Wabi-Sabi

Sometimes, when I write one of these postings, I am in a sort of trance state. I just sit still for a few moments with my hands poised lightly on the keyboard of my ancient laptop, and soon the words somehow pour out of my fingers. It is like magic. I proofread what comes out of me as best I can - I have a strong aversion to typos - and then I hesitantly click the button that says PUBLISH POST.

A few hours later, or maybe the next morning as I'm getting ready to write another one, I might re-read the previous entry, and nearly always I find a mistake. Often the gaffe is right up there in the first paragraph, shining like a beacon of ineptitude for all to see (when will I ever become ept?). I cringe that a misspelled word has slipped past my sensors (or should it be censors?), or I discover an awkward phrase caused by a hasty rewrite, or botched cut and paste job. Most insidious of all is when an incorrect word sneaks past the auto-correct software because it is spelled correctly, but it is not the write one to use in that context. Of course, I have also been known to either, a) not see, or, b) ignore the red underscore indicating that the word is just spelled wrong.

Ah, the imperfection of it all!

Which brings me (at last) to the subject of today's blog: a Japanese philosophy called "wabi-sabi." Basically, the concept of wabi-sabi is that all things are impermanent, imperfect, and unfinished. According to Andrew Juniper, in his book Wabi-Sabi: The Japanese Art of Impermanence:

It is an expression of the beauty that lies in the brief transition between the coming and going of life, both the joy and melancholy, that make up our lot as humans...If an object or expression can bring about, within us, a sense of serene melancholy and a spiritual longing, then that object could be said to be wabi-sabi.

When we include this concept of wabi-sabi in our daily life, we can accomplish three things. First, we can cut ourselves some slack for being human. Embracing wabi-sabi means acknowledging that we are a work-in-progress that will never be finished, will always be imperfect, and will not last forever. It gives us a little breathing room, and allows a little space between "what is" and "how I'd like it to be."

Second, it provides another way to open the tight, clinging fist that constricts us, keeps us trapped in old, outmoded habits of mind, and leads to more suffering. Wabi-sabi can be a reminder that, as my wife and dharma companion Kathy has said, "It's hard give or receive with a closed hand."

And third, it can help us get on with our lives when we feel stuck. A friend of mine could not seem to start the process of writing his master's thesis because he was terrified that he would fail and that what he wrote would not meet up to his expectations. I reminded him several times that, yes, his first draft probably would be awful, but as the inimitable Anne Lamott wrote in Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, we are all prone to producing "shitty first drafts." She then continues:

All good writers write them. This is how they end up with good second drafts and terrific third drafts...I know some very great writers, writers you love and who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits down routinely feeling wildly enthusiastic and confident. Not one of them writes elegant first drafts. All right, one of them does, but we do not like her very much.

A bonus dividend that wabi-sabi offers us is the ability to catch, perhaps for just a moment, how precious, rare, and miraculous being alive really is. Far from offering a depressing or negative view of things, this kind of world view can help us become more at ease with the natural ebb and flow of life, just as it is.

Now I will go and try to make this piece as perfect as I can, knowing that it is a thing that is essentially imperfect, unfinished, and impermanent. While I do this, enjoy a nice little Zen story as rendered by Andrew Juniper:

Long ago a man out walking encountered a hungry tiger, which proceded to chase and corner him at the edge of a small precipice. The man jumped to avoid the impending danger and in doing so managed to catch the limb of a tree growing from the small enscarpment. While he hung there he became aware of a second tiger, this one at the foot of the precipice, waiting for him to fall. As his strength began to wane the man noticed a wild strawberry that was growing within his reach. He gently brought it to his lips in the full knowledge that it would be the last thing that he ever ate -- how sweet it was.

Blessings,
Roger

The Sure Heart's Release

There is a very interesting documentary I saw a few years ago called Wheel of Time, directed by Werner Hertzog. It follows the events leading up to the Kalachakra festival in Bodhgaiya, India, the site of the bodhi tree under which the Buddha reached enlightenment. In the film, there is a sequence where a young Mongolian monk purchases several small birds from a street vendor, and after offering a short prayer, releases them into the sky. When Hertzog asked him why he let the birds go, the monk replied, "All the living beings are equal. All creatures have the right to become a Buddha, but to become a Buddha, you have to be free."

How, then, do we become free? How do we let ourselves out of the seductive cages created by our minds that have kept us prisoner for most of our lives? As the monk rightly suggested, all beings have the capacity to awaken, to find their "Buddha within."

A dharma friend of mine, who is a dedicated Zen student, once told me that her practice helps her have more confidence that she will be able to handle the inevitable difficulties in her life. The word confidence is defined as "a feeling or consciousness of one's powers or of reliance on one's circumstances...faith or belief that one will act in a right, proper, or effective way...trustful, certain." This attainment of confidence may be as close as the Buddha ever got to the concept of "faith" as it is understood in other spiritual philosophies. As the Buddha himself said:

The reason for my teaching is not for merit or good deeds or good karma, or concentration, or rapture, or even insight. None of these is the reason that I teach, but the sure heart's release. This and this alone is the reason for the teaching of a Buddha.

Again and again, the Buddha returned to the concept of freedom and liberation as essential for our ability to find some kind of relief - or release - from the suffering of life. Like the Mongolian monk releasing the birds, we must, in some way, release our own captive hearts and minds.

Just before he let the birds go, the monk cradled each one gently in his hands for a moment, said a silent prayer of loving kindness, and then opened his hands to allow them to fly away. This is the answer. This is the way to relieve suffering: opening the grasping, clinging hand, and releasing whatever is holding us in its grip.

Even a cursory reading of the Buddha's teachings shows us that he did not stop experiencing unpleasant things in his life. He was, however, able to receive and accept these experiences, recognize them for what they were, note them with reflective awareness, and allow them to be there, or to pass through. And, like the monk releasing the birds, this process must be moved through with a deep sense of compassion and loving kindness.

In his last days on earth, the Buddha told his beloved disciple, Ananda, "Be a lamp unto yourself." The Buddha was telling Ananda that he, too, has the potential to awaken and be free in any moment of his life.

He was telling all of us.

From the Buddha's words in the Udana:

Just as all the great oceans of the world have but one taste - the taste of salt - so too do all the teachings of the Dharma have but one taste - the taste of freedom.

Blessings,
Roger

Voluntary Simplicity

Over the years that I have been practicing and teaching yoga, I have found a few slogans that have helped me to understand and integrate this practice more fully. One of my favorites I have adapted from Jon Kabat-Zinn: "Do less, so you can do more."

This means that we do not have to push ourselves past a level of comfort and ease in order to experience a deeper practice. I see many students, and teachers as well, who equate depth of practice with the difficulty of practice. I know it is possible to go deeply into the moment-to-moment experience of yoga while doing an extraordinarily vigorous practice, but I also know that this can be a distraction. I have found countless times that the greatest insights and growth can be found while doing the simplest postures.

When we do less, whether in yoga or daily life, we can experience what we do more fully. Here is an excerpt from Wherever You Go, There You Are: Mindfulness Meditation in Everyday Life by Jon Kabat-Zinn (1994, published by Hyperion, New York, pp. 68 - 70):

The impulse frequently arises in me to squeeze another this or another that into this moment. Just this phone call, just stopping off here on my way home. Never mind that it might be in the opposite direction.


I like to practice voluntary simplicity to counter such impulses and make sure nourishment comes at a deep level. It involves intentionally doing only one thing at a time and making sure I am here for it...Voluntary simplicity means going fewer places in one day rather than more, seeing less so I can see more, doing less so I can do more, acquiring less so I can have more...Within the organized chaos and complexity of family life and work, with all their demands and responsibilities, frustrations and unsurpassed gifts, there is ample opportunity for choosing simplicity in small ways.


Slowing everything down is a big part of this. Telling my mind and body to stay put with my daughter rather than answering the phone, not reacting to inner impulses to call someone who "needs calling" right in that moment, choosing not to acquire new things on impulse, or even to automatically answer the siren call of magazines or television or movies on the first ring are all ways to simplify one's life a little...


A commitment to simplicity in the midst of the world is a delicate balancing act. It is always in need of retuning, further inquiry, attention. But I find the notion of voluntary simplicity keeps me mindful of what is important, of an ecology of mind and body and world in which everything is interconnected and every choice has far-reaching consequences. You don't get to control it all. But choosing simplicity whenever possible adds to life an element of deepest freedom which so easily eludes us, and many opportunities to discover that less may actually be more.

Blessings,
Roger

Nothing To Do, Nowhere To Go, No One To Be

Part 3: No One To Be

(This is the final installment of a series of commentaries on the statement, "We have nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no one to be," given by Mary Orr during a retreat at Spirit Rock Meditation Center in 2001. In today's blog, I'll be discussing its final component.)

As with the other two parts of this teaching, the concept of "no one to be" centers primarily on the paradox of non-doing. For most of us, our life is spent being someone, rather than simply being. For me, this includes being a father, being a husband, being a teacher, and being a therapist, and I take a lot of pride in who I have "become." But these labels are merely the process of my becoming, and not who I actually am. If I am anything, it is the collection of interdependent causes and conditions that gave rise to the being that exists here today.

The Buddha said that when a concept of I, me, or mine presents itself (as in my exampes above), suffering will follow. This sense of self leads to clinging (such as the pride I feel about who I have become) and aversion, which can give rise to unpleasant experiences (such as fear of losing any of the things I have become). This small sense of self, what the Buddha called "the body of fear," exists only as thoughts that come and go and change constantly.

We can see this perpetual ebbing and flowing of the sense of I, me, and mine - of a "someone" - in our meditation practice. As we do this, we can just allow these experiences and events to be, without needing to change or fix them. Nor do we have to get rid of them. I don't see this process as one of trying to extinguish our sense of self, but rather of becoming more aware of when that someone we think we are arises. This kind of awareness may offer us the opportunity to make better, more effective choices in how we respond to people and situations.

During the retreat that Mary opened with her words, "You have nothing to do, nowhere to go, and nothing to be," I remember a specific walking meditation during which I contemplated these ideas. I suddenly saw myself standing behind a building facade, like the kind you might find on a movie backlot, and holding it up with both hands. It was a dirty, dilapidated storefront, nearly rotting from exposure to the elements. But there I was, using all my strength to keep this ratty old thing propped up. Then, I experimented with letting go of it, and just allowing the facade to drop away. In that moment, I felt a bit of nirvana - the cessation of suffering.

Stoking the fires of "being someone" is hard work. What Mary was offering us on that retreat was the chance to take ourselves off the hook. She was suggesting a possible new way of using our energy more skillfully, and not wasting it on maintaining the constant effort of having to do something, go somewhere, and be someone. Paradoxically, what we find when we experiment with these concepts is that life can flow a little bit easier, the weight can feel a little bit lighter, and we can be more authentically who we really are.

From Nisargadata Maharaj:

Wisdom tells me I am nothing.
Love tells me I am everything.
Between the two my life flows.

Blessings,
Roger

Nothing To Do, Nowhere To Go, No One To Be

Part 2: Nowhere To Go

Yesterday I mentioned that Dharma Teacher Mary Orr had once opened a retreat at Spirit Rock by telling us, "For the next ten days you have nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no one to be." Today, I will continue to exploration of this teaching from my perspective of its second component.

When I am leading a class or retreat, I often begin by reminding the participants that we are not trying to get anywhere in our practice. It is always good to remember that we are not trying to reach any special states or feelings, and we are not trying to attain any particular goals. Vipassana meditation is the art of consciously arriving in each moment, and knowing that experience as fully as possible.

The truth is that we are always arriving in the present moment, whether we are conscious of it or not. The Venerable Thich Nhat Hahn has often said, "There is no coming or going, but only arriving." So if there is a goal in this practice, it is to arrive as completely as possible in the here and now.

We can directly experience this arriving through the feeling of each breath as it comes and goes; feeling the air as it gently rubs up against the inside of the nose. This kind of physical contact with a present-moment experience entices the mind to collect and gather in the present moment. In doing so, we can disengage from the thinking mind that is always pulling us into a fantasy of the future or a memory of the past.

Why would this present-moment awareness be a useful thing to cultivate? First of all, because this is the only real moment we have in which to be alive, and to know that we are alive. Another reason is that, when we are connected with the present-moment reality, and disengaged from the thoughts created by the mind, we might be able to see that these thoughts have no reality whatsoever, except as thoughts. This way, we do not feel so trapped into believing our own thoughts, and in turn, this kind of awareness can lead to a reduction of suffering.

A very dynamic and visceral way of experiencing the feeling of arriving is through walking meditation. In this practice, we are intentionally not trying to get anywhere, and we are not trying to get from "here" to "there." We walk very slowly, feeling the shifting of weight from one leg to another, then feeling the lifting of one foot, and finally the placing of that foot in front of us. We are tuned in to the initricate sensations that accompany each step in full understanding that the point of all this is to arrive "here" over and over again. In fact, each step is an expression of "here."

In your daily life, you can become more attuned to this concept of arriving in each moment. Simply remember that everywhere you go is just "here," and when you get to your imagined goal of "there," you will still only be "here." Don't worry. You'll still get somewhere, but the journey may be a bit more interesting.

Lost, by David Wagoner:

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

Blessings,
Roger

Nothing To Do, Nowhere To Go, No One To Be

Part 1: Nothing To Do

At the opening of a retreat in 2001, Dharma Teacher Mary Orr told us, "For the next ten days you have nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no one to be." This instruction can be useful, not just during a long retreat, but in our daily meditation practice, as well.

In our daily life, we are rarely "human beings," but more often we are "humans doing." Getting things done is what gets rewarded and honored in our culture, and multitasking is the gold standard.

In vipassana meditation, on the other hand, the first instruction in to come to rest in the body. This can cause feelings of guilt to arise. "How can I justify sitting for half an hour or more doing nothing?" Perhaps it would be helpful to understand that, according Jon Kabat-Zinn, practicing meditation "is not synonymous with doing nothing." In truth, it can be very hard work. When we meditate, we are putting into action the conscious intention of stepping out of the "automatic pilot" existence of daily life. "It reeks of paradox," Kabat-Zinn continues. "The only way you can do anything of value is to have the effort come out of non-doing and to let go of caring whether it will be of use or not. Otherwise, self-involvement and greediness can sneak in and distort your relationship to the work or the work itself."

In your meditation practice, and as much as you can in daily life, start from a place of simply "being." Try to let the work of mindfulness unfold before you rather than trying to attain some special state or feeling. As best as you can, let go of attachment to the results of the practice, and just let it be. You may find that this kind of starting point will help you to see that, first of all, this moment is complete, just as it is. Secondly, you may find that when the doing starts to happen, it will unfold and flow with a bit more ease and relaxation, even if the ending point is not what you imagined.

From a letter to a friend, by Thomas Merton:

Do not depend on the hope of results. You may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and even achieve no result at all, if not perhaps results opposite to what you expect. As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results, but on the value, the rightness, the truth of the work itself.

Blessings,
Roger

A Life Well-Lived

At the beginning of his book, A Path With Heart, Jack Kornfield describes what it means to live a life that is connected to our deepest spiritual nature:

The things that matter most in our lives are not fantastic or grand. They are the moments when we touch one another, when we are there in the most attentive or caring way. This simple and profound intimacy is the love that we all long for...

When we bring full attention to our acts, when we express our love and see the preciousness of life, the quality of goodness in us grows. A simple caring presence can begin to permeate more moments of our life...

In the stress and complexity of our lives, we may forget our deepest intentions. But when people come to the end of their life and look back, the questions that they most often ask are not usually, "How much is in my bank account?" or "How many books did I write?" or "What did I build?" or the like. If you have the privilege of being with a person who is aware...you find the questions such a person asks are very simple: "Did I love well?" "Did I live fully?" "Did I learn to let go?"

Last Sunday afternoon, Kathy and I attended a birthday brunch for one of her oldest and dearest friends. The brunch was hosted by a woman who has been a fixture in the New York and Los Angeles entertainment scene since the early 1950's. After we had eaten, our friend asked the hostess to recount some of the highlights of the last fifty-odd years. "Can you tell us the story of how you met Howard Hughes?" he asked her. Her voice was just barely above a whisper as she told the story, and you could feel the dozen or so people in the room straining to hear every word.

And it started from there. Other names and stories came forth from this petite, vibrant woman, now in her late '70's. There was the story of how her friend, fellow race car driver, and legendary actor, James Dean, was planning to rendezvous with her later on the same day that he would die in an auto accident. How she had befriended Jim Morrison of the Doors, who would call her from all over the world to get her opinion on his latest poetry.

Other names from a golden age of entertainment came and went; Frank Sinatra, Marlon Brando, and Johnny Carson, among them. Most moving of all, however, were the memories of her dearest friend and lifelong companion, author Truman Capote, who lived with her when he was in Los Angeles, and who literally died in her arms.

Our hostess was crying, now, along with nearly everyone in the room. She has not told these stories to a lot of people, but felt safe with this group, even though she had never met some of us, including Kathy or me.

Her stories were not just a litany of famous people. Each one carried with it a sense of open-hearted love and devotion. It was not the name or position of the person that mattered, it was the quality of the relationship to that person that was most important.

When she was done, she announced between dabbing her eyes with a tissue, "And now, we'll have a little birthday cake and open presents!" After she'd left the room to attend to these matters, I turned to Kathy. We looked at each other with expressions of amazement, and through eyes brimming with tears, and realized that we had been holding our breath. "That," Kathy pronounced as she finally exhaled, "Is a life well-lived."

From the last fragment of the last poem by Raymond Carver:

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

Blessings,
Roger