Wake Up

by Bonnie Myotai Treace

  Breathing

  Once you’ve settled into a seated posture for zazen, it is time to bring attention to your breathing. The breath initially is used as a focus, an object of concentration. I always say it is the handiest focus possible, because if you’re alive, you’re breathing—you don’t have to go get anything, like a candle, or remember anything, like a mantra. You simply bring your attention to your breath. Just notice what it’s doing, where you feel it. That’s it.

  For many of us, the straightforwardness of this instruction is immensely challenging. We immediately start “messing with” the breath. We try to slow it, or deepen it, or whatever other idea we have about how it should be. But focusing on the breath in zazen is just that: feeling it as it is and letting it be. We’re asked to make a commitment to the breath, not unlike the commitment we make to a deep friend: to notice, acknowledge, and not try to change. It’s so simple, and can be so hard.

  As I mentioned earlier, because this concentration on breath is not always easy, some teachers advise using a crutch for a while: Counting with the breath. With your exhale, count the number one. Inhale: two. Exhale: three . . . and so on up to the number ten, when you begin again at one. It can help to breathe into and out from the hara, the body’s center of gravity, which is about two inches below the navel.

  The only other agreement is that if you find yourself doing something else, acknowledge it and begin your counting at one again. Sometimes you’ll catch yourself fairly quickly; other times you may find yourself quite well down the road chasing a train of thought—or up to number 200—before noticing. Sometimes it’ll be just “brain popcorn,” random thoughts that are relatively easy to release (think: song lyrics or a to-do list); sometimes it may be thoughts that seem profound, important. The practice is the same: The moment you notice yourself doing something other than counting the breath, gently acknowledge it, let it go, and return to your breath, beginning the counting with one.

  Coming Home: Being Present

  Once you’ve settled what you’re doing with your legs and hands, established a supportive posture, and brought your attention to the breath . . . in one sense, you’re home. There’s nothing but deepening into zazen.

  Still, during the first year or so of daily practice (and whenever you’re particularly stirred up), you may face some common barriers. Many people report that they “never thought so much” as when they first sat down to meditate. Of course, what’s really at play is attention: Ordinarily, we’re not noticing what we might think of as the open faucet of thought. With zazen, we’re waking up to it. Another common experience is thinking, These thoughts shouldn’t be happening; they’re wrong. But again, of course, the natural function of the brain is to think; it’s as natural as your lungs breathing. What we’re opening to is the possibility of not attaching to those thought patterns, passing feelings, or the meaning we add to various sensations.

  For instance, various physical irritations and discomforts may come up. You’ve decided to settle in, be still, not chase, but a little drama may enter stage left. I’ll never walk again if I don’t move right now. or, There’s absolutely no reason not to scratch this itch; what is this, some kind of boot camp? I’m about freedom, dammit! Just know that on the other side of the drama is a field of possibility we aren’t so often acquainted with.

  One of the great gifts of zazen is hidden in a bit of instruction: When a thought comes up, and no matter how many times you let it go, it returns and returns—that’s the cue to shift your attention to that thought. Entirely. Utterly. Be it. So if the thought is Sore shoulder! Sore shoulder!—you give yourself to nothing but Sore shoulder! Not your thoughts about it, however, but with intimacy. Keep breathing into it until you become it so completely that there is no you looking at it. What most people find is that when that happens, the drama goes away. What had been unbearable . . . becomes simply a moment. This translates into a much less dramatic, much more generous life off the pillow as well.

  Developing a Practice

  Everyone’s spiritual journey is theirs alone. What your particular background, body, emotional makeup, and “civilizational circumstance” enable will be completely personal. At the same time, people have been at this for a very long time. Here and there are bits of wisdom, the encouragement of inspiring words, the example of honorable, devoted, and compassionate lives.

  The Buddhist tradition is a mixed bag of all these gifts, some useful, some not so much. There are incredibly inspiring teachers and teachings (as well as spectacular disappointments in character and compassion). For those who find themselves drawn to Zen training, it is important to exercise both a trusting heart and an ongoing discernment. There is, as always, a great deal of humanity in the mix—your own and that of all those around you. Gifts and curses, dragons and snakes, live together in this pond. Tread wakefully. But by all means, do tread!

  There are all sorts of ways to develop a practice that really works for you. Let’s briefly look at a few basics:

  •Make the space and time. On a regular basis, at about the same time (or times) each day, sit down and meditate. Having a dedicated space is a reminder of this being a priority in your life, as will having a time you associate with meditation. Many find beginning and/or ending the day with meditation is helpful and can be worked in by getting up just a little earlier and/or including sitting as part of getting ready for bed. But also look at where in your life a meditation period fits best. Many young parents find that the best time is when their kids go down for a nap. Remember to start small: 10 to 15 minutes, so you don’t talk yourself out of it too easily.

  •Practice where you can. Meditation is wonderfully portable: It goes where you go and can be engaged at any moment. The train ride home. The waiting room at the doctor’s office. My NYC students did “elevator meditation”: when the elevator bell rang as they went up or down, they used that as a meditation gong, calling them to come back to their breath.

  •Practice with others. It can be very encouraging to sometimes sit with others, which we’ll discuss more, and there are many opportunities now to join others at Zen centers, monasteries, and evening sitting groups, as well as longer retreats.

  Individual Practice

  There’s no place like home. One of the reasons it’s nice to have a home practice, rather than just going on retreats, is that it guards against our habit of dividing our life. We’re less likely to develop a “Zen center persona” that is smooth and peaceful, who is perhaps altogether different from who we are at home. It is possible to engage “work practice” and “dish duty” mindfully at the center but still maintain a household reputation for never washing your cup, etc. Making your home your “temple of practice” helps us see the sacred in the mundane, right where we live.

  Just like you have to go through having the flu with a lover to really know them, you have to go through some weather with your spiritual practice, too. When you live with your practice, through the highs—the times of great determination and the spiritual romance—as well as through the lows—the grubby and grumpy days and the times of pervasive doubt—it begins to get very stable. You begin to show up with a deep honesty and humility, no matter what is going on.

  As you begin to establish this commitment to show up, to sit and practice your life, regardless of mood or whatever challenges are at play, a shift happens. It truly becomes your own, for one thing, and you become less vulnerable to the shifting winds, the opinions and attitudes of others who may or may not love that you’re giving time to what might look to them like useless “staring at your navel for hours.” (Though I’ve also heard from plenty of spouses of practitioners who love how their mate comes home from retreat, or what even a single sitting period can do to ease the tension that had been between them.)

  You become less vulnerable as well to “the meanie” who may have held sway in your mind, with habitual judging and belittling your every effort. The practice of acknowledging and letting go can take the power away from tha
t voice.

  Those with a strong individual practice also find that they’re often more flexible in their perspective. A capacity to enter other points of view and to intuit and respect others’ experiences is part of the practice. This makes relationships a good deal richer and infuses them with natural kindness.

  BOWING IN

  At the beginning of a sitting period, it is traditional to bow to an altar, offer a stick of incense, and bow once more. Then, as you stand before your seat, bow toward and away from your cushion, bench, or chair. Each of these gestures helps us enter meditation intentionally. If you are new to using incense as part of meditation, it is offered to indicate that this session is for all beings, not just for oneself. If incense is not something you want to use (if you have allergies, for instance), you might try placing a small bowl of water on your altar for the same purpose, refreshing it regularly. An altar is simply the little table where you place objects that remind you of your spiritual intention. Some people like to place an image of the seated Buddha or a standing bodhisattva (compassionate being) with a candle and a flower in a vase.

  The standing bow to and away from our cushion expresses respect for our practice and for those—whether present or not—who practice with us. In other words, we acknowledge that, though we are sitting by ourselves, we are not alone.

  Group Practice

  The emphasis in these pages is to provide you with what you need to establish a daily practice. But Zen is not just a solitary spiritual practice. Sitting, studying, and talking with other practitioners, working together side by side—all these are integral to the life of Zen. So, I encourage you, if possible, to make a commitment to sit with other people, too. In the United States, there are now hundreds of Zen meditation centers and sitting groups, as well as other kinds of Buddhist meditation groups. The online world of Zen is percolating as well—you can listen to dharma talks by teachers and join discussion groups with other students. (See the Dharma Talk at the back of this book, as well as the Resources section, for books, apps, and meditation centers.)

  Community is sometimes likened to a rock polisher: Students bump into one another, help work off the rough edges, and shine each other up a bit. It can actually be easy, given some quiet time to chill, to convince oneself, I’m awake; no problems left here. That attitude—developed in solitude, usually with no opportunity for awareness of the inevitable problems we’re causing left and right—depends on interaction for “remedy.” It’s just hard to see alone when we’ve got a bad case of “Zen stink”—many varieties exist; all have a scent of being full of oneself but calling it dharma. A teacher and a community tends to clear this from the system pretty quickly. Equally easily, too much time in solitude can allow us to exercise a habit of negative self-talk. Community can be a wonderful place to see that we’re just an ordinary human and that our life and practice are okay, even appreciated. There is a reason that Zen centers often chant, “May we realize the Buddha Way together.”

  Also know there is no need to be nervous about the protocol when you come to group meditation. When you arrive, simply keep your eyes and ears open, and you’ll be guided by the situation or by one of the more senior students. Usually there is a place to take off your shoes, and then there is a small bow from the waist as you enter. When you get to your seat, you bow to it and then to the people across the room from you. This small gesture of bowing the head indicates that we’re arriving with respect and offering our practice in support of one another.

  DISCARD THE EXTRA

  It was 1987.

  Me: “Why are all the Zen teachers’ names we recite men? Where are the women in Zen history? Why are the statues and paintings depicting the spiritual path in the monastery all male figures?”

  My teacher: “You’ll change this when you are a teacher. For now, just sit.”

  Me: “But . . .”

  Much of my own training was in a center led by an Italian American man who had received authority to teach from a Japanese man. My teacher held a deep commitment to develop an American monasticism for those called to train as monks or nuns, as well as to create a dynamic lay training for those “in the world.” I did ordain as a monastic, shaved my head, and lived a life of service, with vows of poverty and selflessness, for over two decades of my adult life. The program of training, with a residential community and thousands of lay students joining for retreats and short-term residency, was a tremendous gift.

  There were also significant issues and challenges at the center, in part due to the combination of two powerfully patriarchal cultures being so heavily in the mix. And I am a woman, have worked for women’s empowerment all my life, know the patriarchy to be incredibly harmful, and had left the Episcopal Church of my youth when the priest told me my brother could be an altar boy, but girls weren’t allowed up there. (I remember joking that if they’d met my rascal brother, this rule would have been reconsidered much earlier on!)

  So, when I began teaching many years later, though things had improved a little, I needed to find a way forward that spoke powerfully to the issues I’d encountered, as well as to the depth of gratitude and obligation I will forever have to and for my teachers.

  Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.

  —Pablo Picasso

  Perhaps it is so for all students: Find what is useful/clarifying, open to not knowing; discard what is extra. Repeat ad infinitum. That is the basic, and in some ways the most demanding, imperative of Zen practice—ongoing awakening and making the way a little clearer for others when we can.

  THE VOICE OF THE BUDDHA

  Many groups that meet for Zen practice will include a chanting service. This can involve a recitation of a Zen teaching or a rhythmic style of chanting with the accompaniment of instruments. Sometimes the words will be translated into English, and sometimes they will be in another language (my temple, for instance, sometimes chanted in Japanese).

  You may find this a little shocking, especially if you’ve never experienced anything like it before. We also may expect Zen to be free of ritual or “religious” overtones, so it’s helpful to see how chanting with a group can genuinely be supportive. Be open to the experience, and see for yourself.

  Chanting is a form of meditation—we breathe, produce sound, and attune to the voices around us. Sometimes the words will just wash over you, filling you. Other times, the discriminating mind will keep questioning. Each time that happens, the practice is to return to the sound and put your self in unity with the community. Zazen practice tends to be solitary, even when we do it within sangha. Chanting is something practiced together—hearing one another, giving voice together, moving in concert.

  Chanting is also an expression of gratitude: A typical part of a chanting service is a list of Buddhist teachers from the time of Shakyamuni Buddha 2,500 years ago up until the present day. This is also a chance to call to mind the people who have taught and supported you, to whom you feel gratitude.

  FOUR

  Moving Zen

  We all know the thud of returning from vacation: We’ve had a bit of time released from the constraints of work commitments, and suddenly we’re back home and need to show up at particular times for particular things, solve problems, deal with “the whole catastrophe.” The time away may be wonderful, but it also feels distinctly other than our daily life. It is possible to have our Zen practice exist solely in this way, too, like a vacation or time away from our “real life.” But it is also possible to have a Zen practice that includes our life away from the cushion: working Zen, talking Zen, relationship Zen, etc. When we move, our practice moves. It is when that possibility is engaged that lives begin to change.

  How so? For one thing, we tend to stop defining ourselves as victims. We also find it easier to drop the hero act. We come to a basic sense of responsibility for this life by noticing its basic nature and inherent interconnectedness. Life begins to open up in a way that is more integrated, more open, touched with both natural humi
lity and natural confidence. Every time a practitioner practices, fear is lessened, arrogance is less likely, and a door opens to compassionate activity. It is truly that significant a shift for a human being to genuinely practice moment by moment. We shouldn’t underestimate the power of practice, especially consistent, day-by-day, whatever-the-weather practice.

  The 90-year-old Pablo Casals, the world-famous cellist/composer/conductor, asked why he still practiced eight hours a day, said, “Because I think I’m beginning to make some progress.”

  You can get a glimpse of “all things are one” and still be quite a creep and do others all sorts of harm . . . if you don’t practice. We can realize “everything is interconnected” and still destroy the ecosystem, or violate someone sexually . . . if we’re not practicing. And we also can practice any aspect or moment of our day. We’ll need to “turn the light inward” and examine our habits, privileges, and attitudes, so that we can interact without bias or presumption.

  Let’s look at some of the areas where practice can come to life.

  Stop Shopping for a Better Moment

  Zen practice asks us first to sit down. Physically, emotionally, and spiritually, we’re asked to just sit. In other words, through literally taking our seat, we stop the habit of shopping for a better moment, a better place, something other than what is right here. Only when we do that can practice begin to enter our lives moment by moment. Until we do that, we’re still shopping. The radical simplicity of sitting embodies a truth, a sufficiency that most of us find hard to believe. We’ll argue it to death: But aren’t I supposed to try harder? For now, just sit. But what about everything else? Just sit. If you really sit, you’ll find you’re sitting when you stand, work, advocate, love, and work. But for now, just sit. What does that mean, “Just sit”? You know.