I know what the great cure is: it is to give up, to relinquish, to surrender, so that our little hearts may beat in unison with the great heart of the world. - Henry Miller in the Zen Calendar (date unknown).
Day 61. Easter Sunday. While growing up in the Methodist church, I always loved Easter hymns the best. Christ the Lord Is Risen Today. Up From the Grave He Arose. The Hallelujah Chorus. My mother and grandmother both had beautiful soprano voices. I would add mine to theirs and we would sing with so much joy the tears would glisten in our eyes. Grandma hated the new organ because she thought the organist played it too loudly. I was okay with the organ, but I think our combined voices were the loveliest sound of all. Three singers, one song. Music to my ears.
I first thought of the title for tonight's blog a couple of days ago during zazen. I didn't start until rather late, and as I quietly sat I could hear the breath sounds of the three other beings in my home. Both dogs were asleep, and my partner was snoring in the next room. As so often happens among beings that sleep near one another, it wasn't long before our breaths became synchronized. Soon after, individual breaths could not be distinguished from the sound of our combined breathing. It was a marvelous reminder of no separation.
I had another reminder of no separation during yesterday's ride. It was our first over fifty-miler this season, and we were all spent from two rides in howling winds earlier in the week. The morning was breathtaking. Temperature was in the mid-40's, clear sky, sparkling sunshine, and, best of all -- no wind. Eight of us headed out together into the morning light. As we left the city limits, it became clear that Spring was erupting as our wheels spun. Early Spring colors are so lively -- greens and yellows and pinks glittering like freshly painted John Deere tractors. We were mindful and appreciative of the glorious morning, though also painfully feeling the miles we had logged in the last few days.
I love the tenacity of this season. Spring, bursting forth with new life, doesn't seem to care about the economy, or the health care bill, or which political party is in the majority. I suppose Spring notices climate change to some degree, but it appears to be pressing on. All the reliable markers were apparent as we rode on Saturday. Nature sung and insects hummed. Despite our fatigue and sore muscles, we pedaled with some spring in our cadence. The vigor of the season is irresistible.
Just past mile twenty, we pedaled down a long stretch of Highway 4, outside of Tuttle. I noticed that my heart rate was climbing, and peeked around my captain to glance at the road ahead. Big mistake. Sometimes ignorance is, truly, bliss. For as far as I could see, the pavement climbed upwards. The grade was not exceptionally steep, but the ascent stretched into the horizon as far as I could see. Quickly, I tucked back behind my captain. Sometimes it is fortunate to be the stoker, because I have little control over our cadence, our gears, or steering. Good thing, too, because on this climb I may have just pulled over, got off the bike, and picked dandelions until the truck came to pick me up. As it is, my job is simply to pedal and breathe. Pedal and breathe. Lend as much power to our combined leg strength as possible. Oh yeah -- and never whine.
Our ability levels are disparate early in the season, so during the first half mile of this climb our team was spread out more than usual. As my heart increasingly hammered in my chest, I envisioned my mudra and silently chanted to stay calm. In spite of these reliable Buddhist coping mechanisms, a barely audible voice just behind my pounding lungs began a chant of its own: "I want to get off. I want to get off. I want to get off." It was at that moment that I registered a teammate at our side. It was Dennis - the Big D - appearing as he so often does -- like magic at precisely the second I needed him.
Dennis and my partner have ridden together for over a decade. Their bikes can glide along fractions of an inch apart for endless miles. As I registered his proximity, Dennis didn't speak. None of us could spare the breath to talk. He just pedaled alongside us, so close that my sweat was being absorbed by his cycle shorts. A gentle giant of a man, Dennis is the most powerful cyclist I know. When he rides by my side, buzzing circuits of positive physical and spiritual energy flow from him, energizing and uplifting me when I am most challenged on the bike. From the shadows being cast to the west, I then saw our friend Randy sucking our rear wheel. Together, the four of us were streaming up the hill. Our effort merged into a singular push forward. Our bikes were so close together and our focus was so united that our perimeters seemed to shimmer and blur until, as one entity, we crested the hill. What started with four breathers had ended in one breath. We sighed and coasted. Felt the wind in our collective face.
There are infinite ways to experience the boundaries between us falling away. Choir members singing together, bands in a jam session; surgical teams in the operating room, worshipers in a congregation, dancers on a stage, chanters in a sweat lodge -- innumerable paths can merge into the magic moment of One. Let separateness fall away. Hallelujah!
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Toss Your Timer
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'. . .
Into the future- Steve Miller Band from Fly Like An Eagle
Day 60. Two solid months of blogging. I am feeling every day of it. The honeymoon is over. Ten more months seems like an eternity. I keep thinking about how busy gyms are during the month of January, when everyone has just made their resolution to work out and lose weight. The masses diminish in February, and by March the gym populace is back to normal. Is it a law of physics that change can be maintained for six to eight weeks before people bail? I'm not bailing, but, at least for tonight, I'm not blogging for joy, either.
The content for tonight's blog has been percolating in my mind since I got off the bike after our 52 mile ride this morning. Alas and alack! Events during zazen are preempting it. I just read the previous sentence, and it seemed ridiculous. There aren't supposed to be any "events" during zazen. Of course, there also aren't supposed to be any aren't supposed to be's. Oh, what a word salad I am tossing.
I altered my routine of the past 59 days, and sat zazen before I wrote my blog. I approached my cushion with the somber mindfulness I am trying to cultivate, sitting very, very still, and flagpole straight. The Monkeys chattered a lot about the ride, then about the blog I should write about the ride. I kept breathing, focusing on the physical sensations that have been assisting with quieting my mind. Perhaps because of the three hours I spent in the saddle today, I was exquisitely aware of where my sits bones rested on the cushion. I was waiting for excruciating pain in my legs, but registered only heaviness. The timer was set for the still new 25 minutes. The house was quiet. All was well.
The non-event had to do with the timer. We sparred. We wrestled. We battled. I blew through a gamut of emotions ranging from forbearance to anger to incredulity. Inwardly, I bargained, pleaded, and cussed. Had a lengthy conversation between my id and my superego. Id: "I want to get up." Superego: "You can't. It's not time." Id: "I want to get up right now!" Superego: "If we get up now, we have to be honest and blog about it." Id: "I don't care. I'm done. It's been too long." Superego: "Just stay put and breathe through it."
It was interesting to simply detach and watch the timer urgency escalate. I really had an opportunity to observe a feeling state and not get attached to it. It was kind of fascinating to experience the distinction between the reality of staying on my cushion and the abstraction of the battle waging in my mind. At one point I felt my Buddha smile tug, and found the whole absurdity amusing. That didn't last long. My legs and feet fell soundly asleep, my back slumped, my mind raced. I counted innumerable sets of ten breaths. Became cognizant of how ludicrous it was to have so many thoughts and feelings about the measurement of time. Watched stubbornness and competitiveness come and go. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, I checked the timer.
The actual time read something like seven hours, twenty-nine minutes and some seconds. I have no idea what those numbers mean. I'm not exactly sure what time I began to sit, but I know I was on my cushion for less than an hour but much, much longer than 25 minutes. I also know I set the timer with my contacts on, and I haven't been able to see anything in print without my glasses in the past four years. I know this is ego driven, but I feel compelled to note that, upon realizing the timer trauma, I didn't actually toss it. I very meticulously performed my bows and placed my cushion on the chest. This was no small feat, considering I couldn't feel my feet!
I want to analyze and extrapolate from this most recent timer tussle, but I am exhausted from the ride I originally wanted to blog about, so I'm headed for sleep. First, however, I'm taking out my contacts.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Into the future- Steve Miller Band from Fly Like An Eagle
Day 60. Two solid months of blogging. I am feeling every day of it. The honeymoon is over. Ten more months seems like an eternity. I keep thinking about how busy gyms are during the month of January, when everyone has just made their resolution to work out and lose weight. The masses diminish in February, and by March the gym populace is back to normal. Is it a law of physics that change can be maintained for six to eight weeks before people bail? I'm not bailing, but, at least for tonight, I'm not blogging for joy, either.
The content for tonight's blog has been percolating in my mind since I got off the bike after our 52 mile ride this morning. Alas and alack! Events during zazen are preempting it. I just read the previous sentence, and it seemed ridiculous. There aren't supposed to be any "events" during zazen. Of course, there also aren't supposed to be any aren't supposed to be's. Oh, what a word salad I am tossing.
I altered my routine of the past 59 days, and sat zazen before I wrote my blog. I approached my cushion with the somber mindfulness I am trying to cultivate, sitting very, very still, and flagpole straight. The Monkeys chattered a lot about the ride, then about the blog I should write about the ride. I kept breathing, focusing on the physical sensations that have been assisting with quieting my mind. Perhaps because of the three hours I spent in the saddle today, I was exquisitely aware of where my sits bones rested on the cushion. I was waiting for excruciating pain in my legs, but registered only heaviness. The timer was set for the still new 25 minutes. The house was quiet. All was well.
The non-event had to do with the timer. We sparred. We wrestled. We battled. I blew through a gamut of emotions ranging from forbearance to anger to incredulity. Inwardly, I bargained, pleaded, and cussed. Had a lengthy conversation between my id and my superego. Id: "I want to get up." Superego: "You can't. It's not time." Id: "I want to get up right now!" Superego: "If we get up now, we have to be honest and blog about it." Id: "I don't care. I'm done. It's been too long." Superego: "Just stay put and breathe through it."
It was interesting to simply detach and watch the timer urgency escalate. I really had an opportunity to observe a feeling state and not get attached to it. It was kind of fascinating to experience the distinction between the reality of staying on my cushion and the abstraction of the battle waging in my mind. At one point I felt my Buddha smile tug, and found the whole absurdity amusing. That didn't last long. My legs and feet fell soundly asleep, my back slumped, my mind raced. I counted innumerable sets of ten breaths. Became cognizant of how ludicrous it was to have so many thoughts and feelings about the measurement of time. Watched stubbornness and competitiveness come and go. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, I checked the timer.
The actual time read something like seven hours, twenty-nine minutes and some seconds. I have no idea what those numbers mean. I'm not exactly sure what time I began to sit, but I know I was on my cushion for less than an hour but much, much longer than 25 minutes. I also know I set the timer with my contacts on, and I haven't been able to see anything in print without my glasses in the past four years. I know this is ego driven, but I feel compelled to note that, upon realizing the timer trauma, I didn't actually toss it. I very meticulously performed my bows and placed my cushion on the chest. This was no small feat, considering I couldn't feel my feet!
I want to analyze and extrapolate from this most recent timer tussle, but I am exhausted from the ride I originally wanted to blog about, so I'm headed for sleep. First, however, I'm taking out my contacts.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Friday, April 2, 2010
Five Minutes More
Make your saddle your sitting cushion; make the mountains, rivers and great earth the sitting platform; make the whole universe your own personal meditation cave. - Hakuin in the Zen Calendar (August 21, 2004)
Day 59. Week's end. Yahoo.
Last night I took my awareness of all things physical to my cushion. A bodily focus came effortlessly; perhaps because my body was so fatigued, and my limbs so sore. I felt a sense of relief as I concentrated on the tangible, immediate reality of my physical self. That made it much easier to re-center when my thoughts started swirling. The contrast between the abstract, elusive nature of my brain and the concrete nearness of my body was stark. I've discovered a new barometer of the essential and nonessential.
By the end of a long work week, I feel like a container filled to the brim. There is a theory of psychotherapy that directly addresses the role of the therapist as a "container" for the client's experiences and emotions. I like that idea, and often talk about it explicitly with my clients. What I don't like is being filled to overflowing with the day-to-day excesses of modern culture. I've noted before that I err strongly on the side of being uninformed, of filtering and de-selecting to a much greater degree than most people. Even with my strongest insulation, however, I frequently quake from the chaos around me. Sometimes it's like my Being is reverberating with the clamor of the irrelevant. There is such an abundance of nonessential to sort through. I recognize that my brain is a bizarre mix of ADD, obsessive-compulsiveness, uncharted intellect and festering creativity. It's a genetic Perfect Storm for Chattering Monkeys. It's also fertile ground for requiring the entire universe to be my meditation cave.
I know I'm not alone in perceiving that The World is currently comprised of Too Much. I'm probably a bit above average in motivation to ratchet it down a few notches. Traversing the abyss between "containing" for a living and being "empty" through meditation requires a quantum leap indeed. Sitting is proving to be the most reliable bridge.
When I began to sit last night, I wondered what five more minutes of stillness would be like. I expected to be distracted and preoccupied by the timer. For a Monkey Minded person like me, five minutes more has the potential to open the cerebral floodgates so the chatter pours forth. Remarkably, the time was fleeting. I just kept sitting smack dab in the heart of the moment. Immersed in the immediate. Crouched on the concrete. And when the time expired, I experienced an unprecedented elation. It wasn't at all relief that zazen had ended. On the contrary, it was certainty that five minutes more was a very, very good thing.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 59. Week's end. Yahoo.
Last night I took my awareness of all things physical to my cushion. A bodily focus came effortlessly; perhaps because my body was so fatigued, and my limbs so sore. I felt a sense of relief as I concentrated on the tangible, immediate reality of my physical self. That made it much easier to re-center when my thoughts started swirling. The contrast between the abstract, elusive nature of my brain and the concrete nearness of my body was stark. I've discovered a new barometer of the essential and nonessential.
By the end of a long work week, I feel like a container filled to the brim. There is a theory of psychotherapy that directly addresses the role of the therapist as a "container" for the client's experiences and emotions. I like that idea, and often talk about it explicitly with my clients. What I don't like is being filled to overflowing with the day-to-day excesses of modern culture. I've noted before that I err strongly on the side of being uninformed, of filtering and de-selecting to a much greater degree than most people. Even with my strongest insulation, however, I frequently quake from the chaos around me. Sometimes it's like my Being is reverberating with the clamor of the irrelevant. There is such an abundance of nonessential to sort through. I recognize that my brain is a bizarre mix of ADD, obsessive-compulsiveness, uncharted intellect and festering creativity. It's a genetic Perfect Storm for Chattering Monkeys. It's also fertile ground for requiring the entire universe to be my meditation cave.
I know I'm not alone in perceiving that The World is currently comprised of Too Much. I'm probably a bit above average in motivation to ratchet it down a few notches. Traversing the abyss between "containing" for a living and being "empty" through meditation requires a quantum leap indeed. Sitting is proving to be the most reliable bridge.
When I began to sit last night, I wondered what five more minutes of stillness would be like. I expected to be distracted and preoccupied by the timer. For a Monkey Minded person like me, five minutes more has the potential to open the cerebral floodgates so the chatter pours forth. Remarkably, the time was fleeting. I just kept sitting smack dab in the heart of the moment. Immersed in the immediate. Crouched on the concrete. And when the time expired, I experienced an unprecedented elation. It wasn't at all relief that zazen had ended. On the contrary, it was certainty that five minutes more was a very, very good thing.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Blown Away
Mountains should be climbed with as little effort as possible and without desire. The reality of your own nature should determine the speed. If you become restless, speed up. If you become winded, slow down. You climb the mountain in an equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion. Then, when you're no longer thinking ahead, each footstep isn't just a means to an end but a unique event in itself. - Robert Pirsig in the Zen Calendar (May 5, 2003)
Day 58. My mind and body have fallen away . . . . . .
April Fools! I KNOW the Buddha must have a really great sense of humor because he smiles so much. For better or worse, my body and mind are very much with me. Darn the luck!
The EZ Riders formally train on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday with a recovery ride on Sunday. Our events start next Saturday. My hunch is that, at least for these first couple of weeks, the "Cycle" part of CycleBuddhaDoc will be paramount (it is, after all, first in the screen name. Hmmmmm, I never thought about that before -- wonder if this is diagnostic?)
Today we were, literally, almost blown away. We rode fifteen miles due south directly into an insane headwind. I was on the tandem, which means we pulled the entire way. Our team was grateful for the draft and rode like demons (well rested demons at that) with the tail wind all the way back. I, on the other hand, feel battered and ragged and a little insane myself. When we become winded on the bike, we don't necessarily slow down. That's right; we ride through it! Robert Pirsig's idea of maintaining an equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion sounds like a much better way of riding. The polarized experience of pedaling until I'm near death and then collapsing into consummate exhaustion is wearing.
When exerting that much effort, I am reduced to breath, sweat, and pedal cadence. The exertion feels almost violent if I let it, or I can surrender to the strain and get lost in it. Experience has taught me to surrender sooner rather than later. That must be why some of us "oldies" on the team can still chase and catch the testosterone driven youth. Energy gets allocated perfectly; we don't expend an iota on anything that isn't absolutely required to propel those two wheels forward. No fuel is wasted on cerebral activity. As beings, we are reduced to raw physicality.
I suspect this ride taught me something transferable to my cushion. I can use my body as a way station to transcend my mind. I recall from sitting with my sangha that, early in a zazen session, it is very useful to concentrate deeply on physical sensations. The erectness of my spine, the crown of my head being pulled upward, the contours of my body coming into contact with my cushion, the swoosh of breath through my mudra. Each of these sensations "isn't just a means to an end but a unique event in itself." If I am fully paying attention to these minute bodily details, I bet my mind will be quieted. Just like on my bike, I won't waste energy on cerebral activity.
I will sit five minutes longer tonight. Now, if I can just discover the way station to transcend the rest of me.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 58. My mind and body have fallen away . . . . . .
April Fools! I KNOW the Buddha must have a really great sense of humor because he smiles so much. For better or worse, my body and mind are very much with me. Darn the luck!
The EZ Riders formally train on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday with a recovery ride on Sunday. Our events start next Saturday. My hunch is that, at least for these first couple of weeks, the "Cycle" part of CycleBuddhaDoc will be paramount (it is, after all, first in the screen name. Hmmmmm, I never thought about that before -- wonder if this is diagnostic?)
Today we were, literally, almost blown away. We rode fifteen miles due south directly into an insane headwind. I was on the tandem, which means we pulled the entire way. Our team was grateful for the draft and rode like demons (well rested demons at that) with the tail wind all the way back. I, on the other hand, feel battered and ragged and a little insane myself. When we become winded on the bike, we don't necessarily slow down. That's right; we ride through it! Robert Pirsig's idea of maintaining an equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion sounds like a much better way of riding. The polarized experience of pedaling until I'm near death and then collapsing into consummate exhaustion is wearing.
When exerting that much effort, I am reduced to breath, sweat, and pedal cadence. The exertion feels almost violent if I let it, or I can surrender to the strain and get lost in it. Experience has taught me to surrender sooner rather than later. That must be why some of us "oldies" on the team can still chase and catch the testosterone driven youth. Energy gets allocated perfectly; we don't expend an iota on anything that isn't absolutely required to propel those two wheels forward. No fuel is wasted on cerebral activity. As beings, we are reduced to raw physicality.
I suspect this ride taught me something transferable to my cushion. I can use my body as a way station to transcend my mind. I recall from sitting with my sangha that, early in a zazen session, it is very useful to concentrate deeply on physical sensations. The erectness of my spine, the crown of my head being pulled upward, the contours of my body coming into contact with my cushion, the swoosh of breath through my mudra. Each of these sensations "isn't just a means to an end but a unique event in itself." If I am fully paying attention to these minute bodily details, I bet my mind will be quieted. Just like on my bike, I won't waste energy on cerebral activity.
I will sit five minutes longer tonight. Now, if I can just discover the way station to transcend the rest of me.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Somber Sitting
Sit just to sit. And why not sit? You have to sit sometimes, and so you may as well really sit, and be altogether here. Otherwise the mind wanders away from the matter at hand, and away from the present. Even to think through the implications of the the present is to avoid the present moment completely. - Alan Watts in the Zen Calendar (June 27, 2007)
Day 57. I am very tired of the wind. I've noticed that the wind doesn't seem to care a bit. Evidently, I don't get a vote about how hard it blows.
I woke up today anxious and exhausted from a restless night fraught with disturbing dreams. I could not seem to shake the anxiety for most of the day. Frustrating, especially since I am supposedly a competent psychologist who knows a great deal about treating anxiety. Doctor: heal thyself! Anxiety is a mischievous beast. It doesn't seem to give a damn about whether or not I can produce a rational reason for its existence. Like everything else, it just IS.
This feeling state may be a remnant from some most unsatisfying cushion time as of late. I incontrovertibly agree with Alan Watts' quote, however, lately I am struggling with really sitting. I can't dwell in the moment. I can't mute the Monkeys. I am attempting to approach my meditation in earnest, noticing an internal scrutiny of my protocol like that of a newly promoted drill sergeant. Yet I've been a lousy sitter for several nights in a row.
A pox on the promise to be honest in my blog! But promise I did, so I am writing about two recent examples of how poorly zazen is going. A few nights ago, I had been sitting in a reasonably calm and quiet manner when I abruptly became acutely aware of the time. It felt like twenty minutes had already passed. I told myself that I would count ten more breaths. On about the third one, the timer blinked and I popped up off my cushion like a Toaster Strudel. No set of three side bows. No reverent and deep bow forward. No brushing off the imaginary dirt from the cushion. No gentle lifting of my cushions to store them on the chest. You would have thought the blinking timer was the zero digit on a bomb fuse. As I turned from mindlessly plunking my cushions down on the storage chest, I was overcome with a deep sense of mortification. What happened? Where was my mind? It hadn't fallen away, at least not in the pure and dignified Buddhist sense. It had fast forwarded to my profound attachment to getting some sleep.
Trying not to look over my shoulder as though a hidden camera had recorded my atrocities, I humbly placed my cushions back on the floor. Sat down, and slowly, deliberately, performed the ritual signifying the end of zazen. The corrective action did little to assuage my discomfiture. I told myself not be be attached to compulsively performing my sitting ritual. It felt like excuses and cheating. I was taught long and well about the value of mindfully approaching meditation.
On the heels of this anarchy, I approached zazen with a heightened degree of seriousness. I strongly, sternly, grounded myself on my cushion for some somber sitting. Several deep breaths passed through a perfectly held mudra. Then I heard something right behind me calmly licking its chops. At first I thought it was Reality. Reflexively I turned and saw it was Katy (the border collie), come to round up an errant member of her flock. In an inpatient voice, I said, "Katy, quit licking!" I was aghast. I had done it again. Interrupted zazen with a random and unnecessary impulse. Katy and I both tucked our tails; she returned to her kennel, I to my sitting.
During the time I sat with the sangha at my teacher's house, we were extremely formal. He emphasized the style of zazen he learned from Suzuki Roshi at the San Francisco Zen Center. It was a very ancient, traditional, precise form of meditation. I adored and revered it. I could sit motionless for forty minutes, making the guards at Buckingham Palace look hyperactive. I could abstain from scratching the most persistent of itches. My spine and knees could wail in agony, and I held my position. I don't recall feeling attached to perfection. I respected my teacher and was deeply invested in communicating that sentiment through flawless sitting.
These thoughts and experiences are jumbled in my heart. I know the thing to do is get my butt on my cushion. Somehow it seems timely that, beginning tomorrow, I'm going to sit for just a little bit longer.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 57. I am very tired of the wind. I've noticed that the wind doesn't seem to care a bit. Evidently, I don't get a vote about how hard it blows.
I woke up today anxious and exhausted from a restless night fraught with disturbing dreams. I could not seem to shake the anxiety for most of the day. Frustrating, especially since I am supposedly a competent psychologist who knows a great deal about treating anxiety. Doctor: heal thyself! Anxiety is a mischievous beast. It doesn't seem to give a damn about whether or not I can produce a rational reason for its existence. Like everything else, it just IS.
This feeling state may be a remnant from some most unsatisfying cushion time as of late. I incontrovertibly agree with Alan Watts' quote, however, lately I am struggling with really sitting. I can't dwell in the moment. I can't mute the Monkeys. I am attempting to approach my meditation in earnest, noticing an internal scrutiny of my protocol like that of a newly promoted drill sergeant. Yet I've been a lousy sitter for several nights in a row.
A pox on the promise to be honest in my blog! But promise I did, so I am writing about two recent examples of how poorly zazen is going. A few nights ago, I had been sitting in a reasonably calm and quiet manner when I abruptly became acutely aware of the time. It felt like twenty minutes had already passed. I told myself that I would count ten more breaths. On about the third one, the timer blinked and I popped up off my cushion like a Toaster Strudel. No set of three side bows. No reverent and deep bow forward. No brushing off the imaginary dirt from the cushion. No gentle lifting of my cushions to store them on the chest. You would have thought the blinking timer was the zero digit on a bomb fuse. As I turned from mindlessly plunking my cushions down on the storage chest, I was overcome with a deep sense of mortification. What happened? Where was my mind? It hadn't fallen away, at least not in the pure and dignified Buddhist sense. It had fast forwarded to my profound attachment to getting some sleep.
Trying not to look over my shoulder as though a hidden camera had recorded my atrocities, I humbly placed my cushions back on the floor. Sat down, and slowly, deliberately, performed the ritual signifying the end of zazen. The corrective action did little to assuage my discomfiture. I told myself not be be attached to compulsively performing my sitting ritual. It felt like excuses and cheating. I was taught long and well about the value of mindfully approaching meditation.
On the heels of this anarchy, I approached zazen with a heightened degree of seriousness. I strongly, sternly, grounded myself on my cushion for some somber sitting. Several deep breaths passed through a perfectly held mudra. Then I heard something right behind me calmly licking its chops. At first I thought it was Reality. Reflexively I turned and saw it was Katy (the border collie), come to round up an errant member of her flock. In an inpatient voice, I said, "Katy, quit licking!" I was aghast. I had done it again. Interrupted zazen with a random and unnecessary impulse. Katy and I both tucked our tails; she returned to her kennel, I to my sitting.
During the time I sat with the sangha at my teacher's house, we were extremely formal. He emphasized the style of zazen he learned from Suzuki Roshi at the San Francisco Zen Center. It was a very ancient, traditional, precise form of meditation. I adored and revered it. I could sit motionless for forty minutes, making the guards at Buckingham Palace look hyperactive. I could abstain from scratching the most persistent of itches. My spine and knees could wail in agony, and I held my position. I don't recall feeling attached to perfection. I respected my teacher and was deeply invested in communicating that sentiment through flawless sitting.
These thoughts and experiences are jumbled in my heart. I know the thing to do is get my butt on my cushion. Somehow it seems timely that, beginning tomorrow, I'm going to sit for just a little bit longer.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Be A Part Of It All
And everything comes to One as we dance on. Dance on. Dance on. - _________ in the Zen Calendar _____________
Day 56. Short blog in honor of March Madness and the amazing women athletes of the NCAA.
I belong to something. I haven't always belonged, and the feeling of being on the inside of something is immense. Today was the first official ride of the EZ Rider road season. And what a ride it was!
We turned out in our colors. Watch for us -- our jerseys are the blue of summer sky and the yellow of a brilliant sun shining in it. Some of us had not seen one another since the season ended last October. We exchanged warm smiles of greeting and exuberant hand shakes. The pleasure of seeing one another was genuine. The excitement of riding together again was palpable.
I know that different cycling clubs and teams each have their unique set of dynamics. Groups tend to take on their own identity. The team dynamic seems to have everything to do with how strongly the members identify with one another and with being a part of the team. The EZ riders are strongly identified with each other. Individual egos are left in the parking lot, and the good of the team is sincerely upheld in all of us. We watch out for one another in a hundred subtle ways. We have our own verbal and nonverbal shorthand for relaying information about performance and safety. Each rider contributes to the team effort through his or her distinctive talents. We have sprinters and climbers and strong pullers. Some team mates reliably provide emotional support -- uplifting morale on especially difficult rides (like when the Oklahoma headwinds howl at us with 40 mph gusts).
The very best thing, and the deciding factor for me when I joined the EZ Riders, is that noone gets dropped. Getting dropped means left by the peloton to ride back alone. I've ridden with groups that dropped riders who couldn't keep up. When you are by yourself after a strenuous attempt at trying to stay with the group, it is a long, lonely, discouraging pedal back home. With my team, if you are "off the back" (usually exhausted, sometimes ill, or maybe just having a bad day), someone always drops back to pick you up. Usually, they lend a wheel for you to draft, and pull you up to the group. We've all been off the back at some point or another.
For me, something incredibly powerful happens when a team mate drops back to pull me up to the peloton. It is something much more than the literal assistance provided by someone blocking the wind and creating an air flow that conserves my energy. There is a psychological and spiritual uplifting that accompanies the act. It says to me, "I matter. The Whole wants me back. It has come to get me so that I may remain a part of it."
This is Buddhism. No separation. We all belong. And everything comes to One. Dance on.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 56. Short blog in honor of March Madness and the amazing women athletes of the NCAA.
I belong to something. I haven't always belonged, and the feeling of being on the inside of something is immense. Today was the first official ride of the EZ Rider road season. And what a ride it was!
We turned out in our colors. Watch for us -- our jerseys are the blue of summer sky and the yellow of a brilliant sun shining in it. Some of us had not seen one another since the season ended last October. We exchanged warm smiles of greeting and exuberant hand shakes. The pleasure of seeing one another was genuine. The excitement of riding together again was palpable.
I know that different cycling clubs and teams each have their unique set of dynamics. Groups tend to take on their own identity. The team dynamic seems to have everything to do with how strongly the members identify with one another and with being a part of the team. The EZ riders are strongly identified with each other. Individual egos are left in the parking lot, and the good of the team is sincerely upheld in all of us. We watch out for one another in a hundred subtle ways. We have our own verbal and nonverbal shorthand for relaying information about performance and safety. Each rider contributes to the team effort through his or her distinctive talents. We have sprinters and climbers and strong pullers. Some team mates reliably provide emotional support -- uplifting morale on especially difficult rides (like when the Oklahoma headwinds howl at us with 40 mph gusts).
The very best thing, and the deciding factor for me when I joined the EZ Riders, is that noone gets dropped. Getting dropped means left by the peloton to ride back alone. I've ridden with groups that dropped riders who couldn't keep up. When you are by yourself after a strenuous attempt at trying to stay with the group, it is a long, lonely, discouraging pedal back home. With my team, if you are "off the back" (usually exhausted, sometimes ill, or maybe just having a bad day), someone always drops back to pick you up. Usually, they lend a wheel for you to draft, and pull you up to the group. We've all been off the back at some point or another.
For me, something incredibly powerful happens when a team mate drops back to pull me up to the peloton. It is something much more than the literal assistance provided by someone blocking the wind and creating an air flow that conserves my energy. There is a psychological and spiritual uplifting that accompanies the act. It says to me, "I matter. The Whole wants me back. It has come to get me so that I may remain a part of it."
This is Buddhism. No separation. We all belong. And everything comes to One. Dance on.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Monday, March 29, 2010
Tri-Titled Blog
To enjoy the world without judgment is what a realized life is like. - Charlotte Joko Beck in the Zen Calendar (September 26, 2009) Note: Quote is subject to change -- I just can't find the one I am looking for.
Day 55. My dad used to say (a lot), "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." But I'm going to blog today anyway.
I'm not fond of the days I end up writing a whole lot about not having anything to write about. Instead, I'll explain the title to today's blog. About halfway through today, the title was going to be "Crashing Back to Earth." I was going to write gloomily about the post-adrenaline blues that accompanied getting off the bike and going to work. That blog was definitely going to have an Eeyore-esque tone. Since I was in no hurry to write it, I decided to take a walk in the beautiful Spring evening. One of the things I do while walking is look for change (i.e. coins - not a surprising turn of events). I wasn't three houses from my own when I spotted a penny. And another. And another. Not even off my block yet, and I've made three cents (my record for one walk is 14 cents). I briefly considered categorizing this as a Peak Experience. Especially since these penny finds appear to be comprising my retirement savings. I walked on, deciding to call tonight's blog "My Three Cents Worth." I began to free associate to a blog about the ramifications of walking with my head down rather than walking while looking forward.
These thoughts carried me about four more blocks. I was blogging along in my head (so much for being fully present in the moment), recalling the walk where I found a dime and four pennies when lo! and Behold! I look down and see a quarter. A whole, shiny, no-doubt recently-dropped quarter. I stooped to pick it up, aware that I was feeling much less like Eeyore, whom I'm certain never found a quarter in his life because Pooh would have talked about it. I mentally switched my blog title to "Unexpected Quarters." Naturally, this would be an upbeat blog about Peak Experiences, unanticipated pleasures, serendipitous discoveries, blah, blah, blah.
I walked for another mile or so, and as the sun set I concluded that 28 cents was probably going to be my new record for coin collecting. I observed that in less than three miles I had formulated three different titles for today's blog. I sort of liked all the titles, but realized that, still, no stupendous blogging material was rising to consciousness. I considered returning to my original plan, which was essentially to gripe and moan about Mondays, work, and my ongoing failure to find someone to pay me a living to ride bikes. Then that small section of my brain that still has a few memory cells remaining quietly asked, "What does that have to do with Zen?"
It was at that point that my dilemma was solved. I would call the blog "Tri-Titled Blog" and simply illuminate the title-selection process. This conclusion felt like it had everything to do with Zen. Zen is about being in touch with Reality. Zen is about experiencing and representing things truthfully. Zen is about the absence of need to gussy things up, to exaggerate, to pontificate. Zen is about what IS. Sometimes this is so simple that it alludes me. I often struggle with understanding what is enough. Holy crap! Peak experience right this second! What is - IS enough! That just came to me as I read the words "what is enough." Just think, ten minutes ago I had nothing substantive to write about!
Damn. I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself, so I'm going to have to stop writing to garner my might to squelch my burgeoning ego. I was about finished anyway. Another thing my dad used to say (a lot) was, "Know when to say when."
Gassho (and "When"),
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 55. My dad used to say (a lot), "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." But I'm going to blog today anyway.
I'm not fond of the days I end up writing a whole lot about not having anything to write about. Instead, I'll explain the title to today's blog. About halfway through today, the title was going to be "Crashing Back to Earth." I was going to write gloomily about the post-adrenaline blues that accompanied getting off the bike and going to work. That blog was definitely going to have an Eeyore-esque tone. Since I was in no hurry to write it, I decided to take a walk in the beautiful Spring evening. One of the things I do while walking is look for change (i.e. coins - not a surprising turn of events). I wasn't three houses from my own when I spotted a penny. And another. And another. Not even off my block yet, and I've made three cents (my record for one walk is 14 cents). I briefly considered categorizing this as a Peak Experience. Especially since these penny finds appear to be comprising my retirement savings. I walked on, deciding to call tonight's blog "My Three Cents Worth." I began to free associate to a blog about the ramifications of walking with my head down rather than walking while looking forward.
These thoughts carried me about four more blocks. I was blogging along in my head (so much for being fully present in the moment), recalling the walk where I found a dime and four pennies when lo! and Behold! I look down and see a quarter. A whole, shiny, no-doubt recently-dropped quarter. I stooped to pick it up, aware that I was feeling much less like Eeyore, whom I'm certain never found a quarter in his life because Pooh would have talked about it. I mentally switched my blog title to "Unexpected Quarters." Naturally, this would be an upbeat blog about Peak Experiences, unanticipated pleasures, serendipitous discoveries, blah, blah, blah.
I walked for another mile or so, and as the sun set I concluded that 28 cents was probably going to be my new record for coin collecting. I observed that in less than three miles I had formulated three different titles for today's blog. I sort of liked all the titles, but realized that, still, no stupendous blogging material was rising to consciousness. I considered returning to my original plan, which was essentially to gripe and moan about Mondays, work, and my ongoing failure to find someone to pay me a living to ride bikes. Then that small section of my brain that still has a few memory cells remaining quietly asked, "What does that have to do with Zen?"
It was at that point that my dilemma was solved. I would call the blog "Tri-Titled Blog" and simply illuminate the title-selection process. This conclusion felt like it had everything to do with Zen. Zen is about being in touch with Reality. Zen is about experiencing and representing things truthfully. Zen is about the absence of need to gussy things up, to exaggerate, to pontificate. Zen is about what IS. Sometimes this is so simple that it alludes me. I often struggle with understanding what is enough. Holy crap! Peak experience right this second! What is - IS enough! That just came to me as I read the words "what is enough." Just think, ten minutes ago I had nothing substantive to write about!
Damn. I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself, so I'm going to have to stop writing to garner my might to squelch my burgeoning ego. I was about finished anyway. Another thing my dad used to say (a lot) was, "Know when to say when."
Gassho (and "When"),
CycleBuddhaDoc
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