptical. A deep trust has formed in relation to my cushion and my bows and my practice. My lungs don't yet fully inflate, but - ever so gradually - more breath is finding its way in. I'm learning to surrender. At least, for forty minutes at a time.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc