When that view is there it doesn’t matter what you say. You can say “I love you” and it still comes out as an attack— because it is.
NO SILENCE, NO RETREAT
A Zen student told me how much she liked the idea of doing a silent retreat. She has never done one before.
I told her it was impossible.
There is nowhere you can retreat to, nothing you can retreat from. And, during a long period in which no one talks, you will have to listen, interminably, to the voice of the most unbearably annoying person you will ever meet—yourself.
Silent retreats are valuable. But they do not involve silence and they do not involve retreat.
ANGRY
People who have practiced other forms of meditation often seem taken aback when they begin a Zen practice and find out what zazen is. No otherworldly visualizations, no breathing exercises aimed at achieving ecstatic states—just sitting. In doing this, we cut off the story that separates us from our life and our experiences.
If you consider the destructiveness of anger, for instance, you’ll see that anger itself isn’t a problem. The problem is the story we tell ourselves about the anger. Someone does or says something, and we become angry—and then the story starts. I’m so mad at him. He’s such a jerk. He always does this. Look at what he did last week. And what I heard he did to so-and-so last year... I’m so mad...
Trying not to be angry is useless. It just makes us angrier. Telling someone who’s angry not to be angry is about as helpful as telling someone who’s drunk to be sober.
But what happens if we cut off the story? I’m so angry. He’s such a—No. I’m just angry. Yeah, I’m right to be angry, because—No. I’m just angry. Yeah, damn right I’m angry, because—No. I’m just angry. But, but but—No. I’m just angry.
No story. And without the story, anger, like any other emotion, is just a fact. It’s just there. It doesn’t go away, but now we relate to it instead of relating from it. When I become angry, I usually notice my anger the same way I notice a stranger across the street becoming angry. The anger is there, and it can be intense, but it’s not me.
IDENTIFYING AS UNIDENTIFIED
I sometimes hear people who attend services at Buddhist temples and practice Buddhist meditation say, “I don’t identify as Buddhist, though. I don’t like to label myself.”
This rejection of labels and categories—a commitment to individualism, to uniqueness—is common among western intellectuals, who will reject political/ideological labels, and even labels describing sexual orientation. (I’ve had many a tedious conversation with people who wouldn’t admit to any sexual orientation, straight, gay or bisexual, insisting, “I don’t belong in a category—I’m me.”) They don’t seem to realize that in refusing to identify they are identifying. They are labeling themselves as people who reject labels.
This can be a challenge for anyone pursuing a Zen practice. It is vital to let go of “Zen” and “Buddhism” in order to practice Zen Buddhism. Otherwise, we’re just replacing one story with another, one identity with another. But attachment to non-attachment is just another attachment. Rejection of identity is just another identity.
So, what to do? I suggest that those who think they have shed any identity are kidding themselves. The struggle to divest ourselves of labels is not just futile—it’s unnecessary. For as long as we lazily and unthinkingly use labels, we’re defined and reduced by them. For as long as we fight against the use of labels, we’re defined and reduced by them. If we simply see what’s going on—“Ah, there I go, identifying as a Buddhist”—there’s no problem. The label is then useful, if we see it for what it is. Identity is then a useful vehicle—but still only a vehicle, one we can travel in when we need to, and get out and walk when we need to.
TEACH A MAN TO FISH
When I was in my teens, living in Glasgow, Scotland, I developed an interest in fishing that lasted a couple years, though I only ever went fishing about a half-dozen times in all. There was nowhere to fish in the inner city housing project where I lived, and I could rarely afford the bus fare out of the city. Sometimes I’d walk north for two hours until I was in Milngavie, where I’d fish the River Allander (never catching anything) and sometimes illegally fish the reservoir.
Occasionally, I’d take the bus all the way out to Stirlingshire, to the River Forth. Twice I met a man there who had been fishing for more than ten years. One of the times I met him, he was annoyed because he kept catching eels, which he didn’t want.
Even though I had only been fishing a short time, I’d read enough and talked to enough people to know that eels are bottom-feeders. I could see that this man had so much weight on his line that it was lying on the river bed rather than drifting in the water. I could tell this because the line was slack and curly, rather than being pulled tight by the current. Since the bait was on the bottom of the river, it was in the perfect position to catch eels, and the man caught plenty of them, which he gave to me (I like eel) and grumbled that he wanted trout.
I politely told him he had put too much weight on his line, and that he should take some off if he wanted to catch fish that weren’t bottom-feeders. He shook his head. “I’ve been fishing for ten years,” he said, making it clear that he didn’t need to be told anything.
He had been fishing for ten years, and in that time he had doggedly continued to do the same thing, over and over, not getting the results he wanted, complaining about it, and never considering changing his methods. Young as I was, I was puzzled. As I got older, I learned that most of us live our entire lives like that man.
VIOLENCE HAS NO SUBTEXT
The primary vice of a bad person is precisely that he is more preoccupied with others than with himself.
— Slavoj Zizek
Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother’s eye.
— Jesus Christ
Every act of personal violence embodies McLuhan’s tenet that “the medium is the message.” There are no hidden messages or meanings within violence. The message is overt, and it never varies: I am in pain, and I am afraid.
No one has ever thought, “I’m happy and content. I think I’ll hurt someone.”
Violence as an expression of personal pain and fear has no rational goal. This is why rioters tend to destroy their own neighborhoods rather than the neighborhoods inhabited by those they identify as their enemies. Violence is not a means to an end, and it is not even an end in itself. It is simply a statement: I am in pain, and I am afraid.
To make the statement can be exhilarating.
When we divide into groups, declaring one set of people our allies and another set of people our enemies, we are making the same statement. The mentality of the mob can arise only from pain and fear. When the villagers chase the monster with burning torches, each pained, frightened person is uniting with the others against pain and fear, and so they need a common enemy, someone or something Other, to meet the needs of their common narrative: If we can only drive the monster out, we’ll be safe, and I’ll be happy and content then. If there is no obvious Other, then one must be found or created.
Slavoj Zizek has pointed out that the people who commit violence in the name of religion are not truly religious people, because if they felt happy and safe in their religious certainties they would have no desire to harm other people. Every riot, every suicide bombing, every bar fight, every beating by cops or soldiers, every act of domestic violence, every cat or dog kicked, every punch, every vicious word, says the same thing:
I am in pain, and I am afraid.
When ego loses its power, we naturally move towards what is healthy and right. Let go of attachment to the ego, and all that remains is compassion. When the sickness of delusion is removed, we become kind. Or, rather, we experience our innate kindness, the compassion that was always there—who we really are.
I was driving along a busy street, and saw a dog wandering in
traffic. It was a dangerous situation for the dog, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if fear had made him aggressive. But when I stopped my car and got out, he ran towards me, wagging his tail, and licked my hand. Life had not hurt him badly enough (not yet, anyway) for his perfect, compassionate nature to be eclipsed by fear and anger. When he saw another being, all he saw was a friend, and all he wanted to do was show affection. To make a dog mean, you have to hurt it, repeatedly. You have to make it afraid, make it think it has something it needs to protect. You have to make it so afraid that its default mode becomes to attack. When I see a vicious dog, my heart breaks as I wonder what happened to make it that way.
I talked with a man who runs a sanctuary for injured raptors. Hawks, owls, all local birds of prey that have been injured are taken care of by him and his wife. And, when they’re well again, he continues to care for them.
As he told me this, several of the birds were sitting nearby, close to each other. Some were huge, and others were tiny. “Aren’t the little ones the natural prey of the big ones?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “But if they’re fed and taken care of, they don’t attack. They all just live together, and they’re friends.”
When they’re fed and taken care of. When they have nothing to be afraid of.
I’ve given sanctuary to feral cats, and the result is the same. When hunger and fear are gone, they sit on my lap, purring.
All of our destructive, violent behaviors are born of fear. For violence, whether individual or institutional, to happen, people have to be afraid, and therefore angry, and therefore looking to blame someone—and a corrupt and amoral government can then take advantage of that fear and anger. Do you imagine that the atrocities committed by the Bush administration could have been accepted by the public if 9/11 hadn’t happened? Our “leaders” justify torture and murder by saying they’re protecting us. When we’re not afraid, we don’t wish other people pain or death—we wish them full bellies, warm beds and safe lives.
Dogs. Cats. Raptors. You. Me. All of us Buddhas, with perfect compassion, needing nothing because we already have everything. When we don’t see who we are, we lash out. When we see who we are, when we awaken to our true nature, we extend a helping hand.
IF YOU LIKE CHOCOLATE IN SAMSARA, YOU’LL LIKE IT JUST AS MUCH IN NIRVANA
I once attended a birthday party for Joko Beck. After I gave Joko the present I’d brought her, a man asked me, “So how do you choose a present for someone who has no desires?”
This shows a common misunderstanding of the awakened heart. When the heart awakens, you don’t stop having desires. Why would you want to be in such a state (and desiring to have no desires is one more desire, and one that can never be attained)? In vowing to save all beings, we are in desire. In simply wishing other beings happiness, we are in desire. That’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with desire.
Sometimes the Second Noble Truth is mistakenly translated as “Suffering is caused by desire.” The problem isn’t desire—it’s attachment to the desire. Wanting things is fine—wonderful, actually—and it only becomes a problem when you get caught up in the belief that you should get what you want.
In the awakened heart, desire doesn’t even diminish, let alone disappear. But it can be experienced and enjoyed without a self-centered clinging. When that happens, you might stop finding life’s uncertainties and frustrations miserable, and start to find them interesting instead.
ONE THING AND ANOTHER
We think sound is separate from silence, that light is separate from darkness. Or we think silence is the absence of sound, or that darkness is the absence of light. In thinking that, we may be right, but we’re also definitely wrong. Our minds are programmed to discriminate, try to label things, make one thing this and the other thing that.
In speech, what is not said is just as important, has as much meaning, as what is said. This is something that any good actor knows. Musicians also know that silence is not a space between the notes, but an integral part of the music. Without silence, there is no music—just noise.
If you doubt the power of silence, try this: During a conversation, stop in the middle of a sentence, and sit perfectly still. See the effect this has on the other people present.
There is more silence, more space, than we usually realize, even in the midst of noise and clutter. A ringing phone might seem frenetic and noisy, but stop and listen to it. Notice the space between each ring; it’s longer than you think. (I find I can count to two, and sometimes three, between rings.) And the silence that occupies the space between each ring has a power it derives from the sound that preceded it, and the sound that will follow.
A dance is not movement, and it is not stillness. In dance, stillness and movement are the same thing. One does not exist without the other.
Without shadow, light has no meaning, no beauty—it’s just a glare. Without light, there is no shadow, but only an impenetrable blackness.
Anti-venom is venom. A vaccination is a dose of the disease itself. The Gateless Gate teaches that “medicine and sickness heal each other.” T.S. Eliot wrote: “Our only health is the disease.”
We confuse ourselves by making things separate, by setting up antagonisms that don’t exist, that are only sensory experiences, only a product of the mind.
Disease is successfully treated when we don’t view things as separate, when we don’t set up unnecessary antagonisms. Then we have vaccination. Then we have painting and photography. Then we have music.
NOT AN ANSWER, ONLY A REPLY
Someone whose father abused her when she was a child wrote to me:
I have been informed that my father is terminal. I am trying to find some compassion for this horrible old man. I really don’t want to be the type of person who could be cruel to a dying person, but cruelty is all I feel when we speak.
Any advice?
My response:
It doesn’t do any good to get caught up in a story about how you shouldn’t be feeling that way. Whether you “should” or “shouldn’t” be feeling that way, you are. So that’s how it is. That’s the material you have to work with.
Consider what he did to you, and ask yourself this: Who would you rather be, the child who was treated so horribly, or the man who would treat a child that way? I think the answer is the former. So, he has had to be someone that no healthy person would choose to be, and now he’s dying. When you feel grateful that you’re not him, you might find a soft, unguarded spot within yourself concerning him.
But compassion isn’t martyrdom. You can’t just make the scars disappear, and sometimes they’re still so raw that all you can do is keep your distance, realizing that you can’t offer any help but can choose to do no harm.
ARE YOU AT WAR?
On a morning of ice and fog, I talk with a man who has spent years in prison. He says he has no peace. I ask him if that’s always true.
“I only ever feel peaceful when I’m in the library, just reading a book, and nobody knows I’m there, and I know nobody’s going to talk to me,” he says. “There was one other time... I was hanging out on this strip of bars next to the ocean. When the bars closed, I went and stood on the beach. There was a big full moon, and I could feel the breeze and hear the waves. Man, I need that again. I need to go there again.”
He doesn’t know that he never went there and he never left. He was always there. He already has what he thinks he needs. He didn’t find it on the beach that night—he brought it there with him. If it wasn’t inside him, he wouldn’t have felt what he felt.
He doesn’t know that going back to the beach would bring him no lasting peace, only a sadness that comes with the certainty of having to leave again. He doesn’t know that the moon, the waves, the entire world, are inside him, and he can find that peace whenever he needs it if he can only drop the self-centered story that separates him from his own heart.
I talk to another man who has been in prison. He was locked up for almost ten years, and in that
time he never got in trouble with the authorities for violating the rules. Such a thing is so rare as to be considered practically impossible. I ask him how he managed it.
“I realized that most people aren’t any more free than people who’re locked up,” he says. “I realized I couldn’t do anything about being locked up, but I could decide whether I was free or not. I could live my life or fight against my life. I decided to live my life.”
Neither of these men had been in the military, but the first one was at war, always, with everything. The other was not.
As you read these words, are you at war?
I’m not asking whether you’re in the military or not. It doesn’t matter what country you’re a citizen of. I’m not asking whether your country is at war—though it almost certainly is, war of one kind or another.
I’m asking: Are you at war?
If you want to see some extremely war-like people, go to a peace march. Look at the angry faces, listen to the fury with which the marchers yell slogans. See how much they hate the government and the military. Why do they hate them? Because they are their enemies. Because the peace movement is not about peace. It is about war.
During wars between nations, young men and women who want to be soldiers are useful to the military. During wars between nations, soldiers who no longer want to be soldiers and no longer support the war are useful to the peace movement. It is not that the hawks are warlike and the doves are peaceful. Hawks and doves, war supporters and war protestors, are opposite armies in a war.
Kill Your Self Page 8