Wake Up

by Bonnie Myotai Treace

  FROZEN ALIVE

  Michael came to talk with me after having been through a yearlong battle with a disease that was “supposed” to take his life. He’d faced low odds of surviving even six months. He’d worked hard to feel sure that, if he did die, his legacy would continue after his death, that he could face death at peace, and that his relationships were loving. But now he was in different territory: He was highly likely to live. He said that while he had been occupied with dying, he had, in a certain sense, lost track of being alive. Though he was tremendously grateful, he said he felt he was never quite just at the breakfast table, just walking across the street, just working. Everything was laden, and he sensed something in him was frozen after the overwhelming year he’d been through.

  As we explored the nature of practice, its sole requirement to be “in the moment that’s here, not the one you want to trade it for,” he began to settle again into Beginner’s Mind. Nothing is special in Beginner’s Mind; everything is just practice. Splendid moments, when we’re at ease, we acknowledge and they pass. Crazy moments, when we’re creeps and petty tyrants: acknowledged, allowed to go. Fears that roil and bite: acknowledge, release, return to the breath. It is never about being better. It is, however, about being real, and that means we bump into our freedom and, with it, our responsibility.

  Philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre famously wrote, “We are condemned to freedom.” This means that we are not only responsible for what we do, but also for what we don’t do, the things we postpone or fail to act on altogether. Every move, and every failure to move, closes down the infinite range of possible worlds while opening up an entirely new range. And so, like my student, we sometimes freeze up. We don’t want to regret our life, so we stop. But that doesn’t really solve the problem: We’re still responsible for stopping. I love the words of poet/teacher Peter Rollins: “There is then no way to escape the feeling of regret, except through fully embracing this experience of freedom.”

  So, Michael began to practice noticing his sensations and moods, acknowledging them, not judging them. With great patience, he allowed whatever was present to be as it was. He didn’t build an identity out of any idea; he became willing to be present with, and let pass, both the great dramatic moments and the trivial, unattractive emotions. In this way, within a short time, Beginner’s Mind gave him the life within his life back: real . . . and perfect.

  The Practice

  In the pages ahead, we’ll look at what a life of practicing Zen entails. We’ll explore meditation more fully, examine the workings of a teacher-student relationship, sitting alone and in groups, rituals and practices, and how it all lands at the kitchen sink, the daily-ness of our lives, the ground under our feet.

  The first step of practice is to take our life seriously. Shunryu Suzuki once said, in his chewy way, “Life is like stepping onto a boat which is about to sail out to sea and sink.” We are mortal and very much don’t want to waste our lives. Something shifts when acknowledging that becomes visceral.

  I’m reminded of a format used at my old monastery to see if someone was ready to enter the training there. We called it “meeting with the guardian council,” and basically it involved a prospective student sitting in front of a group of older students and being asked why they wanted to do this. Sometimes it would be clear that the person applying was just in the wrong place. Usually, when it was off, it was obvious—they’d be better met doing something else. But sometimes, the most interesting times, everyone in the room could feel that the person was utterly sincere but wasn’t able yet to drop the mask and speak genuinely. They’d cite secondary things but never quite reach the heart of it. We were aware that, for some folks, the situation itself triggered anxious reactions, so we gave time to create a trusting atmosphere. At its best, the guardian council functioned as an archetype, a calling out into the vast sky. We’d meet there, in the suffering, the yearning, the commitment, the mystery.

  But anyone who decides to take up Zen practice will need to connect with this deepest of intentions—though everyone will “say it” uniquely. Whether in the privacy of a can’t-sleep night or entering a monastery and going in front of a guardian council, we have to get in touch with our clear intention to awaken. If all that is wanted is relief from mild stress, there are other ways that are perhaps better suited (I’ve been known to suggest getting a pet, relaxation techniques, even an occasional glass of wine . . .). It’s only when you have decided that it is time to cut through the conditioning—everything sold to you by parents, teachers, peers, education, culture—and to stop living out of the program, responding like a robot, that Zen study can really begin. Then you will not be turned away from “the matter at hand.” Why? Because underneath all the conditioning lives a person, and they are ready to begin peeling back all that conditioning and getting to, and living from, the ground of being.

  Once that deep decision has happened, practice can begin to take genuine shape in your days. Your priorities shift, and then it’s not quite as hard to change your schedule in accord with what’s important to you. Meditation always “fits” into the hours of the day when you’ve become, gently and genuinely, unstoppable.

  Sometimes a hero/shero helps. Mine for many years was the Buddha’s stepmom, Mahaprajapati. She raised him, observed the devoted lives of the monastics who followed his teachings, and decided she wanted to do likewise. Being a man of his time, he said no. She shaved her head, donned simple robes, and followed him anyway, trekking hundreds of miles in bare feet. Over 500 other women saw her and followed her. (Some have called this “the first Women’s March in the history of the world.”) The Buddha, even seeing her bleeding feet, still said no to the women becoming part of the monastic community.

  However we understand the patriarchy at play in this, let’s focus just now on Mahaprajapati, how she kept practicing, stayed in the neighborhood, remained steadfastly committed to awakening. Eventually, an order of nuns was allowed to form (with some inarguably misogynistic rules added to their discipline). But she “persisted”: She attended to the heart of things and led the other women in practice. Much has changed. Some things, of course, have not. In a hundred ways, we are each still called to access that “shero” within—to face our own challenges to realizing, practicing, and leading—and, like Mahaprajapati, to be unstoppable.

  Meditation

  Zazen, which is usually translated as sitting Zen, has always been the main practice of Zen. In centers, monasteries, and at home, students regularly get up around sunrise for zazen meditation and also end the day the same way. Many do retreats involving long hours of silent, seated, unmoving zazen. Zen, among all the schools of Buddhism, is the one that centrally emphasizes meditation practice, insight into the nature of things (Ch. jianxing, Jp. kensho, “perceiving the true nature”), and the personal expression of insight in daily life—specifically to benefit others.

  Still, there is a great deal of misunderstanding about zazen. In contemporary usage, zazen is often lumped together with other methods from spiritual traditions that involve attaining some objective—a healthier or more peaceful mental/physical state, more harmonious social behavior, the resolution of this or that problem. While many meditation practices in the Buddhist tradition are helpful in achieving these things, zazen is ultimately a different animal.

  Dogen (1200–1252 CE) was the founder of the Soto Zen tradition as well as a great mystic, poet, and meditation master. In Dogen’s teachings, zazen is presented as “a wholly embodied posture.” Most meditative traditions are somewhat dualistic: Practitioners initiate a method of meditation—counting breaths, visualizing sacred images, chanting, concentrating on an image or sensation—after establishing a seated position. This approach divides body-mind, makes them separate. Meditation is tacked on, added to body posture. Our seated posture, in dualistic meditation, is like the setting, and the meditating mind is the star of the show: The body sits and the mind concentrates.

  Of course, when we’re first receiving instruc
tion on how to do zazen, we don’t usually get it in one stroke. We initially take zazen apart into this piece and that piece, most often body, breath, and mind. Even Dogen wrote, “In our zazen, it is of primary importance to sit in the correct posture. Next, regulate the breath and calm down.”

  But after the preliminary stage, all instructions are integrated into one undivided whole: the body-mind of the practitioner of zazen.

  All the capacities we usually make our identity with are let go for the period of sitting. We don’t initiate movement, design anything to say, think anything through—we just sit. Since I work with people with quite varied physical capacities, old and young, conventionally abled and differently abled, I emphasize finding a comfortable relationship with gravity and then getting still. You don’t have to be a flexible yogini to do zazen. Some folks will fold themselves into a cross-legged full lotus easily; others will position in their wheelchair, arrange pillows in their recovery bed, or need to accommodate knees that have climbed too many mountains. What helps is recognizing that the meditation won’t be served by moving constantly in a search for a modicum of more comfort. We just need to settle the body and let it sit.

  If zazen is not solving any problem, does it have value? Is purposeless activity good for anything? In one sense, entering zazen’s non-duality allows us to take a break from using body and mind to get something or somewhere. Yet, even that description falls into a trap. As an old Zen koan says, “That’s a good thing . . . but it’s not as good as no-thing!”

  ALONE TOGETHER

  We had just begun what would come to be known as “Cyber Monk,” an online resource for those who could not come to group practice because they lived remotely or had other limiting circumstances. I was living in an A-frame on top of a mountain, doing a solitary retreat for three months, and my teacher said, “Myotai, you’ll be the Cyber Monk. Help whoever writes get a practice together.”

  Most of those making contact in that initial period were young men playing around in the computer lab at college, just searching the web for something interesting and new, without any real interest in Zen. But then, one night, I got the first note from someone sincere and somewhat desperate:

  “I live further out in the woods than you can imagine. There’s really no chance I’ll ever get to see a Zen teacher or community. Can you help me understand how to practice Zen? It’s become the main thing for me. I don’t want to just keep reading Zen books. . . . I feel so alone.”

  I looked around my lonely A-frame and realized how being on this solitary retreat had been forcing me to also find my “private practice” again, apart from the monastery. What had helped? What had been hardest? I began to share this with Izzy, and to hear about what she was facing, her victories and challenges. She and I would continue to correspond for years.

  I wrote her that I found it helpful to remember that Zen practice is fundamentally a solitary practice. The founder of Zen, Bodhidharma (ca. 440 to 528 CE), practiced alone for nine years in his cave. Zen did not develop into an organized group practice until the time of Daoxin (the Fourth Zen Patriarch), who created an intentional Zen practice community (ca. 630 CE). For the hundred or more years between Bodhidharma and Daoxin’s intentional community, Zen remained the practice of scattered individuals and small groups of wandering ascetics. Izzy and I were in ancient, noble company.

  Through the widespread development of Zen communities and monasteries, Zen practice often takes place as organized group practice. But solitary Zen practice has continued always—in fact, it is likely that unaffiliated and/or individual practitioners equal or exceed the number in organized groups, so we were also, though alone, part of a very big group.

  We covered “the practicals” then (as we’ll do in this book): where to practice, when to practice, how often to practice, how long to practice, what to practice, what to practice with. Sometimes we would agree to meditate at the same time. I’ll always treasure her words: “Being alone-together with Cyber Monk gave me my practice.” Being alone-together with Izzy had, in many ways, done the same for me.

  How to Meditate

  When it’s the time when you want to meditate, usually a million other things will suddenly seem more important. So, the first step is simple and sometimes big: Just do it. Then, don’t do something else . . . meditate. I’ve long coached students trying to get a practice started that it’s helpful to decide on something so minimal that you can’t talk yourself out of it. I’ll just go sit down for ten minutes, or even, I’ll sit for ten seconds or so. The important thing, as in so many things, is to just show up. Once you get to your sitting spot, you’ll likely find it’s enjoyable, or at the least that you actually end up staying a bit longer. But the first step is to just get in the neighborhood.

  Decide on when. Set a time so that this becomes a routine, as much a part of your day as brushing your teeth. Consistency really helps. Also decide how long you’ll meditate. Half an hour is usually good, but know yourself. Morning, before the agendas of work, etc., get started, is often a best time. (Try telling yourself as you’re heading to sleep the night before that you’re going to meditate in the morning. Put it in place in your heart-mind.) I’ve always liked sitting right before bed: It relaxes the muscles and helps with letting go of the day.

  Find your spot. It is good to have a place set aside that you begin to associate with meditation. It can be a corner or a room. Keep your sitting pillow or chair there or nearby. Just seeing the space can remind you of your wish to integrate meditation into your life. Why do I have that pillow in the corner? . . . Oh, right. . . .

  Enter consciously. Bring your hands together palm-to-palm at face-level for just a moment as you come to your seat. This is called gassho, and it’s a physical gesture that means two are being realized and practiced as one—(so, in this case, your pillow or chair and you). Just this can shift consciousness. In Zen training, this gesture is used a great deal: We gassho to the room as we enter, to one another, to the altar, and even to the bathroom, and also when we arrive for a visit. In a sense, it’s just a momentary pause, a chance to enter without judgment or a big agenda.

  Establish your posture. It doesn’t matter what you sit on, but it is important to be comfortable and stable. Try to create a good relationship with gravity, so your body doesn’t strain with staying upright and balanced. (We’ll look in chapter 3 at some of the postures that can help with this.)

  Lower your gaze. It’s helpful to keep your eyes slightly open; otherwise, sleepiness tends to be an issue. Then connect with your breath. Feel what your breath is doing: Just notice. You don’t need to elongate it or change it in any way. Just be with it. . . . Many find it helpful to count with the breath for a while, as an assist to keeping attention focused there. As you exhale, count one; as you inhale, count two, and so on, up to ten. Then begin again at one. Anything we give attention to tends to deepen, and this will happen with the breath as well.

  Return home. If you find your attention has shifted to some pattern of thought, notice it. Then, gently but firmly, let the thoughts go and bring your attention back to your breathing. (For instance, you remember you forgot to pick up your dry cleaning. Instead of just that thought, you build a whole thing: What on earth will I wear to that meeting now? Why am I such a ditz? Mom never taught me how to be a grown-up. She’s really. . . .) Notice, acknowledge, return home to the breath. Begin the counting at one . . . (and leave poor Mom alone!).

  BEFRIENDING THOUGHT

  Someone came to me to talk about how to begin meditation when she had chronic pain from a disease. She said when the pain was sharp, she was able to just experience what was happening without having an overriding sense of it being a problem. But when days of pain became persistent, she would often feel overcome with thoughts about how long it might last, whether she could bear it, what it meant about her future. She had a deep intention to see into the nature of reality and find peace but said she couldn’t get past her physical and mental challenges. Her suffering
was palpable.

  We gently explored whether what she “knew” about the duration or significance of what was happening was certain, without any doubt. She actually smiled for the first time at that, as she acknowledged that what she’d become thoroughly convinced about wasn’t the whole and complete truth. She had some facts, but she didn’t really know her future, its every quality and possibility. Her anxiety had been coming in unbearable waves, and in the midst of it, she had been rocked off-center. Without denying her condition, she could also see that her opinions and ideas about it sometimes had a constricting effect, boxing her in.

  We worked together on how to let her body and mind gently settle into sitting meditation. She reported that the anxious thoughts at first seemed to tumble in automatically, but then gradually seemed to slow down, and she could simply be with her breathing for longer and longer periods. I told her that even when she couldn’t immediately let a train of thought pass, she might be able to just hang with it for a while, not ignoring it but also not giving the turmoil much energy, like you might with a child who was acting out. Holding thoughts gently like this, we usually see the energy drain from them naturally. As she quieted her mind, she noticed that she could actually see her fears as they arose, and instead of “building a world” out of them, she was increasingly able to let them continue down the stream of consciousness. This is not an easy practice by any means, and it was an honor to accompany her as she took up what many of us will do anything to avoid.

  She, like most meditators, soon found that she was calmer and could feel her life more directly and honestly, both on the pillow and off. I was struck again by how quietly powerful it is to fully acknowledge and then release habitual patterns of thought. Even those that are “real issues”—like illness, grief, or deep concern about the state of the world—are helped when we practice and enable ourselves to be less distraught. Thoughts, it seems, are not so different from most people: They want to be acknowledged, and they grow calmer when met and recognized with genuine attention.