Go With What You Know

Ji ho san shi

i shi fu

shi son bu sa

mo ko sa

mo ko ho ja

ho ro mi - Ending chant following Dharma talks given by my teacher Frank. Reprinted from the San Francisco Zen Center website.

Day 291. I have been out in the world with my son today. We went to not one, but two malls. Two personal convictions were reaffirmed: 1) I shop online; 2) I may become a monk (I realize the word "may" falls short of an actual conviction, but my dedication to the possibility remains intact).

I shared some thoughts about chanting in yesterday's post, which triggered associations to the past and present rituals in my life. I had some specific memories about the various auditory coping mechanisms I have utilized over the years when driving in inclement weather. While pursuing my doctorate in the mid-1980's, I drove 70 miles to school. During the two years of this arduous commute, there must have been record breaking tornado activity, because it seemed like I drove home every night in the midst of tumultuous downpours accompanied by bone-jarring thunderclaps, blinding lightening flashes, and hailstorms raining down from the eerily green-tinted sky known for producing twisters. Scary stuff. As though writing a dissertation wasn't scary enough.

I was always alone on these drives, and my trip home was inevitably late at night. There were no cell phones then (at least, none that were affordable to my socioeconomic strata), and very little traffic on any given night in which Gary England recommended staying home. I was not of the temperament to pull over except under the direst of circumstance; my general rule was to keep driving as long as the windshield wipers would swipe. To stay calm and maintain concentration, I would find myself chanting either the Lord's Prayer, or singing the Doxology from the Methodist Hymnal. It wasn't the literal content of the prayer or hymn I found comforting or reassuring. It was the simple fact that, after roughly 24 years of sitting with my parents every Sunday in the third pew on the left of the sanctuary at our beloved Methodist church, the words and tune had become familiar, automatic, and deeply embedded in my psyche. My brain obviously associated that particular arrangement of sounds with protection, safety and positive outcomes. Not a bad mindset to summon when driving through severe weather.

Many years later, I found myself driving along a stretch of snowy mountain road in route to Durango, Colorado wondering if my son had survived a terrible ski crash. Again, I was alone. I didn't recite the Lord's Prayer. I recited the Japanese syllables opening today's post. I didn't even know what the sounds mean (and still don't), but I chanted for the same reasons I prayed during those late-night storms twenty years before: I was frightened and alone. I was driving in dangerous conditions leading to uncertain outcomes. I was trying to stave off panic, remain calm, and safely operate my motor vehicle. I needed to maintain.

My mom used to say that people who don't believe in God have not yet needed Him enough. Simplistic, yes, but also wise. My times of greatest need and vulnerability have been unique opportunities to discover from whence my strength springs. Apparently, I look inwardly. Perhaps we all do. I instinctively tap into the storehouse of verbal repetition that triggers mental clarity and psychological fortitude for me. I say something aloud. That "something" is derived from whatever meaningful and recurrent sounds I have been saying in my current spiritual practice.

I have just spent a good deal of time struggling to put words to something as obvious as a green sky producing hail: In times of stress, go with what you know. Summon what works. And pay attention to the rituals and repetitions of your life. They are likely to surface when you need them the most.

Gassho,

CycleBuddhaDoc