It was Pride week in San Francisco this past week. Rainbow flags galore. Lots of festivities all week, culminating in the Gay Pride March on Sunday. It was simply awesome. I highly recommend attending this event at least once in your life, whether you are gay or straight.
I marched with the Zen Center. We had a beautiful float. Our dharma sisters and brothers from Green Gulch Farm in Marin brought a lot of beautiful flowers and decorated the float with them. They also brought rainbow colored chard for us to carry. People sat in zazen pose on the float, including our elder, Blanche. There she sat, right in the center of the float, meditating all the while, amidst the celebrations, the cheering, the raucus nature of the day. It was beautiful.
It was also surreal. At one point, while waiting in line (for three hours) until it was our turn to march, a few of us walked to a dharma brother's apartment to use his bathroom. Three of the seven of us were Zen Priests. Of the three priests, Steve Stuckey, is actually the Central Abbot. He looked so beautiful, walking along the sidewalk, carrying his staff with the six rings (representing the six realms). We passed a variety of floats and contingencies, one being a group of female pole dancers, with one of the dancers brazenly donning a strap-on. The abbott and the other priests weren't the least bit phased by this. I, on the other hand, was feeling like the Catholic school girl, guilty for wanting to watch all of the sinners as I trekked behind the priests. Like I said, surreal.
We actually had a banner that read the words:
We're here
We're queer
We're buddha
Abbot Steve shared with me that Buddha, 2,500 years ago, went against the grain of the sand by inviting people outside of the acceptable caste system, into the temple, to practice the spiritual path.
"This included people of different sexual orientations." He told me.
So, basically, Buddhism is very accepting of all walks of life. But I think you already knew that. Still, it never hurts to have that confirmed by the "authorities", for lack of a better word. And it definitely never hurts to march in a parade and have hundreds of thousands cheer you on with this level of love that borders on indescribable.
Oh, and we actually one a prize! We won The Most Fabulous Theme prize, which is perfect because we had no theme.
"The theme was no theme." Said our leader, Daigan. "It was just come as you are."
So there we were. As ourselves. Just promoting a little bit of "Harmony of Difference and Equality" (the motto on our t-shirts, which you can order online, https://sfzc.site-ym.com/store/default.asp).
There's so much more I could write about this day, but, honestly, I'm exhausted. And sometimes words can't even get it right. I'll cheat and let the pictures do the talking. I will say that it was great to be part of the sangha today. And it was awesome marching in the parade, being so well-received by the masses. All that love. There was a lot of it out there today.
Awesome.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Sesshin, a Sunburn, and a Gift: Week 7 in the Zen Center
Well, I completed my six-week practice period this weekend. The Practice Period culminated in a 3-day sesshin. So I guess sesshin is the word of the week. The Japanese translation of sesshin is "collecting the heart-mind". I love that phrase, "heart-mind", especially considering that's where I'm at these days. Trying to collect my heart and my mind.
A sesshin is an extensive period of time when you sit in zazen with others for a very long time. When you're not sitting in the zendo, you're either working on a chore, chanting, or doing one of my least favorite things - eating or serving oryoki. If you read my "Week One in the Zen Center" blog post, it was all about my first experience with oryoki, which is the Zen style of eating "just enough", under a variety of pressures - time, social, and personal being just the first three that come to mind. A critical element to a sesshin is there is no talking. Well, there is "functional talking", meaning if you absolutely have to talk, than you can. Otherwise, you are silent for three days. Even when you move about the temple, your arms must be in the sashu pose (left fist closed, right hand over left fist, both fists clenched towards your stomach, arms extended out). It is all very formal, meant to practice mindfulness in a sort-of "supersize me" Zen way.
There's a lot I could write about from this weekend. I could write an entire post on the physical aspect alone of zazen. I've heard it takes practitioners a year of daily zazen to finally get comfortable in zazen pose. There are so many small details to sitting still for a long period of time. Who would think it could be a physical challenge? Well, I'm here to tell you that it is.
I could elaborate on the scar tissue in my lower back that causes my leg to go to sleep if I'm not positioned skillfully; or the diarrhea that woke me up early Saturday morning, forcing me back to bed for the rest of the morning, missing out on the morning zazen and oryoki; or the nasty sunburn I acquired last weekend, which eventually shed and peeled on Saturday morning, causing my back to itch endlessly for the last 48 hours of sesshin.
I could also write about how the ino (pronounced "eeno"), the person in charge of the zendo and all of the sesshin ceremonies, signed me up as the head server for lunch oryoki for all three days without giving me any notice, and how I had only served oryoki once, and how that was a few hours after I had actuallly had my first oryoki meal ever that morning.
But I won't write about any of that stuff, albeit entertaining. Because all of that is not terribly significant compared to an event that took place during sesshin; an event that we all grew from. In Buddhism, there are the Six Paramitas. Paramita means "perfection" in Sanskrit. The first of the Six Paramitas, the dana paramita, is the perfection of generosity. When we are reciting chants during oryoki, one of the phrases that we recite is:
Now we set out Buddha's bowls;
May we, with all beings,
Realize the emptiness of the three wheels:
Giver, receiver and gift.
On the last morning of sesshin, in the zendo, a dharma brother/sister gave us all a gift. I say brother/sister because I honestly don't know if it was a man or a woman because my back was to him/her. So I will alternate the gender for the remainder of the post.
There is a mystical quality to the zendo early in the morning, before the sun has risen, shedding its daylight into the room. An edge of darkness remains and the daylight waits patiently outside as we sit silently, facing the wall, facing ourselves, facing nothing, facing everything. You will hear the occasional sneeze, cough, and even cracking of knees and popping of joints, depending on the morning. And on a rare occasion like this morning, you will hear an utter, fearless truth emit from a practitioner - the truth of sorrow. This morning, only a few minutes into zazen, one of my dharma brothers/sisters gave us the gift of his tears. She cried fearlessly in our silence. He didn't hold it back, the way that we are trained to do in society. Rather, she opened her heart, and spilled out her sobs into the zendo, gracing us with her courage. I could feel the tension at first. What do we do? Should we console him? Escort her out of the zendo so she can cry in private? No. We did what we do in the zendo. We continued to sit. We let him cry. We accepted her gift. In the Song of the Precious Mirror Samadhi, the 9th Century poet, Donshan Liangjie, wrote,
Turning away and touching are both wrong,
for it is like a massive fire.
That' what we do in zazen. We face the massive fire, not touching it, nor turning away.
Later that morning, Blanche, our head dharma teacher, a seasoned practitioner, and what we lay people refer to as a "brown robe" (a brown robe is someone who has been given dharma transmission), gave the dharma talk. Her Buddhist name is Senkei, which means "inconceivable joy". At the young age of 80-something, Blanche sits zazen every morning, then proceeds to the day's tasks with the rest of us, milling about with an energy I wish I had at the young age of forty-something. She is the essence of serenity. You are guaranteed to smile when she presents her dharma talks. Because she is - inconceivable joy. Today, however, Blanche was so moved by what she experienced in the zendo earlier that she changed her topic. She talked about how, three days before, as we were all meeting to begin the sesshin, she encouraged us to "open your hearts". Later, during her dharma talk, she talked about how when we open our hearts, when we take that risk, with it comes vulnerability, pain, and sorrow. But, ultimately, it is that pain, that suffering that Buddha recognized, which is what inspired him to seek enlightenment. And, in turn, it is that same suffering that inspires us to take the Bodhisattva Vows.
The bodhisattva, Avolakiteshvara, is the deity of compassion. She took a vow to Buddha to aid all sentient beings who are suffering. So overwhelming was this task, the myth claims that Avolakiteshvara needed more heads with eyes so she could see more people. and more arms so she could reach out to the people who need her. I guess we all felt Avolskitehvara's presence in the zendo that morning. And, in a sense, we all imbibed her essence, our arm and hearts quietly reaching out to the person who fearlessly trusted us with his suffering.
Our culture is so afraid to grieve, yet grief is so necessary. Sometimes we don't even know what we're grieving, but it's there, and it needs to be released.
When I think about how my sunburn began to shed during sesshin, I suppose it's the perfect metaphor that I ended my practice period peeling off an old dead layer of skin, feeling itchy and restless, unable to reach some of the spots on my back. Or the metaphor of the diarrhea - releasing the excrement, not able to control when, having to force myself to take a break, which is always a challenge for me. But, again, it is that moment in the zendo, which remains imprinted in my psyche the most. This person's release of emotions emanated throughout the entire zendo, piercing through all of our hearts and minds. She had the courage and fearlessness to open her heart and release whatever has been keeping her down. Moreso, she gave us permission to do the same.
This anonymous person who had the courage to cry in the zendo, indeed, gave us all a gift. There was the giver, the receiver, the gift. The gift of his tears, the gift of her truth, the gift of his open heart, the gift to permit us all to open our hearts. It was primal. He was alone, but she wasn't alone. Because even though we sit silently, alone, facing the wall, we are not alone. It's like the "lone wolf" myth. The wolf is actually very social. It needs the pack. It can't survive without it. When you hear a lone wolf crying, he is crying for his pack. He is seeking his own kind. He is reaching out. It's primal.
The tears that this person shed were not just his tears. Because she gave them to us to share with her. He was not alone. It was necessary. It was primal.
Like scratching an itch; like peeling off dead skin.
A new layer waits.
A sesshin is an extensive period of time when you sit in zazen with others for a very long time. When you're not sitting in the zendo, you're either working on a chore, chanting, or doing one of my least favorite things - eating or serving oryoki. If you read my "Week One in the Zen Center" blog post, it was all about my first experience with oryoki, which is the Zen style of eating "just enough", under a variety of pressures - time, social, and personal being just the first three that come to mind. A critical element to a sesshin is there is no talking. Well, there is "functional talking", meaning if you absolutely have to talk, than you can. Otherwise, you are silent for three days. Even when you move about the temple, your arms must be in the sashu pose (left fist closed, right hand over left fist, both fists clenched towards your stomach, arms extended out). It is all very formal, meant to practice mindfulness in a sort-of "supersize me" Zen way.
There's a lot I could write about from this weekend. I could write an entire post on the physical aspect alone of zazen. I've heard it takes practitioners a year of daily zazen to finally get comfortable in zazen pose. There are so many small details to sitting still for a long period of time. Who would think it could be a physical challenge? Well, I'm here to tell you that it is.
I could elaborate on the scar tissue in my lower back that causes my leg to go to sleep if I'm not positioned skillfully; or the diarrhea that woke me up early Saturday morning, forcing me back to bed for the rest of the morning, missing out on the morning zazen and oryoki; or the nasty sunburn I acquired last weekend, which eventually shed and peeled on Saturday morning, causing my back to itch endlessly for the last 48 hours of sesshin.
I could also write about how the ino (pronounced "eeno"), the person in charge of the zendo and all of the sesshin ceremonies, signed me up as the head server for lunch oryoki for all three days without giving me any notice, and how I had only served oryoki once, and how that was a few hours after I had actuallly had my first oryoki meal ever that morning.
But I won't write about any of that stuff, albeit entertaining. Because all of that is not terribly significant compared to an event that took place during sesshin; an event that we all grew from. In Buddhism, there are the Six Paramitas. Paramita means "perfection" in Sanskrit. The first of the Six Paramitas, the dana paramita, is the perfection of generosity. When we are reciting chants during oryoki, one of the phrases that we recite is:
Now we set out Buddha's bowls;
May we, with all beings,
Realize the emptiness of the three wheels:
Giver, receiver and gift.
On the last morning of sesshin, in the zendo, a dharma brother/sister gave us all a gift. I say brother/sister because I honestly don't know if it was a man or a woman because my back was to him/her. So I will alternate the gender for the remainder of the post.
There is a mystical quality to the zendo early in the morning, before the sun has risen, shedding its daylight into the room. An edge of darkness remains and the daylight waits patiently outside as we sit silently, facing the wall, facing ourselves, facing nothing, facing everything. You will hear the occasional sneeze, cough, and even cracking of knees and popping of joints, depending on the morning. And on a rare occasion like this morning, you will hear an utter, fearless truth emit from a practitioner - the truth of sorrow. This morning, only a few minutes into zazen, one of my dharma brothers/sisters gave us the gift of his tears. She cried fearlessly in our silence. He didn't hold it back, the way that we are trained to do in society. Rather, she opened her heart, and spilled out her sobs into the zendo, gracing us with her courage. I could feel the tension at first. What do we do? Should we console him? Escort her out of the zendo so she can cry in private? No. We did what we do in the zendo. We continued to sit. We let him cry. We accepted her gift. In the Song of the Precious Mirror Samadhi, the 9th Century poet, Donshan Liangjie, wrote,
Turning away and touching are both wrong,
for it is like a massive fire.
That' what we do in zazen. We face the massive fire, not touching it, nor turning away.
Later that morning, Blanche, our head dharma teacher, a seasoned practitioner, and what we lay people refer to as a "brown robe" (a brown robe is someone who has been given dharma transmission), gave the dharma talk. Her Buddhist name is Senkei, which means "inconceivable joy". At the young age of 80-something, Blanche sits zazen every morning, then proceeds to the day's tasks with the rest of us, milling about with an energy I wish I had at the young age of forty-something. She is the essence of serenity. You are guaranteed to smile when she presents her dharma talks. Because she is - inconceivable joy. Today, however, Blanche was so moved by what she experienced in the zendo earlier that she changed her topic. She talked about how, three days before, as we were all meeting to begin the sesshin, she encouraged us to "open your hearts". Later, during her dharma talk, she talked about how when we open our hearts, when we take that risk, with it comes vulnerability, pain, and sorrow. But, ultimately, it is that pain, that suffering that Buddha recognized, which is what inspired him to seek enlightenment. And, in turn, it is that same suffering that inspires us to take the Bodhisattva Vows.
The bodhisattva, Avolakiteshvara, is the deity of compassion. She took a vow to Buddha to aid all sentient beings who are suffering. So overwhelming was this task, the myth claims that Avolakiteshvara needed more heads with eyes so she could see more people. and more arms so she could reach out to the people who need her. I guess we all felt Avolskitehvara's presence in the zendo that morning. And, in a sense, we all imbibed her essence, our arm and hearts quietly reaching out to the person who fearlessly trusted us with his suffering.
Our culture is so afraid to grieve, yet grief is so necessary. Sometimes we don't even know what we're grieving, but it's there, and it needs to be released.
When I think about how my sunburn began to shed during sesshin, I suppose it's the perfect metaphor that I ended my practice period peeling off an old dead layer of skin, feeling itchy and restless, unable to reach some of the spots on my back. Or the metaphor of the diarrhea - releasing the excrement, not able to control when, having to force myself to take a break, which is always a challenge for me. But, again, it is that moment in the zendo, which remains imprinted in my psyche the most. This person's release of emotions emanated throughout the entire zendo, piercing through all of our hearts and minds. She had the courage and fearlessness to open her heart and release whatever has been keeping her down. Moreso, she gave us permission to do the same.
This anonymous person who had the courage to cry in the zendo, indeed, gave us all a gift. There was the giver, the receiver, the gift. The gift of his tears, the gift of her truth, the gift of his open heart, the gift to permit us all to open our hearts. It was primal. He was alone, but she wasn't alone. Because even though we sit silently, alone, facing the wall, we are not alone. It's like the "lone wolf" myth. The wolf is actually very social. It needs the pack. It can't survive without it. When you hear a lone wolf crying, he is crying for his pack. He is seeking his own kind. He is reaching out. It's primal.
The tears that this person shed were not just his tears. Because she gave them to us to share with her. He was not alone. It was necessary. It was primal.
Like scratching an itch; like peeling off dead skin.
A new layer waits.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Non-Sequiturs and Sort-of Skinny Dipping in a Rush: Week 6 in the Zen Center
I'm going to begin with a non-sequitur, which, technically thinking, I don't think you can do, because there's no sequence yet, so how can you have a non-sequitur in the beginning of something? Or can you, in Zen? Now, that mght be a non-sequitur, if I introduce that question of permission. Anyhow, back to my non-sequitur. Stop what you are doing, get online, and download REM's song, Nightswimming. (You can return to my blog after). It's such a beautiful song. And everyone should stop for a moment in their busy day to listen to a beautiful song. This week it's REM's Nightswimming. Now, I do mean listen to it, not watch the video. I mean, you really need to put on your headsets, close your eyes, and listen to this song. Okay, thanks for letting me indulge in my (opening) non-sequitur here.
Another sort-of non-sequitor, that actually relates to music is an odd serendipitous moment I had this week. I had a difficult time getting up early in the morning this week. We start our day at 5 a.m. here in the Zen Center. I actually have my alarm set for 4:44, so that I can do a few minutes of yoga before I sit in zazen for an hour. But becuase this was my week of the curse - it was a challenge to wake up and get motivated. On the morning when I most resisted getting out of bed, out of the blue (at least in that moment it was out of the blue), I heard Springsteen's Born to Run playing. For those who don't know me, I am a diehard Springsteen fan. We're talking diehard. I once spent the last fifty-four dollars of my money to go to a Springsteen concert when I was in college, with a man I did not even know. He was a pot smoker, and, conveniently, so was I. Fifty-four dollars may not sound like a lot of money now, but in 1988, it was enough to get this college student through a month of partying. And toothpaste. And other stuff like that.
But I divert.
Anyhoooo, it took Springsteen to get me out of bed one morning this week. As it turns out, the remote to my radio/CD playr, (which is across the room from my bed) happens to be next to my alarm clock. accidentally turned the remote on as I turned my alarm off. But The Boss sounded the work bell for me that morning. It was pretty cool.
Okay, so this next thing also sort of relates to water and Springsteen. Sort of. Well, everything in my life sort of relates to Springsteen, much in the same way a true Zen master might say that everything relates to zen. Because Springsteen is as close to a human god on this planet that exists for me. His songwriting, his performance skills, his passion for life have been a constant thread throughout my entire life - that has carried me through many a dark moment, many a joyous moment. (I'll dedicate an entire blog post to The Boss one of these days). It is his love for life and appreciation for staying in the moment that I most appreciate. So, anyhow, the other morning, after one of the Zen Center residents (and one of my newest friends), M, shared her Wayseeking story with us, I was standing in line to give her a hug and thank her for sharing her story with us). Another groovy chic, G, the Zen Center's artist-in-residence, a shining star in this sometime dark statosphere of impermanent molecules here at the Zen Center, turned to M and I, and said that she had rented a Zip Car (http://www.zipcar.com/sf/business/mktgspring2010s), and it wasn't due back for another hour. So she wanted to maximize that hour, and asked us if we wanted to go to the beach. I was still half asleep. This was at 7:15 a.m. I had night duty the night before, so technically, I was allowed to actually sleep through zazen and the Wayseeker's talk because I had night duty (which requires sleeping in a meeting room on the main floor, and generally, less sleep due to late-night interruptions such as people coming to the door, etc.), but I really wanted to support M. I needed to be back by 9 a.m. for work meeting because it was my turn to read the daily calendar this week. With all that being said, I responded with a a quick, "Yes!"
The idea of going to the beach, if even for a few minutes, felt light. And spontaneous. Neither of which I have been feeling much of lately. We agreed to meet in ten minutes. (M agreed to go, but then changed her mind a few minutes later).This gave me enough time to grab some bread for breakfast, and a towel. Yes, a towel. Because I'm a lot like my dog, I'm realizing. Where there is water, I must play in it. (I've also been known to hang my head out the car window in the passenger seat, but not on this occasion).
G, ever the spontaneous pragmatist, got us there in good time, assessing the oncoming traffic as we were heading towards the beach; both of us, all the while, keeping a sharp eye on the digital clock in the Honda Insight. We had to have the car returned and locked up by 8:30. A minute over would incur a late fee. And that would defeat the purpose of this spontaneous, impulsive, timed adventure.
"Wow, you brought your bathing suit." Said G.
"Um, actually, I just brought a towel." (I honestly didn't think of the bathing suit part. Remember, I only had ten minutes, and frankly, food was more of a priority).
When we arrived at Ocean Beach, it was pretty barren. There were a couple of people fishing, and one person walking along the shore, but that was it. I felt okay about sort-of-skinny-dipping solo. So, like my dog, I pretty much ran to the water, knowing that we only had a few minutes. G said so herself, "Okay, we have time to walk to the water and back".
So I ran ahead of her. By the time she arrived at the water, I was stripping down to my underwear. As she was saying something about not knowing how to resuce me if I drowned, I tossed her my shirt and towel, and asked her to have it ready for me when I returned. The poor girl. I can only imagine what I looked like as I ran into the breakers, clad in only a sports bra and undies. I later asked her if she got a picture of me, to which she said no.
"I wouldn't do that without your permission."
"That's nice." I said. "I would have. But then, I would have deleted it upon your request."
It was less than sixty seconds, the fall into the ocean, breaking a wave with my body, tumbling under the waves, salt water up my nose, entire body immersed in the water, then quickly retreating, shaking off the salty water, aggressively towel-drying my body, robing myself with my pants and shirt, but its affect lasted all day. Water does that to me. Everything goes away. The night shift, the morning zazen, the anticipation of the rest of the day - it all vanished when I fell onto the wave, under it's tread, and heard nothing for a few seconds under the water.
"Was it cold?" M later asked me.
"I can't remember." I said. "I wasn't in there long enough."
Today, another resident, M2, and I rode our bikes to Baker Beach. It offers a stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge. And the water is calmer, less breakers. Keeping in tradition of immersing myself in water when I can, I stripped down, this time to my "appropriate" swim gear, trotted down to the shore, between two fishermen, and dove into the water. And, as usual, everything went away the moment my body was christened by the Pacific. But there was no rush. No deadline. No digital clock. I returned to my towel, covered myself with sunblock, and fell asleep under the Bay's signature foggy sky,, knowing that the water was there, safeguarding us from whatever it is we store inside of us.
Oh, and that morning at Ocean Beach. We got the car back in plenty of time. 8:27.
Another sort-of non-sequitor, that actually relates to music is an odd serendipitous moment I had this week. I had a difficult time getting up early in the morning this week. We start our day at 5 a.m. here in the Zen Center. I actually have my alarm set for 4:44, so that I can do a few minutes of yoga before I sit in zazen for an hour. But becuase this was my week of the curse - it was a challenge to wake up and get motivated. On the morning when I most resisted getting out of bed, out of the blue (at least in that moment it was out of the blue), I heard Springsteen's Born to Run playing. For those who don't know me, I am a diehard Springsteen fan. We're talking diehard. I once spent the last fifty-four dollars of my money to go to a Springsteen concert when I was in college, with a man I did not even know. He was a pot smoker, and, conveniently, so was I. Fifty-four dollars may not sound like a lot of money now, but in 1988, it was enough to get this college student through a month of partying. And toothpaste. And other stuff like that.
But I divert.
Anyhoooo, it took Springsteen to get me out of bed one morning this week. As it turns out, the remote to my radio/CD playr, (which is across the room from my bed) happens to be next to my alarm clock. accidentally turned the remote on as I turned my alarm off. But The Boss sounded the work bell for me that morning. It was pretty cool.
Okay, so this next thing also sort of relates to water and Springsteen. Sort of. Well, everything in my life sort of relates to Springsteen, much in the same way a true Zen master might say that everything relates to zen. Because Springsteen is as close to a human god on this planet that exists for me. His songwriting, his performance skills, his passion for life have been a constant thread throughout my entire life - that has carried me through many a dark moment, many a joyous moment. (I'll dedicate an entire blog post to The Boss one of these days). It is his love for life and appreciation for staying in the moment that I most appreciate. So, anyhow, the other morning, after one of the Zen Center residents (and one of my newest friends), M, shared her Wayseeking story with us, I was standing in line to give her a hug and thank her for sharing her story with us). Another groovy chic, G, the Zen Center's artist-in-residence, a shining star in this sometime dark statosphere of impermanent molecules here at the Zen Center, turned to M and I, and said that she had rented a Zip Car (http://www.zipcar.com/sf/business/mktgspring2010s), and it wasn't due back for another hour. So she wanted to maximize that hour, and asked us if we wanted to go to the beach. I was still half asleep. This was at 7:15 a.m. I had night duty the night before, so technically, I was allowed to actually sleep through zazen and the Wayseeker's talk because I had night duty (which requires sleeping in a meeting room on the main floor, and generally, less sleep due to late-night interruptions such as people coming to the door, etc.), but I really wanted to support M. I needed to be back by 9 a.m. for work meeting because it was my turn to read the daily calendar this week. With all that being said, I responded with a a quick, "Yes!"
The idea of going to the beach, if even for a few minutes, felt light. And spontaneous. Neither of which I have been feeling much of lately. We agreed to meet in ten minutes. (M agreed to go, but then changed her mind a few minutes later).This gave me enough time to grab some bread for breakfast, and a towel. Yes, a towel. Because I'm a lot like my dog, I'm realizing. Where there is water, I must play in it. (I've also been known to hang my head out the car window in the passenger seat, but not on this occasion).
G, ever the spontaneous pragmatist, got us there in good time, assessing the oncoming traffic as we were heading towards the beach; both of us, all the while, keeping a sharp eye on the digital clock in the Honda Insight. We had to have the car returned and locked up by 8:30. A minute over would incur a late fee. And that would defeat the purpose of this spontaneous, impulsive, timed adventure.
"Wow, you brought your bathing suit." Said G.
"Um, actually, I just brought a towel." (I honestly didn't think of the bathing suit part. Remember, I only had ten minutes, and frankly, food was more of a priority).
When we arrived at Ocean Beach, it was pretty barren. There were a couple of people fishing, and one person walking along the shore, but that was it. I felt okay about sort-of-skinny-dipping solo. So, like my dog, I pretty much ran to the water, knowing that we only had a few minutes. G said so herself, "Okay, we have time to walk to the water and back".
So I ran ahead of her. By the time she arrived at the water, I was stripping down to my underwear. As she was saying something about not knowing how to resuce me if I drowned, I tossed her my shirt and towel, and asked her to have it ready for me when I returned. The poor girl. I can only imagine what I looked like as I ran into the breakers, clad in only a sports bra and undies. I later asked her if she got a picture of me, to which she said no.
"I wouldn't do that without your permission."
"That's nice." I said. "I would have. But then, I would have deleted it upon your request."
It was less than sixty seconds, the fall into the ocean, breaking a wave with my body, tumbling under the waves, salt water up my nose, entire body immersed in the water, then quickly retreating, shaking off the salty water, aggressively towel-drying my body, robing myself with my pants and shirt, but its affect lasted all day. Water does that to me. Everything goes away. The night shift, the morning zazen, the anticipation of the rest of the day - it all vanished when I fell onto the wave, under it's tread, and heard nothing for a few seconds under the water.
"Was it cold?" M later asked me.
"I can't remember." I said. "I wasn't in there long enough."
Today, another resident, M2, and I rode our bikes to Baker Beach. It offers a stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge. And the water is calmer, less breakers. Keeping in tradition of immersing myself in water when I can, I stripped down, this time to my "appropriate" swim gear, trotted down to the shore, between two fishermen, and dove into the water. And, as usual, everything went away the moment my body was christened by the Pacific. But there was no rush. No deadline. No digital clock. I returned to my towel, covered myself with sunblock, and fell asleep under the Bay's signature foggy sky,, knowing that the water was there, safeguarding us from whatever it is we store inside of us.
Oh, and that morning at Ocean Beach. We got the car back in plenty of time. 8:27.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Marching Band, My Zen Clumsiness: Week 5 in the Zen Center
Living in the Zen Center, and maintaining the structure that is needed to keep this awesome esoterically bold machine moving, bears a striking resemblance to high school marching band. Not sure if this is a good thing. Not sure if this is a bad thing. It just is.
For anyone who was in marching band, you will recall the endless rehearsals out in that football field, generally scheduled at an ungodly hour. Then there was the band director. Mr. Dostie was my high schol band director. He was terrific. And smart. He brought in an outsider to whip us into shape. Like the Captain who relies on his drill sergeant, Mr. Dostie gave that thankless job to a local former high school band geek who apparently had nothing better to do on a Saturday then to torment high school kids. His name was Mr. Jolly. He was not a jolly man. Looking back, I think he showed up for rehearsal every Satrday morning with a hangover. That would explain the sunglasses. Even on the gray, rainy New England autumn days.
And he was a chain smoker. This was back in the '80's when teachers (and students over 16 who had permission slips from their parents) were allowed to smoke on campus. I have vivid memories of Mr. Jolly standing on the top bleacher, cigarette in one hand, coffee in another, shaking his head in disgust as we aimlessly wandered around the field, gripping our instruments, moving ten feet to the left when we should have been going to the right, stopping when would should have been moving, moving when we should have been stopping. We were merely ants, trying to sustain the scent to the ant hill, as the Queen ant, Mr. Jolly, chain smoked in the bleachers.
Hearing him yell your name across the field was the ultimate display of shame. And I, not the most coordinated, and certainly not the least bit musical, was one of his favorite targets.
"Second clarinet! McDonald! Move to the left! No, not that left! The other left. Jesus!"
Then there the was the time the bell of my clarinet fell off of my instrument during one rehearsal. Mr. Jolly just dropped and shook his head, and said to me, "McDonald. For Chrissakes, pick up your bell!"
It was extremely anxiety-producing. I couldn't get anything right. Yet, I showed up for the suffering every Saturday. Why? The band trips. Mr. Dostie was great about organizing band trips. I'm talking cool band trips, like bus trips to Philadelphia (to visit the real Liberty Bell) and Washington D.C. During school time. That alone made it all worth it.
So here I am, twenty-five years later, in marching band all over again. This time, my instrument is my self, my cohorts, the Zen Center residents, and my Mr. Jolly, the various leaders within the Center. Everyone has been very patient with me. (Well, I sort of pissed off the Tenzo, the head of kitchen, this week, but she blows things off pretty quickly, so she was over it quickly). Here are just a few examples of my Zen clumsiness in the past two weeks:
1) I completely forgot about my doorwatch duty, scheduled every Monday morning. I'm scheduled to be there at 5 a.m. Someone knocked on my bedroom door at 5:15 to gracioulsy remind me that I was late for my duty. By the time I got down there, everyone was in the zendo. Naill (pronounced Nile), my young Irish cohort, covered for me. I apologized, thanked him for understanding, and told him I owed him a favor.
2) I completely forgot about my dishes duty. This one was really bad because not only did I completely forget about it, but I happened to walk into the kitchen to get a cup of tea as my dishwashing team was just finishing up.
"Hi guys." I said, oblivious to my negligence, pouring my cup of lemon-ginger tea.
"Caren. Did you forget that you had dish duty tonight?"
I felt about two inches tall. I apologized, thanked them for understanding, and told them that I owed them a favor.
3) I forgot altar duty. Twice. The first time I realized I forgot only fifteen minutes before a Lay Entrustment Ceremony (week 4's blog entry). So I hurriedly did this chiden, walking fast back and forth from the altar to the altar chiden work station, all the while trying to look calm. (I don't think I pulled that part off). Then, this week, I just completely forgot to to the chiden. It occurred to me during zazen on Saturday morning. I considered exiting the zendo to go upstairs to clean the altar. But I didn't have my keys with me, which I would have needed to get into the altar chiden work station room. I winced later that morning when the doshi placed the incense into the dirty offering bowl.
4) I was late for kitchen duty. Twice. In the same day, on the same shift. The only advantage I had was that I was just filling in for someone, so the fukudo (the tenzo's assistant) was cool. Plus, I made up for it with my brilliant onion slicing and broom sweeping skills.
5) I broke an oryoki rule. Shocking. If you've read my "Oryoki: Week 1" blog post, you'll recall how much I learned that day. Well, I've had two oryoki meals since then, and I'm much more relaxed about it (though it still produces anxiety). I was very excited about one of the dishes that was served in one of our three bowls during my most recent oryoki experience. It was apple-cranberry juice! Naill, who was serving the juice, didn't see me with my hands in gasho as he walked past me. (Gasho means prayer pose, which indicates that you want second servings). I violated the silence code by whispering his name when he bypassed me. (Poor kid. I later learned that he was dealing with a migraine while he was serving). Then, after he poured it, I quickly guzzled it down, forgetting that, like the first serving, one must wait until everyone has been served their second serving before one can begin to eat her second serving. So I basicaly looked like an impatient pig.
6) During jiko duty, I broke the incense as I was getting it from the hallway altar to bring to the noon service. The drill is to stand at the hallway altar, wait for the first of the three rolldowns of the densho (bell), light the incense, and carry it down the hallway to the outside of the Buddha Hall, which is where the service takes place. The jiko stands outside of the Buddha Hall, waiting for the doshi (the Zen priest who is leading that service) to bow to the incense and walk into the Buddha Hall on the second densho rolldown, which is quickly followed by the third densho rolldown, which indicates the beginning of the service. It's at the second rolldown when the jiko follows the doshi, until she hands the doshi the incense to present to the altar. Well, there I was, at the hallway altar, lighting the incense, when the incense broke right in my hand, split into three pieces, and fell to the ground, including the lit end. I grabbed it, not wanting it to burn a mark into the floor, when it broke again. And again. All the while, the densho sounded ominously in the background, the second rolldown just seconds away. I made it. Barely.
7) Lastly, and this is a doozie; while being the jiko for another noon service, I actually followed the wrong priest into the Buddha Hall with the incense, thinking he was the doshi. Typically, the doshi hangs out in the hallway in front of the Buddha Hall, waiting for the jiko to arrive with the incense. Well, we have one priest, Michael, who has been around for years. He is a seasoned veteran, a "brown robe", which means he has dharma transmision. When I walked down the hallway to the outside entrance, he was hanging out there, just as he had the day before, when he was the doshi. I assumed he was the doshi again. Assumed. I had a field hockey coach in high school who used to say, "Don't assume, or you'll make an ass. Out of u. And me." So when Michael walked into the Buddha Hall before the second rolldown, without bowing to the incense, I assumed he was just having an off-day. Could I be any more audacious? Um, maybe it was the jiko who was having an off-day? So I followed him in. He walked onto the tatami mats, which is the "entrance" into the sacred space. But then, instead of walking towards the Buddha mat, which is where the doshi goes to bow, Michael walked over to another spot, where the lay people stand. I stood there, clinging to that incense, clinging to what dignity I had left in me, wondering what to do next. So, I just turned around and retreated back outside to the hallway. Eventually, the "real" doshi arrived, and I followed his lead, doing everything in my power to keep a straight face, though that was a challenge. (Even the Ino, who is in charge of the altars, an ordinarily stoic man, was smiling when he saw me screw up).
Those are just some of the highlights of my errs in the past two weeks. Marching band all over again. More than once I have asked myself, Why am I doing this? My incentive is no longer that band trip to Philadelphia and Washington D.C. I'm going on another trip. I just don't know where. And, I think I'm not supposed to. Not sure if this is a good thing. Not sure if this is a bad thing. It just is.
For anyone who was in marching band, you will recall the endless rehearsals out in that football field, generally scheduled at an ungodly hour. Then there was the band director. Mr. Dostie was my high schol band director. He was terrific. And smart. He brought in an outsider to whip us into shape. Like the Captain who relies on his drill sergeant, Mr. Dostie gave that thankless job to a local former high school band geek who apparently had nothing better to do on a Saturday then to torment high school kids. His name was Mr. Jolly. He was not a jolly man. Looking back, I think he showed up for rehearsal every Satrday morning with a hangover. That would explain the sunglasses. Even on the gray, rainy New England autumn days.
And he was a chain smoker. This was back in the '80's when teachers (and students over 16 who had permission slips from their parents) were allowed to smoke on campus. I have vivid memories of Mr. Jolly standing on the top bleacher, cigarette in one hand, coffee in another, shaking his head in disgust as we aimlessly wandered around the field, gripping our instruments, moving ten feet to the left when we should have been going to the right, stopping when would should have been moving, moving when we should have been stopping. We were merely ants, trying to sustain the scent to the ant hill, as the Queen ant, Mr. Jolly, chain smoked in the bleachers.
Hearing him yell your name across the field was the ultimate display of shame. And I, not the most coordinated, and certainly not the least bit musical, was one of his favorite targets.
"Second clarinet! McDonald! Move to the left! No, not that left! The other left. Jesus!"
Then there the was the time the bell of my clarinet fell off of my instrument during one rehearsal. Mr. Jolly just dropped and shook his head, and said to me, "McDonald. For Chrissakes, pick up your bell!"
It was extremely anxiety-producing. I couldn't get anything right. Yet, I showed up for the suffering every Saturday. Why? The band trips. Mr. Dostie was great about organizing band trips. I'm talking cool band trips, like bus trips to Philadelphia (to visit the real Liberty Bell) and Washington D.C. During school time. That alone made it all worth it.
So here I am, twenty-five years later, in marching band all over again. This time, my instrument is my self, my cohorts, the Zen Center residents, and my Mr. Jolly, the various leaders within the Center. Everyone has been very patient with me. (Well, I sort of pissed off the Tenzo, the head of kitchen, this week, but she blows things off pretty quickly, so she was over it quickly). Here are just a few examples of my Zen clumsiness in the past two weeks:
1) I completely forgot about my doorwatch duty, scheduled every Monday morning. I'm scheduled to be there at 5 a.m. Someone knocked on my bedroom door at 5:15 to gracioulsy remind me that I was late for my duty. By the time I got down there, everyone was in the zendo. Naill (pronounced Nile), my young Irish cohort, covered for me. I apologized, thanked him for understanding, and told him I owed him a favor.
2) I completely forgot about my dishes duty. This one was really bad because not only did I completely forget about it, but I happened to walk into the kitchen to get a cup of tea as my dishwashing team was just finishing up.
"Hi guys." I said, oblivious to my negligence, pouring my cup of lemon-ginger tea.
"Caren. Did you forget that you had dish duty tonight?"
I felt about two inches tall. I apologized, thanked them for understanding, and told them that I owed them a favor.
3) I forgot altar duty. Twice. The first time I realized I forgot only fifteen minutes before a Lay Entrustment Ceremony (week 4's blog entry). So I hurriedly did this chiden, walking fast back and forth from the altar to the altar chiden work station, all the while trying to look calm. (I don't think I pulled that part off). Then, this week, I just completely forgot to to the chiden. It occurred to me during zazen on Saturday morning. I considered exiting the zendo to go upstairs to clean the altar. But I didn't have my keys with me, which I would have needed to get into the altar chiden work station room. I winced later that morning when the doshi placed the incense into the dirty offering bowl.
4) I was late for kitchen duty. Twice. In the same day, on the same shift. The only advantage I had was that I was just filling in for someone, so the fukudo (the tenzo's assistant) was cool. Plus, I made up for it with my brilliant onion slicing and broom sweeping skills.
5) I broke an oryoki rule. Shocking. If you've read my "Oryoki: Week 1" blog post, you'll recall how much I learned that day. Well, I've had two oryoki meals since then, and I'm much more relaxed about it (though it still produces anxiety). I was very excited about one of the dishes that was served in one of our three bowls during my most recent oryoki experience. It was apple-cranberry juice! Naill, who was serving the juice, didn't see me with my hands in gasho as he walked past me. (Gasho means prayer pose, which indicates that you want second servings). I violated the silence code by whispering his name when he bypassed me. (Poor kid. I later learned that he was dealing with a migraine while he was serving). Then, after he poured it, I quickly guzzled it down, forgetting that, like the first serving, one must wait until everyone has been served their second serving before one can begin to eat her second serving. So I basicaly looked like an impatient pig.
6) During jiko duty, I broke the incense as I was getting it from the hallway altar to bring to the noon service. The drill is to stand at the hallway altar, wait for the first of the three rolldowns of the densho (bell), light the incense, and carry it down the hallway to the outside of the Buddha Hall, which is where the service takes place. The jiko stands outside of the Buddha Hall, waiting for the doshi (the Zen priest who is leading that service) to bow to the incense and walk into the Buddha Hall on the second densho rolldown, which is quickly followed by the third densho rolldown, which indicates the beginning of the service. It's at the second rolldown when the jiko follows the doshi, until she hands the doshi the incense to present to the altar. Well, there I was, at the hallway altar, lighting the incense, when the incense broke right in my hand, split into three pieces, and fell to the ground, including the lit end. I grabbed it, not wanting it to burn a mark into the floor, when it broke again. And again. All the while, the densho sounded ominously in the background, the second rolldown just seconds away. I made it. Barely.
7) Lastly, and this is a doozie; while being the jiko for another noon service, I actually followed the wrong priest into the Buddha Hall with the incense, thinking he was the doshi. Typically, the doshi hangs out in the hallway in front of the Buddha Hall, waiting for the jiko to arrive with the incense. Well, we have one priest, Michael, who has been around for years. He is a seasoned veteran, a "brown robe", which means he has dharma transmision. When I walked down the hallway to the outside entrance, he was hanging out there, just as he had the day before, when he was the doshi. I assumed he was the doshi again. Assumed. I had a field hockey coach in high school who used to say, "Don't assume, or you'll make an ass. Out of u. And me." So when Michael walked into the Buddha Hall before the second rolldown, without bowing to the incense, I assumed he was just having an off-day. Could I be any more audacious? Um, maybe it was the jiko who was having an off-day? So I followed him in. He walked onto the tatami mats, which is the "entrance" into the sacred space. But then, instead of walking towards the Buddha mat, which is where the doshi goes to bow, Michael walked over to another spot, where the lay people stand. I stood there, clinging to that incense, clinging to what dignity I had left in me, wondering what to do next. So, I just turned around and retreated back outside to the hallway. Eventually, the "real" doshi arrived, and I followed his lead, doing everything in my power to keep a straight face, though that was a challenge. (Even the Ino, who is in charge of the altars, an ordinarily stoic man, was smiling when he saw me screw up).
Those are just some of the highlights of my errs in the past two weeks. Marching band all over again. More than once I have asked myself, Why am I doing this? My incentive is no longer that band trip to Philadelphia and Washington D.C. I'm going on another trip. I just don't know where. And, I think I'm not supposed to. Not sure if this is a good thing. Not sure if this is a bad thing. It just is.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Something Old, Something New: Week 4 in the Zen Center
My week began with an ancient ceremony in a Buddhist temple in Sacramento and ended with a one-of-a-kind modern ceremony here at the Zen Center. Both the question of authenticity and the idea of the old and the new came up for me this week.
My friend, Ruth, who is also the founder of the Jizo Peace Center, (and I like to think of as my own personal bodhisattva!), told me a several months ago that she was planning on attending a Jizo ceremony in May at the Kuyosan Buddhist Temple in Sacramento. We made arrangements to meet there. When I did arrive that day, she was pleasantly surprised.
“I thought you’d chicken out.” She said playfully.
I told her that I almost did chicken out, but I felt compelled to attend this ceremony. I’m glad I did. Authentic is the word that comes to mind.
The temple is located in an older residential neighborhood in Sacramento. It has been in the community for over fifty years. I met Ruth outside and when we walked in together, we walked in to the recreation room, not the altar room. The recreation room looked like any recreation room in any church across America: long plastic foldout tables and chairs, side tables with food, and lay people milling about, contributing to the pedestrian tasks at hand. Even the altar room looked western when I first walked in with its rows of pews. But then I turned to the altar, and suddenly felt as if I had just stepped back two thousand years into Japan.
It was adorned with red and gold colors, statues of Buddha, Jizo, and a couple of other deities whose names slip my mind at the moment.
“This is about as close to Japan as you’re going to get in this country.” Ruth said to me, in a soft whisper.
She would know. Not only has she has spent time in Japan, but she also plays the koto, an ancient Japanese stringed instrument that requires patience and precision to master.
The ceremony had a pagan quality to it. I had to actually call the Reverend Fukuda earlier in the week so he could hear my voice as he was preparing the prayer sticks that you write on before the ceremony. He also directed me to wear yellow on that day and to refrain from eating meat or having any sexual relations that week. (Both two easy things to abstain from when you live in a Zen Monastary).
During the actual ceremony, he lit a small fire at the altar, and then proceeded to toss the prayer sticks into the fire. At one point, someone got up to open the windows as it was getting pretty smoky in the room. While he focused on the prayer sticks, two of his assistants sat on the sides of the altar and repeated the Jizo chant over and over again, while playing the doshen drum. The rest of us chanted along with them. The entire service was in Japanese with the exception of when Reverend Fukuda welcomed us and explained how the ceremony would work. While we chanted, we also stood in line (as if we were taking communion), and when we got to the altar, we placed a lit candle at the altar, then went over to the side altar and offered incense to the kobako. This went on for about fifteen minutes.
It was a busy activity, but very mesmerizing. Two things stand out for me. Jizo is the deity who protects children, travelers, and firefighters. This particular service was in honor of the children who have died. Thus, it was quite emotional for some of the people there. Ruth and I were one of the half a dozen or so only non-Japanese people there. One image that continues to stay with me is that of another Anglo women who sat in the very front pew. She wept throughout the entire ceremony. But what stands out is how people responded to her when they had to walk past her to go to the side altar. A majority of the people who were there were elderly Japanese women. They walked by her silently, but carrying with them this overwhelming sense of protection and connection towards this woman.
These same women sat in the pews and quietly, powerfully chanted the Jizo chant in their native tongue. This is the second element of the ceremony what stands out to me. At the Zen Center, we chant some of the chants in Japanese. Some of the people here have terrific “chanting voices”, if that makes any sense. It’s a challenge for Americans to chant in Japanese, so there are a few good chanters who lead us during our services. Their voices are bold and succinct, meant to inspire the rest of us to follow their lead. But in the Jizo ceremony, the chanting was not filled with that boldness and succinctness. Rather, it was like sitting in a Catholic Church, listening to the sounds of women who have said a thousand Hail Mary’s in their lifetime. It was quite beautiful actually. Their voices carried softly, but with beautiful inner strength. They weren’t trying to prove anything, or lead us so we could get it “right”. They were simply praying to Jizo. It gave me a different perspective on some chants that I’ve been chanting here at he Zen Center these past few weeks.
After the ceremony, Reverend Fukuda met with each individual to discuss what he saw in the fire when he placed our prayer sticks into the pyre.
So that was Sunday. (After the ceremony, I went out for a burger!). The following Friday evening, we had a different kind of ceremony here in the Zen Center. It’s called a Lay Entrustment ceremony. It’s a unique ceremony, new to the Zen Center, new to western Buddhism. Apparently, because Buddhism is still so new to the West, we are still finding our way. When you think about it, like Christianity, there are many different sects of Buddhism. And each culture approaches some aspects differently. For example, this Lay Entrustment ceremony is something that does not even exist in Japan. It’s strictly a western thing. There have only been a few ceremonies like this in the entire West.
The ceremony was to honor one of our lay teachers, Bernd Bender, as a Layman. Bernd is not a priest nor does he aspire to be one. But he is a designated “teacher” here at the Zen Center, which means he meets with students like me to discuss Buddhism, zazen, and anything else that seems pertinent to the needs of .the student.
Bernd is actually the first teacher I met with when I was a guest student in March. I later told him that I asked to meet with him because he was the first person in the Center who made me laugh. Of course, within moments of telling him this, I melted down and cried as I told him my “story”. I felt at ease with Bernd right away. His warm, comforting nature felt like an old soft blanket.
It was an honor to watch Bernd receive his Lay Entrustment. The ceremony was fiercely different from the Jizo ceremony. To begin with, the Zen Center has no pews. I take that back. There are two long pews against the wall for people who cannot sit on the tatami mats. Otherwise, the entire room is covered with a floor of tatami mats. Thus, the entire congregation was seated on the mats. Of course, what stands out more is that the majority of the people there were Anglo. This is not a criticism, rather it is an observation. And it makes sense. Suziki-Roshi, the Japanese priest who founded the Zen Center, did so with the intention to bring Buddhism to the western culture. The purpose of the San Francisco Zen Center is to educate the west on Soto Zen and to cultivate the practice of Soto Zen.
During Bernd’s ceremony, Bernd’s teacher, Michael Wenger, a seasoned practitioner, invited some of Bernd’s peers to pose a question to Bernd. It was a sort of hazing – an opportunity for Bernd to ‘prove himself” with his knowledge of Buddhism and all of its teachings. Bernd held his own, responding with patience and confidence. But it was his message that stands out to me moreso than the “Zen bantering” that seemed to take place.
Two things stand out for me from Bernd’s ceremony. Bernd’s message is that we are all on this planet to love each other. It’s really that simple. And, ironically, I think people who practice religion tend to forget that. This is because we get so busy with ritual and keeping afloat, it’s easy to overlook the deeper meanings of our faith. But that’s why we have ceremonies, right?
The other thing that moved me took place at the very end of the ceremony. Michael stood up, looked around, and said, joyously, “Another bodhisattva shines on the universe.” (A bodhisattva is an enlightened being. Jizo is an example of a bodhisattva. Their sort of the “saints of zen”).
I went to Harbin Hot Springs this past weekend for the holiday. There is a beautiful statue of Quin Yan near one of the cooling pools. Many people sit on the bench before her and meditate for a few minutes after getting out of the pool. Many people leave flowers for Quin Ya, and, on rare occasions, photos of people that they are praying for. When I was there this weekend, I remembered being there just a month after 9/11. Someone had placed a photo of Bin Laden next to the statue. I was so moved by the deep, deep level of compassion. He was clearly the “bad guy” after 9/11, the evil mastermind behind that tragic day. Yet, someone found it in their heart to have compassion for him.
While I was at Harbin this weekend, I bought a new bumper sticker for my car. I originally bought it to cover an old bumper sticker about prop 8. As it turns out, I was able to peel off the old bumper sticker. I replaced it with a new one that reads, Just love everybody.” It literally has a period at the end of the sentence. Said with such finality. Back to that love thing that seems to keep coming up over and over again these days.
One more thing and then I’ll wrap this up. The morning after the Jizo ceremony in Sacramento, I was peacefully doing yoga in my room. Another modern concept that I admire about the Zen Center is they are now allowing children to live here. It’s a center, but, ultimately, this place is a temple. It was unheard of that children would live in the temples. But we’re an urban monastery in the west. Why not practice the bodhisattva path and permit children here?
So, the other morning as I was peacefully doing my yoga, I heard the rapid foot steps of our youngest resident, P. He’s two-and-a-half, and ALL boy. As I he was running down the hallway, he was yelling to his mother, “I’m gonna get you!”
I could hear his mother quietly whispering to him, and his only response was, in a charmingly high volume, “No! No whispering!”
It was very endearing. Of course he didn’t want to whisper! Who wants to whisper?!
I just sat there on my yoga mat, cracking up.
The ancient, the modern. The whisper, the roar.
My friend, Ruth, who is also the founder of the Jizo Peace Center, (and I like to think of as my own personal bodhisattva!), told me a several months ago that she was planning on attending a Jizo ceremony in May at the Kuyosan Buddhist Temple in Sacramento. We made arrangements to meet there. When I did arrive that day, she was pleasantly surprised.
“I thought you’d chicken out.” She said playfully.
I told her that I almost did chicken out, but I felt compelled to attend this ceremony. I’m glad I did. Authentic is the word that comes to mind.
The temple is located in an older residential neighborhood in Sacramento. It has been in the community for over fifty years. I met Ruth outside and when we walked in together, we walked in to the recreation room, not the altar room. The recreation room looked like any recreation room in any church across America: long plastic foldout tables and chairs, side tables with food, and lay people milling about, contributing to the pedestrian tasks at hand. Even the altar room looked western when I first walked in with its rows of pews. But then I turned to the altar, and suddenly felt as if I had just stepped back two thousand years into Japan.
It was adorned with red and gold colors, statues of Buddha, Jizo, and a couple of other deities whose names slip my mind at the moment.
“This is about as close to Japan as you’re going to get in this country.” Ruth said to me, in a soft whisper.
She would know. Not only has she has spent time in Japan, but she also plays the koto, an ancient Japanese stringed instrument that requires patience and precision to master.
The ceremony had a pagan quality to it. I had to actually call the Reverend Fukuda earlier in the week so he could hear my voice as he was preparing the prayer sticks that you write on before the ceremony. He also directed me to wear yellow on that day and to refrain from eating meat or having any sexual relations that week. (Both two easy things to abstain from when you live in a Zen Monastary).
During the actual ceremony, he lit a small fire at the altar, and then proceeded to toss the prayer sticks into the fire. At one point, someone got up to open the windows as it was getting pretty smoky in the room. While he focused on the prayer sticks, two of his assistants sat on the sides of the altar and repeated the Jizo chant over and over again, while playing the doshen drum. The rest of us chanted along with them. The entire service was in Japanese with the exception of when Reverend Fukuda welcomed us and explained how the ceremony would work. While we chanted, we also stood in line (as if we were taking communion), and when we got to the altar, we placed a lit candle at the altar, then went over to the side altar and offered incense to the kobako. This went on for about fifteen minutes.
It was a busy activity, but very mesmerizing. Two things stand out for me. Jizo is the deity who protects children, travelers, and firefighters. This particular service was in honor of the children who have died. Thus, it was quite emotional for some of the people there. Ruth and I were one of the half a dozen or so only non-Japanese people there. One image that continues to stay with me is that of another Anglo women who sat in the very front pew. She wept throughout the entire ceremony. But what stands out is how people responded to her when they had to walk past her to go to the side altar. A majority of the people who were there were elderly Japanese women. They walked by her silently, but carrying with them this overwhelming sense of protection and connection towards this woman.
These same women sat in the pews and quietly, powerfully chanted the Jizo chant in their native tongue. This is the second element of the ceremony what stands out to me. At the Zen Center, we chant some of the chants in Japanese. Some of the people here have terrific “chanting voices”, if that makes any sense. It’s a challenge for Americans to chant in Japanese, so there are a few good chanters who lead us during our services. Their voices are bold and succinct, meant to inspire the rest of us to follow their lead. But in the Jizo ceremony, the chanting was not filled with that boldness and succinctness. Rather, it was like sitting in a Catholic Church, listening to the sounds of women who have said a thousand Hail Mary’s in their lifetime. It was quite beautiful actually. Their voices carried softly, but with beautiful inner strength. They weren’t trying to prove anything, or lead us so we could get it “right”. They were simply praying to Jizo. It gave me a different perspective on some chants that I’ve been chanting here at he Zen Center these past few weeks.
After the ceremony, Reverend Fukuda met with each individual to discuss what he saw in the fire when he placed our prayer sticks into the pyre.
So that was Sunday. (After the ceremony, I went out for a burger!). The following Friday evening, we had a different kind of ceremony here in the Zen Center. It’s called a Lay Entrustment ceremony. It’s a unique ceremony, new to the Zen Center, new to western Buddhism. Apparently, because Buddhism is still so new to the West, we are still finding our way. When you think about it, like Christianity, there are many different sects of Buddhism. And each culture approaches some aspects differently. For example, this Lay Entrustment ceremony is something that does not even exist in Japan. It’s strictly a western thing. There have only been a few ceremonies like this in the entire West.
The ceremony was to honor one of our lay teachers, Bernd Bender, as a Layman. Bernd is not a priest nor does he aspire to be one. But he is a designated “teacher” here at the Zen Center, which means he meets with students like me to discuss Buddhism, zazen, and anything else that seems pertinent to the needs of .the student.
Bernd is actually the first teacher I met with when I was a guest student in March. I later told him that I asked to meet with him because he was the first person in the Center who made me laugh. Of course, within moments of telling him this, I melted down and cried as I told him my “story”. I felt at ease with Bernd right away. His warm, comforting nature felt like an old soft blanket.
It was an honor to watch Bernd receive his Lay Entrustment. The ceremony was fiercely different from the Jizo ceremony. To begin with, the Zen Center has no pews. I take that back. There are two long pews against the wall for people who cannot sit on the tatami mats. Otherwise, the entire room is covered with a floor of tatami mats. Thus, the entire congregation was seated on the mats. Of course, what stands out more is that the majority of the people there were Anglo. This is not a criticism, rather it is an observation. And it makes sense. Suziki-Roshi, the Japanese priest who founded the Zen Center, did so with the intention to bring Buddhism to the western culture. The purpose of the San Francisco Zen Center is to educate the west on Soto Zen and to cultivate the practice of Soto Zen.
During Bernd’s ceremony, Bernd’s teacher, Michael Wenger, a seasoned practitioner, invited some of Bernd’s peers to pose a question to Bernd. It was a sort of hazing – an opportunity for Bernd to ‘prove himself” with his knowledge of Buddhism and all of its teachings. Bernd held his own, responding with patience and confidence. But it was his message that stands out to me moreso than the “Zen bantering” that seemed to take place.
Two things stand out for me from Bernd’s ceremony. Bernd’s message is that we are all on this planet to love each other. It’s really that simple. And, ironically, I think people who practice religion tend to forget that. This is because we get so busy with ritual and keeping afloat, it’s easy to overlook the deeper meanings of our faith. But that’s why we have ceremonies, right?
The other thing that moved me took place at the very end of the ceremony. Michael stood up, looked around, and said, joyously, “Another bodhisattva shines on the universe.” (A bodhisattva is an enlightened being. Jizo is an example of a bodhisattva. Their sort of the “saints of zen”).
I went to Harbin Hot Springs this past weekend for the holiday. There is a beautiful statue of Quin Yan near one of the cooling pools. Many people sit on the bench before her and meditate for a few minutes after getting out of the pool. Many people leave flowers for Quin Ya, and, on rare occasions, photos of people that they are praying for. When I was there this weekend, I remembered being there just a month after 9/11. Someone had placed a photo of Bin Laden next to the statue. I was so moved by the deep, deep level of compassion. He was clearly the “bad guy” after 9/11, the evil mastermind behind that tragic day. Yet, someone found it in their heart to have compassion for him.
While I was at Harbin this weekend, I bought a new bumper sticker for my car. I originally bought it to cover an old bumper sticker about prop 8. As it turns out, I was able to peel off the old bumper sticker. I replaced it with a new one that reads, Just love everybody.” It literally has a period at the end of the sentence. Said with such finality. Back to that love thing that seems to keep coming up over and over again these days.
One more thing and then I’ll wrap this up. The morning after the Jizo ceremony in Sacramento, I was peacefully doing yoga in my room. Another modern concept that I admire about the Zen Center is they are now allowing children to live here. It’s a center, but, ultimately, this place is a temple. It was unheard of that children would live in the temples. But we’re an urban monastery in the west. Why not practice the bodhisattva path and permit children here?
So, the other morning as I was peacefully doing my yoga, I heard the rapid foot steps of our youngest resident, P. He’s two-and-a-half, and ALL boy. As I he was running down the hallway, he was yelling to his mother, “I’m gonna get you!”
I could hear his mother quietly whispering to him, and his only response was, in a charmingly high volume, “No! No whispering!”
It was very endearing. Of course he didn’t want to whisper! Who wants to whisper?!
I just sat there on my yoga mat, cracking up.
The ancient, the modern. The whisper, the roar.
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