I’ve experienced a few losses over the past couple of months. Several people I know have as well. And not just through loved ones passing away, but also loss in relationships, loss of job, loss of functioning, loss of power, loss of a sense of security. If one sits back and takes in a wider view of things, loss in one form or another is happening all the time, in a multitude of  ways. Just yesterday evening I was talking with someone about a loss she was going through, and in our conversation impermanence came up – since it’s one of the three marks of existence according to Buddhist thought, it’s a common theme that arises within the circles I travel among. It naturally comes up elsewhere as well, especially in connection to loss, and in such cases people generally take impermanence to mean nothing lasts and everything comes to an end. However, this is somewhat inaccurate and not wholly what impermanence means. While it’s true that nothing lasts, it’s also true that nothing ever comes to an end.
 
I’ll pick that thought back up shortly. First, I want to mention an article that a friend of a friend posted during these past months. The topic of the article was impermanence and the emphasis was on the nothing lasts, everything ends aspect. I found it to be painfully unhelpful. The author’s fundamental point was that we should understand and embrace this, and a result we should embrace life more fully and get the most out of it because we don’t know how long we are going to be around to experience it. The sense I got was that the author was speaking more out of theory rather than as someone who had directly and deeply been confronted with the reality of impermanence; perhaps he had felt inklings of it as it approached then came up with a strategy to keep it at bay, as such things can be unsettling. It wasn’t that he hadn’t experienced loss and hardship and any of the various other difficulties that come with living, but rather that he used his understanding of impermanence as a buffer between himself and life; he may indeed have been experiencing life more fully, yet it seemed he wasn’t allowing himself to be affected by it as deeply and directly. It had a subtle flavor of me-versus-the-world with a tinge of manipulation and how to manage life’s experiences in order to better serve oneself. A truly disastrous approach, in my opinion and experience.
 
The core meaning of impermanence is that things are always changing, and everything is in a continual state of transformation. Yes, loss is one aspect of and within this wider, longer arc of endless transformation, but it’s not the only aspect. That arc also includes gain: at one moment not having something, in the next moment having it. Impermanence speaks to the fact that in life, in existence itself, there is birth and there is death; there is arrival and there is departure; there is arising, there is abiding, there is falling away. We can switch up the order these and still speak to the truth of matters: because there is death, something new can be born; because something departs, the way is cleared for something else to arrive; though something has been abiding steadily for a long time and become quite familiar, it eventually falls away, and within the very space it inhabited something fresh arises and abides for its particular duration. What this clarifies and illuminates is impermanence means nothing lasts and everything comes to an end is redundant statement (nothing lasts = everything ends) and an expression of partial understanding – to complete it, to make it more whole, we must add and nothing ever ends.
 
As we venture into the territory of nothing ends, it’s important to note and consider this: everything is relationship, relationship is everything. In other words, we are constantly in relationship with the world around us and the world within us, and each of those worlds (which are essentially two aspects of one larger world, i.e. existence) themselves are comprised of relationships, those relationships making the world and each of the things in it what they are. Rather than me going on about this more (perhaps I’ll do so some other time), simply connect with how you already understand this through your own experience, or just stop for a moment, reflect upon it now and see what you find. Instead, I’d like to explore how everything is relationship and nothing ends connect to impermanence, specifically through the example of a loved one passing away.
 
There’s no denying that the loss happened and something has ended, yet the relationship continues on, via memories and emotions connected to that person, and via what we go through in connection to their passing away. And even though the person is no longer actively contributing new memories and emotions to the field of the relationship, the relationship remains lively and dynamic. For instance, an old memory of a loved one brings up new joys, present and palpable. Or new sorrows and pains come forth, aching within our hearts and our being here and now. In the course of the day, an encounter with a complete stranger can bring up a memory of the person we loved so dearly, and we suddenly find they are right by our side, intimately with us. There’s also the experience of seeing our loved one – someone we were certain we knew very well, inside and out – in a completely different light as time goes by and we learn about and even from them, our view no longer limited to or constricted by the particular dynamic that arose time and time again whenever we were together. So though the loss happened, the relationship never ends, and we get know the other person and ourselves more and more over time; the relationship with our departed loved one never ends, it simply keeps changing. And since everything is relationship, essentially nothing ever ends. Ever. It all simply keeps transforming.
 
Since this is so, impermanence and its ever-changing never-ending nature certainly doesn’t apply only to the loss of a loved one –  it applies to everything all the time. To illustrate this, I’ll make a big leap to something else: The Civil War. This event is in the past, has finite dates indicating its beginning and its end, so it is clearly over and no longer happening. Yet, because I mention “The Civil War” you think of it and what it means to you, and voila! – it’s right here. And though it isn’t actively happening, we can read about its history and accounts of the battles that comprise it – and some people even re-enact it – all of which brings its happening back to life in some way. Even if we’re not looking into it directly or even thinking about it, the reverberations of what happened and the reasons it happened continue to flow through our lives today. And at risk of belaboring the point – and in light of a recent happening – someone can inaccurately remember and proclaim something about The Civil War, and that current happening in some way gets woven into the history that we thought was set and finite, people now finding it’s important to emphasize something that didn’t need much emphasizing previously: Andrew Jackson died 15 years before The Civil War even began.
 
To return to the essential and overall point, impermanence is not only about the fact that things come to an end. Impermanence is a long arc of continual and unavoidable transformation, within which there are endings and beginnings, and these beginnings and endings and everything between and beyond them are constantly changing. Witnessing and understanding impermanence in this way isn’t so we can uphold a certain view or manage our expectations. It’s quite the opposite, actually. Instead of spending time and energy manipulating things and managing perceptions and expectations, our time and energy are freed from such projects. As a result, we can better accept ourselves and the world as we are in this particular moment, and can more easily invest our time and energy here. This makes it possible for us to more fully meet and be with life and the things that comprise it as they arise and as they fall away, and to abide more deeply and intimately with what is at any given moment. This also allows us to more effectively fulfill our obligation to life and to collaborate with it, doing our part in contributing to and co-creating what is to come, finding our place amongst the endless transformations of existence.
 
Another way of stating what is expressed toward the end of the previous paragraph is “Not asking things (including myself) to be other than what they are at the moment, then responding more fully and effectively from that place to contribute to what they will become.” To illustrate this, and to end things on more of an ordinary, everyday, feet-upon-the-ground note:
 
A few years back, there was a series of nights during which our son woke up because of having bad dreams. He would call out “Papa!” and I’d respond, going to him and checking in, encouraging him totry going back to sleep…and he’d end up in our bed. On the third night…
 
“Papa! I had a bad dream.”
 
Me, doing the just-woken-up stagger/stumble and speaking grumpily from the still-partially-asleep mind, “Dangit! This is the third night in a row and I’m not getting good sleep and why don’t you just stay in bed and try to go back to sleep instead of calling me? What’s going on?”
 
Him, matter-of-factly and calmly, cutting right through it all, “It’s just the way things are these days.”
 
“Yeah. Hmm. C’mon to bed.”
​

Don’t settle for your own happiness
 
This phrase has been keeping company with me of late, and I’ve offered it to others as well, to consider, ponder, explore, be befuddled by. Because while there is something that intuitively makes sense here, there’s also a “huh?” factor. I've found myself inclined to unwrap it a bit and look into the territory more thoroughly, so thought I’d exploring three main aspects to which it speaks and share what is being brought forth and revealed.
 
Your Own
 
This is the first thing that jumps out for me and justifiably so: it’s the primary place from and through which we experience the world – our individual lives, our problems, our plans, our hopes and dreams. Trying to manage and understand these is what regularly brings people to take up a meditation practice: we want to reduce stress, learn to relax, be present, find peace, deal with our lives more effectively, and more. Meditation is often packaged as something that can deliver these desired results, and this isn’t false advertising – it can certainly make good on all of these. The issue here isn’t the meditation, it’s taking up such a practice in service of the self, or in a self-serving way, which is where the your own of the above phrase comes in.
 
Your is such a limited, confined territory, yet within it there are limitless projects that can be taken up. Resolve one issue and up pops another, or perhaps when trying to tackle one problem it splits and multiplies instead. Backward and forward and round and round we go: the self-improvement project perpetually providing fuel for itself to continue on and on. And it doesn’t matter if we feel like we’re getting nowhere or if we achieve some level of success in managing all of this; the cycle keeps rolling along, which leads to another aspect of that opening phrase.
 
Settle
 
There are two qualities to settle that I notice here, and the first is in the sense of settling into something, like a home or one’s particular place. I’m thinking along the lines of when we’re successful at managing our lives – we’ve lowered the stress, are finding peace, feel increasingly present and effective – and we set up camp there. In doing so we’re setting up a territory that needs to be maintained, protected and even defended at times. We want to hold onto and nourish all the good we’ve worked for and developed, so we have to be wary of that which may challenge and threaten it, lest it should be diminished, lost or taken from us. To some degree we build walls around that which we value in order to preserve it, and in doing so we can end up closing ourselves in and cutting off connections and access to other possibilities.
 
This leads to the other quality of settle, which is in the sense of things being good enough that we’re willing to quit while we’re ahead and cash in our chips. While we know there could be (is) more out there awaiting us, we’re not certain of how or when or if we’ll find it, so we choose to stop and hold on to what we’ve got. Why risk losing it? Or maybe it doesn’t feel risky at all. We’ve checked off all of the boxes on the list and have arrived, perfectly content, so we hang up our traveling shoes and leave our searching and seeking days behind us because, well, what more could we ask for? We’re happy.
 
Happiness
 
You may have noticed a common thread of "limited territory" running through this post. Happiness is another example of such a territory. It’s limited by what we think it means and how to get to it, and what life will be like and how we’ll feel when we do. We’ve inherited some ideas about happiness from our families, other ideas have been given to us by our society and culture, and others we’ve developed on our own as we’ve made our way along through this life. Regardless of where these ideas of happiness have come from, one thing they have in common is this: it certainly isn’t here. So we have to figure out how to get there, and just like the idea of what happiness is, we also inherit ideas about how to reach happiness as well as come up with our own ways to get to it. Such paths are typically made up of a bunch of requirements:  who we must be and what we must accomplish, achieve, develop, possess, get rid of, etc. Sometimes we find the steps on this path seem insurmountable, yet we keep at it nevertheless because of the promise of what awaits us. Other times we may fulfill all of the requirements but still don’t encounter happiness, or at least not the happiness we expected. Thinking our list must have been faulty or incomplete, we add more requirements, devise a new plan, create a new path, and set out upon it. On and on and on.
 
What happens if we reduce, remove or don’t create any requirements at all? What if we let go of the concepts we already have about what happiness is and don’t generate new ones? What if we stop saying it’s not here? (To be clear on that last point, this is not about affirming it is here or this is it, but simply giving up the habit of negation.) Essentially, what if we have no ideas about what happiness is or how to find it or who we have to be to deserve it?
 
In addition to freeing ourselves of requirements and formulas and ways to follow to find happiness, I think happiness itself would enjoy being freed from all the constraints we put upon it. Thus freed, I imagine happiness bounding about like the cows below. Perhaps we can, too.​
 
Don’t limit yourself to your own happiness.
 
Don’t limit yourself.

Don’t limit happiness.

Yesterday evening I participated in a student-teacher ceremony with someone asking me to be their teacher. It is a sweet and simple ceremony, mostly about connecting with one another and exploring what it means to each of us to be and to have a student and a teacher. I always enjoy hearing what it is for others and finding what it is for me as we both inquire into it. Each time there is something new and fresh from both sides, as well as some common currents that run through all such explorations. One thing I find coming up for me again and again is that one of my primary functions as a teacher is to become redundant, to help another come to the point where they don't need a teacher. When that point is reached, however, the relationship doesn't come to an end; it simply continues on as it has all along, for no particular reason, just because, and it's lovely through and through.

​Having recently reconnected with this hope of becoming redundant and finding it still on my mind as I was mowing the yard earlier, I found myself pondering the systems of dependency we have in our lives. There are the external systems: institutions of faith, society, cultures, consumerism, etc. And there are the internal systems that we ourselves build over our lifetimes, becoming our habits of thought, action, perceptions, etc.. Part of a meditation practice is becoming aware of these systems and noticing how some might support us while others might hinder us. Looking into these matters, our relationship to these institutions naturally transform: some drop away by themselves, some we work to dismantle and release, some we allow to be enhanced and fortified. Along with this transformation of the relationship comes a transformation in our dependency upon them, even the helpful ones, and over time we come to realize that we essentially need not depend upon anything.

​That sounds a bit harsh, so to expand upon it, it is to realize there is nothing particular upon which we need to depend; we needn't narrow the field of our options and what is available to us. Not narrowing the field, we find that what we need is always at hand, we are able to meet it fully and directly and access it, receiving support and nourishment. We don't have to hold onto it - it is always here. And if we are holding onto it, dependent upon it, we might miss out on meeting the next thing that comes to us and makes itself available. This calls to mind the adage about needing to use a raft to cross a river. Once the river is crossed, you don't strap the raft to your back and carry it with you - you leave it behind. Perhaps as you enter the path into the trees beyond the river you pick up a walking stick, using it to help you navigate the way ahead. And when it's time to put that down, you do, then move ahead to see what awaits. Journeying along like this, with hands and eyes open, you can trust that what awaits, what you need, will find you. It's already here.

​There's a Zen story about the student of a teacher who died, in which this student one day enters the meditation hall with a spade, walking from side to side, looking all around. His friend was sitting in the meditation hall and asks:
​
​     "What are you doing?"
     "I'm searching for our old teacher's sacred bones."
     "Floods reach the horizon, whitecaps drown the sky. What sort of teacher's 
​     sacred bones are you looking for?"
​     "This is really good; it makes me strong."
​     Later, someone else said, "Our teacher's sacred bones are still here."*

​I've long been curious about and appreciative of the statement "this is really good; it makes me strong." Is he referring to the words that his friend offered, did they snap him out of something and wake him up? Or is he explaining that his activity of searching the hall with spade in hand is simply what he needs to do, and by allowing himself to do it he is fortified? Or is he strengthened by connecting deeply with the feeling of loss and longing for his teacher, by not trying to manage or control those feelings but instead allowing them to spur on this strange behavior? It seems to me it is all of these; they are all in the field of what is happening. By abiding intimately and openly in that field, not rejecting or trying to fix anything, depending upon nothing, he is welcoming what each of these is offering. And it helps.

​To be clear about this "depending upon nothing," it is not about distancing ourselves from life or detaching from it or getting rid of any part of it. Rather, it's quite the opposite. It's about being fully immersed in life and all that comprises it; it's about abiding with the whole of life from our particular place within it; it's about allowing the field to remain vast and broad, not narrowing it down with our selecting and rejecting, welcoming what comes, meeting it and working with it as we must, in deep relationship with existence itself. And through such a relationship, we find that in all places, at all times, across varying circumstances, we always have just what we need, and it carries us through.

​The empty, aching space within your chest at the loss of a loved one - just what you need, carrying you through.

​The flash of angry heat through your body and the thoughts and words that spill out as a result - just what you need, carrying you through.

​The unexpected and un-asked for joy and gratitude that arise when you simply look out upon the day - just what you need, carrying you through.

​The embrace from a friend, the harsh words from a lover, the unencumbered laughter from children playing - just what you need, carrying you through.

​The dripping black heart spray-painted on a trail marker when I was out for a walk, and the bench upon which I sat and rested later - just what I needed, carrying me through.

​The twittering of birds at the feeder, floating into the house as I write this, just what I need, carrying me through, calling me on to what awaits...


​​
​*adapted from Joan Sutherland and John Tarrant's translation of The Blue Cliff Record, Case 55: Daowu and Jianyuan Offer Condolences

Whenever someone joins us for meditation for the first time or I am speaking to a group of people who are relatively unfamiliar with Zen practice, one of the initial things I find myself saying is the practice is not about importing anything or taking on a specific belief system, nor is it about getting rid of anything or discarding a belief system you may already have. It’s about showing up as you are and noticing what it is like to be you. Over the course of time, beliefs that one has (whether based on other religious/spiritual traditions or formed through personal experience or both) tend to loosen up, fade, and fall away, but it is an organic process, not a requirement. There is also a tendency to want to replace the beliefs that have dropped away or been discarded with new, “better” ones –  it seems to just be human nature to want to believe in something. Recognizing this, Zen does not out and out reject belief, it just doesn’t give a person any particular belief to grasp onto, as a way of bringing balance to the tendency to want to believe. In that balance there is an invitation: to live and abide in between, among and beyond belief and non-belief.
 
Throughout the life of my practice, I have been and continue to be curious about this, so essentially I don’t believe what I just wrote – I’m still looking into it. I keep trying to find something that I connect to or uphold as a belief, but I have yet to do so. It’s simply the nature and spirit of the practice: take in what the ancestors teach, come to know it well, see how it informs and affects the living of life, and keep looking into it; notice how I see the world based upon my experiences of it, become aware of my biases and habits of thought and action, see how they inform and affect the living of life, and keep looking into it; notice how life itself shows up, partnering with and filtered through the above, see how it appears to be through the living of it, and keep looking into it. Don’t get me wrong. I certainly have ideas and assumptions about myself and others and the world, yet I recognize them for what they are: ideas and assumptions. At the bottom of it all is an acknowledgement that I don’t know the way things really are.
 
Acknowledging and embracing this not knowing is a significant feature of Zen. Mind you, it is not an aloof, uninterested, shrug-of-the-shoulders approach to life. Quite the contrary. It is a deeply engaged and profoundly curious approach, a willingness to endlessly endeavor to discover what is, released from any expectation or requirement of ever actually finding out. It’s a realistic and pragmatic approach, connecting us with the ever-changing uncertainty of life itself, something to be cultivated, which nourishes us in return.
 
Several years ago during a retreat, looking into this same territory himself, one of my teachers proposed that “meditation is good” could be a core belief in Zen. It’s what he found through his own experience. I found the same through mine. What’s more, the word Zen means meditation and it is the foundation of the practice, so there’s that. I couldn’t disagree, and much to my dismay it appeared he had indeed found a belief in Zen. But I kept looking into it, curious and wondering. It didn’t take too long for things to begin unravelling:
 
Yes, meditation seems to be good, but that depends upon one’s definition of good. Usually it’s something positive, light, enjoyable. What happens in meditation isn’t always good in that sense, though. Sometimes it can be quite challenging, difficult, harrowing even. Yet going through that darker, heavier stuff does tend to be good overall and worthwhile to work through. So in that sense one could say meditation is good. But perhaps saying meditation is beneficial would be better, as that can include both positive and negative happenings. But it’s not always beneficial. It can churn up things that aren’t ready to be churned up, so you might have to take a break from it for a time and maybe seek some additional support. But had you not meditated, that stuff might not have come up, and those were some important issues to address so…meditation is good in that it helps bring up things that might have remained stagnant otherwise. Perhaps I could say meditation helps things happen. But wait…those things are already there and are already happening. Meditation simply allows me to notice what’s going on, by making time to be still, be quiet, pay attention. Ah, that sounds good: meditation helps one notice what is happening. That’s fairly universal and objective, beyond being good or bad or any of that, and something I could say I believe in when it comes to meditation.
 
And yet I would not say such a thing, which points to the crux of the matter: I don’t need to believe that meditation helps me notice what is happening because I experience it directly each time I meditate. Upholding it as a belief begins to solidify what is fluid and dynamic. It could lead me to see it as a given and take it for granted. I might also add value to this belief, promote and protect it, and perhaps even try to convince others of its validity and worth, all of which would serve to disconnect me from the live happening of it to an extent. I’d rather stay connected to that live happening, knowing it for what it is, again and again.
 
To illustrate this from another angle I’ll take up something that is seen as a general tenet (more or less) of Buddhism and Zen: karma. “Certainly, you believe in karma, right?” someone might ask. “Yes and no…heavier on the no,” I’d reply. The yes of it is yes, I believe that there is something called karma. To break it down some, at its root karma means action or activity, more specifically the nature of cause-and-effect, simply meaning when something happens, something else happens as a result. That’s the essence of karma, and where I find there is no need to believe in it. I directly know and experience the happening of cause-and-effect on a daily basis: I flip the switch, the light turns on; I put food in the bowl, cats come eat; clouds clear, the sun comes out, snow melts; someone snaps at me, I snap back…or I take a breath and speak calmly while explaining myself, the person responds a certain way based on how I responded, and on from there we go. Nothing at all to believe in here.
 
The no of it applies more as we enter the realm of good and bad karma, assigning value to it, making it more tangible as an idea, talking about being bound by karma and promoting ideas of how to release ourselves from its grip, assuring ourselves that karma is going to catch up with a certain someone (hopefully sooner than later, and hopefully we’ll be there to witness it). Sure, negative actions tend to have negative consequences and positive actions tend to have positive consequences, but things don’t always work this way. Sometimes I think I am doing good for another and end up creating difficulties, and other times I am certain I have caused harm to another, then that person ends up thanking me. Yes, it is worthwhile to have ideas of what will be helpful and what will be harmful and to let them guide me along, yet it seems more important to pay attention to what effect results from offering what I offer, then to allow that effect to become the cause for what I offer next. Rather than act upon reality based upon a belief of what our actions will cultivate and where they will lead, it seems better to stay connected to the live happening of it (you may be noticing a theme here), and to notice and take part in the continual unfolding of cause-and-effect directly.
 
I’d like to play with the notion of good and bad karma a little more, and show what a tangled web such ideas can weave. I once attended a lecture by a Western scholar of Tibetan Buddhism who was talking on the topic of good and bad karma. Speaking in general terms, he explained that good karma is generated when we do things for others and bad karma is generated when we act primarily for ourselves, the idea being that one can experience liberation by increasing good karma and decreasing bad karma. I wondered, if I am working for others to generate good karma so I can be liberated, would I not then be generating bad karma because I am ultimately working for myself? While the above is a useful formula and practice for being less self-focused and more altruistic, which overall tends to be a good approach to living, to solidify it into a belief of this leading to that takes the life out of it some, stifles it, and in the end it simply does not compute. I’d say liberation comes about by dropping notions of good and bad and the idea that one’s actions are leading anywhere in particular, and instead abiding deeply in the essence of karma/cause-and-effect: offering what you offer, paying attention, noticing the results, responding to them in appropriate measure, offering what you offer as a result, paying attention, responding…
 
I’ve been singling out karma here, but with anything that may be viewed as dogma or a tenet in Zen practice, there is the encouragement to not take it as being true yet don’t dismiss it, either. Inquire into it, be curious, explore and see what arises to meet you. This approach is consistently encouraged, supported and nourished by all the ancestors of this tradition, going back to the historical Buddha. Sure, they left behind teachings and writings and ideas of how things are, but they are offered in the spirit of: This is what I’ve found to be so in my lifetime. Don’t take it to actually be so but please consider it and look into it. Notice your own experience and hold it up to these teachings, and hold these teachings up to your own experience. Notice what reality itself shows you. Invite these teachings, your experience and reality to mingle together, notice how they meet, notice how they diverge. See how it is for you, in your life, in the world in which you are now living, and keep looking.
 
Running beneath these specific examples above, supporting and encouraging such curiosity and inquiry, is the not knowing I mentioned earlier on: a willingness to be uncertain and not attempt to resolve the discomfort that comes with this uncertainty by arriving at an answer, but instead allowing the energy of this discomfort to be motivation for continual exploration. Not knowing is a seminal virtue in Zen. Again, something to be cultivated and nourished and appreciated, as illustrated in this exchange:
 
Dizang asked Fayan, “Where are you going from here?”
Fayan said, “I’m on pilgrimage.”
“What sort of thing is pilgrimage?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not knowing is most intimate.”*
 
And the virtue of not knowing isn’t limited to the realm of Zen or Eastern thought, either. I’m reminded of the Socratic Paradox –  I know one thing: that I know nothing. – and this story that shows it being put into practice:
 
Socrates used to walk around Athens telling his students, “You must know yourselves.”
Someone once asked him, “Do you know yourself?”
Socrates said, “No. But I understand this not-knowing.”**
 
What it comes down to is that it’s simply a more realistic approach to living. There is an openness and fluidity in this not knowing that connects and harmonizes with the openness and fluidity of life. In short, life is uncertain – why not meet it with our own uncertainty, coupled with a deeply engaged curiosity? Not only does this prove useful in our day-to-day doings and beings, it is also useful in the bigger picture of humankind’s steadfast search for (along with veracious claims to have found) the absolute truth.
 
Journeying along throughout the weave of provisional and absolute truth, I need not believe anything offered about myself, the world or existence as a whole, whether it comes through teachings from religious traditions, is reflected by my society and culture, is told to me by family and friends, or is encountered through my personal experience. I need only look into what is before me. If a truth is absolute and eternal, then it will show itself every time I look, so it is not necessary to establish or uphold a belief about it. Likewise, if a truth is provisional (keep in mind, a mountain is just as provisional as a mayfly, it’s simply that their specific manifestations of this provisionality endure for quite different spans of time), it may show up consistently for a while but will eventually change and fade away, so it’s good to keep looking and notice this. On the other hand, if I am holding onto a truth that is provisional, I might miss the truth that is appearing in front of me, or dismiss it because it doesn’t match up to my expectations or what I believe to be true. All in all, what it comes down to is being in touch with the live happening and ever-present manifestation of truth, and not restricting or confining it with ideas and words and what have you.
 
Still, given all this, one may wonder: is there an ultimate, absolute truth? As I see it these days, my response is yes, but we can never know it, and by know I mean define, capture or articulate it. We can’t know it, but we can be it. That’s a sentiment I’m stealing from the Tao Te Ching, one of those texts and teachings that I keep looking into over the years, and that keeps resonating deeply with my experience of living and being in the world. I’ll share the entire verse from which it comes below, which states more succinctly (albeit enigmatically) what I’ve been rattling on about here. In fact, this spirit is woven into the Tao Te Ching as a whole, the text beginning with a statement that anything one can say or know about the Tao is not the Tao, followed by an additional eighty chapters of saying what it isn’t…and not saying what it isn’t.
 
After all, what’s a person to do? We have words and they help convey meaning, so let’s put them to use. While doing so, though, perhaps we can understand this saying and not saying, this knowing and not knowing…and keep looking.
 
Tao Te Ching, Chapter 14
 
Look, and it can't be seen.
Listen, and it can't be heard.
Reach, and it can't be grasped.

Above, it isn't bright.
Below, it isn't dark.
Seamless, unnamable,
it returns to the realm of nothing.
Form that includes all forms,
image without an image,
subtle, beyond all conception.

Approach it and there is no beginning;
follow it and there is no end.
You can't know it, but you can be it,
at ease in your own life.
Just realize where you come from:
this is the essence of wisdom.
 
Stephen Mitchell, trans.
 
 
 
 
*from Acequias & Gates by Joan Sutherland
**from Dropping Ashes on the Buddha by Seung Sahn

 One of the opportunities I have on a regular basis is talking to groups of people who aren't practicing Zen or may not even be familiar with it, which allows me to share my experience of the practice as well as promote understanding among people of differing backgrounds (something which the world will always be in need of, I think). I really love these opportunities, as they invite me to be curious about my own practice, to really look into it and share what I'm finding at the time, and in the process allowing others to get a bit of a grasp of it themselves. Over the past several years that I've been doing this, I've noticed some common misunderstandings and misconceptions about Zen and Buddhism, so I thought I'd begin a series in which I will take up some of these and share my views on them, with the overall intent of contributing to that wider and worthwhile project of understanding one another.

​There are several different Zen/Chan traditions, and many different Buddhisms, and I'm certainly not speaking for all of them (I don't even consider Zen to be Buddhism, so there's that...) - I'm simply speaking from my own experience practicing in the Zen Koan tradition. Nevertheless, you may find that the topics and themes I address apply across these varying traditions, as would be expected. But instead of coming to this is how it is, I'd encourage you to remain curious and ask questions of anyone you meet who is practicing one of the Zens or Buddhisms and find out how it is for them, note the similarities and/or differences, yet still not land on this is how it is, regardless of what you find. (And while we're in the realm of curiosity and questions, if there is something you've been wondering about or something that comes up for you as this series rolls along, please send a note my way and I'll address it as I am able, either directly with you or in a future post.)

​To move more specifically into the topic of this particular post, I'd like to highlight two of the main factors I see as contributing to misunderstandings about Zen and Buddhism. The first has to do with translation, in that the languages of the cultures in which these traditions originated and developed typically had one word or symbol that contained multiple meanings, all of which were implied to an extent when using that word/symbol. In English, though, we tend to like getting down to that one word that can capture and encapsulate the essence of the whole, and in trying to do so a great disservice is done to the ancient traditions of our world and we miss out on a richness that is being offered. These days we are presented with single words and brief phrases concerning the practices and ideas related to Buddhism and Zen (and other traditions, of course), and people either think these words capture the essence and then establish an understanding based on this thinking, or they are put off by them and turn away (i.e. hearing that life is suffering is a central teaching of Buddhism could be discouraging and one says "no thanks," never looking further to find there's much more to this term suffering, as well as noble and truth and even life). So whether a person establishes an understanding or turns away, he is stopping short, missing out on a vast and intricate territory that lies beneath, not realizing that the simple words and brief phrases are not meant to be summaries but rather invitations, serving as gateways for entering that territory and discovering so much more.

​The other main factor that contributes to the misunderstanding of Zen and Buddhism has to do with the template we develop based on our experience and understanding of other major religions (I'm thinking mostly of the Abrahamic traditions, though the sphere could certainly be expanded to include more). When we slide that template from one of these religions to another, it can help us get a general grasp of those other traditions due to the similarities of their basic structure, primarily because they are theistic. There are also many parallels that can be found among their belief systems, since they developed out of this basic structure, as well as parallels in regard to how these beliefs are upheld and put into practice. However, when we slide this template over to Buddhism things begin falling apart right away, mainly because Buddhism is non-theistic and therefore the template just doesn't apply. However, we may understand that Buddhism is non-theistic and still attempt to draw parallels between its teachings and practices and those of other religions since they seem similar in some respects, but those similarities are merely on a surface level. What we find when we go beneath the surface and look at things more thoroughly is that, in addition to being non-theistic, Buddhism in general and Zen in particular are largely agnostic in spirit. Therefore, though the teachings and practices may seem similar to those of other faiths, the relationship to them is quite different. All in all what we are presented with here is another invitation: release the template, don't attempt to make the unfamiliar fit into what we already know but instead set what we know aside, look more directly and freshly at what we are encountering and allow it to speak for itself in its own way.

​Now that the stage is somewhat set and the field has been cleared a bit, I'll focus on the main topic of this post by proposing a question that may naturally arise: If Zen and Buddhism are non-theistic, what is Buddha?

​The word buddha is a title and it means "one who is awake." It has come to refer to the Historical Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, whose story of awakening is widely known of and out of whose experience the many traditions of Buddhism arose. But he wasn't the first buddha, nor was he the last and, by extension, the awakening he experienced wasn't exclusively his - it is an inherent aspect of existence itself and accessible to us all. As such, not only is there the potential for each us to realize our essential nature and become a buddha, we are essentially buddhas from the beginning, through and through. So it is not a matter of taking up the practice of Zen or Buddhism to become something else but instead doing so as a means of returning to and remembering what we fundamentally are, which gets covered up and clouded over as we develop habits of thought and action, being conditioned by experiences and circumstances as we are living a life and trying to make sense of it all. Yet, even though this essential nature gets covered up and can feel so very far away or nowhere at all, it never really goes anywhere, just as behind the clouds and rain and snow storms the sun and moon and stars continue to shine.

​Okay. So there's that, and it makes sense enough (hopefully). But what about the statue of Buddha and other figures on an altar, before which people sit in meditation, and to which they bow and offer incense. What's going on there?

​Those statues are simply symbols, reminders, if you will, of our inherent nature. Old Sid has come to symbolize awakening because, you know, that was his big thing. What I appreciate about him as a central figure on the altar is, as we know by his story, he was a human through and through just as we are, and we can (and do) awaken just as he did. So the reminder and encouragement is: awakening is possible, and it's possible for you to realize. Other figures that adorn altars symbolize wisdom, compassion, action, intention and more. When I have difficulty connecting with these things within myself, sometimes it's good to have a symbol as a reminder that these qualities are still present, regardless. (Personally, I most often relate to these statues and figurines as pieces of art, and have long felt an affinity toward and appreciation of their aesthetic.) Bowing, offering incense and meditation are ways to connect with and honor these inherent qualities of being as well as an expression of gratitude for there being a path to walk and a practice to embody, and gratitude for those who came before us, showing that awakening is possible. And while I hope it is clear already, I want to emphasize that there is no worship happening here, no asking of or relying upon something or someone outside of us to change us or help us or save us. Which understandably leads to another point of confusion.

​If Zen and Buddhism are non-theistic and worship isn't an aspect of practice, what is the focus of one's practice? This quote from writer Heather King wonderfully expresses the assumption that comes out of this confusion: "Without belief in a power beyond ourselves, we have no reference point but ourselves." I'm really grateful to have come across her words because this statement includes the two central elements that are the source of the confusion, and because encountering her words helped me clarify my own experience. I cannot disagree with the logic and rationality of her statement, but it absolutely misses the mark when put to use as a critique of Buddhism. Of course, there are other people I've come across who have made similar statements, but this one really sums up the gist of them all. Okay, so now to unpack it a bit.

​One of the central teachings of Buddhism is that there is no self - a good example of one of those simple statements beneath which there is a vast territory. This does not mean I do not exist. It means I do not exist as a separate entity; I am not disconnected from reality and life around me; it is part of me, I am part of it, inexorably. Thinking I am a solid, separate entity is a delusion (a common one for us humans), and when living and acting from the place of this delusion, Ms. King's statement is entirely valid and accurate. But as I nourish this delusion and walk it around, I notice that my actions, thoughts, and beings affect others, and vice-versa. Making my way along, noticing and experiencing and exploring this dynamic further, that solid, separate sense of self crumbles and dissolves more and more, and I can come to realize that the essence of all that is is me, and I am the essence of all that is. The Zen teacher Bernie Glassman suggests (and I've been borrowing this notion of his for a while now, so I concur) the goal that Zen practice has for us, what it is offering and encouraging, is for us to have a direct experience of this essence and know it for ourselves (or our non-selves). Once this happens it can't unhappen, and it fundamentally changes the way we live and experience life.

​From this place of being and knowing (not with the intellect, but deeply), I'd like to return to Ms. King's statement and the part about not believing in a power greater than myself (which is what her words helped clarify). There is in fact ​something greater than myself with which I connect and which serves as my reference point: reality, life itself. And it's not a matter of belief - I see it, feel it, know it everyday, through the people and places in my immediate environment; in the expansive and expanding world around me and within me; and off into the cosmos, among the distance stars and planets, through the galaxies upon galaxies unfurling endlessly, beyond me and within me. All of it is that which is greater than me, yet at the same time it is not outside of myself; it is powerful, and I can rely upon it and receive help from it; it is this reality I wish to serve and to which I wish to remain faithful; it is my reference point, nourishing and guiding me along while I offer nourishment and guidance to it in return. So my focus is not on this limited and localized self through which I experience the world but rather the larger body of reality of which I am a part, which I can essentially and equally call myself. And from this understanding of Buddhist practice, King's statement is completely valid: because there is no self apart from existence and reality, it's impossible to have a reference point outside of ourselves.

To wrap things up, I'll bring in a few stories from the Zen tradition that speak to the territory I've been wandering through here. What I truly appreciate about these (and many others) is that they're really good at countering the human tendencies we have to define things, to exalt certain things and lower others, to separate things out and to separate ourselves from them, to discount ourselves and our experience, making something small and confining out of an existence that is vast and boundless. These stories tend to be short and sweet, yet they are very rich and offer much, inviting us into that expansive territory that lies beneath our thinkings and doings and beings.
​
​First, a common question people have asked throughout the centuries in the Zen/Chan tradition is, "What is Buddha?", meaning what is the essence, what is awakening? Here are a few responses that have been offered:

​  -This very mind is Buddha.
​  -Not mind, not Buddha.
  -Three pounds of flax.
​  And a personal favorite - A dry piece of shit.

​Another someone asked, "What is the Dao?" (same general meaning as What is Buddha?) and someone replied, "Ordinary mind is the Dao."

​  A student asked a teacher: "What are the words that save the buddhas and go beyond the ancestors?"
  The teacher replied, "Cake."

​  A person who was grief-stricken sought out a teacher for help and asked: "What is Zen?"
  "The heart of the one who asks is Zen; you can't get it from someone else's words."

​Some words from Linji:

​  "Buddha is not the object of our search; do not make Buddha your ideal aim. Do not make Buddha a reality outside yourself. The image we have inside our head of the Buddha is not the Buddha. Such a Buddha is a shadow, a ghost, called Ghost Buddha, who can suck up your soul. That's why when we meet Ghost Buddha, we should cut off Ghost Buddha's head."

​(The final two selections are excerpts from Acequias & Gates by Joan Sutherland; the other selections can be found in various koan collections.)

​And to close, a selection from the Daoist classic Zhuangzi:

  Dongguo asked Zhuangzi: "This thing called the Dao - where does it exist?"
  Zhuangzi replied, "There is no place it does not exist."
​  "C'mon," said Dongguo, "You can be more specific!"
​  "It is in the ant."
  "Whoa...that is a low and humble thing."
​  "It is in the weeds."
​  "That is even lower!"
​  "It is in the tiles and broken shards."
​  "How can it be so small and insignificant?"
​  "It's in the piss and shit."

     Baizhang asked, "What is the crucial thing about this practice?"
     Great Ancestor Ma replied, "It's just the place where you let go of your body and your life."

A few hours ago I gathered up the dedications that had been placed on the altar of the Vast Refuge Sangha at the cadet chapel over the past month, as I do each month at the time of the full moon. The dedications come from members of the community as well as visitors who are just passing through. It's always interesting and touching to read the wide array of what is offered, people sharing what is most in their hearts and on their minds: my grandpa; Marcus; Misty & Britt; Paris; for Mom; Karim Ahmed, Motaz Ahmed; all my loved ones & family; peace in Syria; my hopes & dreams, fulfill my potential; my dad; Beirut; for Ribs, my dead cat; Nadia Thompson :-( ; my whole family. There are also dedications in handwriting I can't read and languages I don't know, and it doesn't matter. The altar welcomes whatever comes, not requiring it to be anything other that what it is, not needing to know its story or where it is hoped things will go from here - simply receiving, holding, present, abiding. Welcoming, welcoming, welcoming...

My life feels like it is always such an altar, open to receive and welcome whatever the world places upon it, meeting, holding and abiding with these things, wondering what it may be able to offer and how it can help. In these particularly tumultuous and challenging times of late, though, the poignancy and importance of this altar-life comes to bear, mostly through noticing the desire to close it off due to the pain and sorrow brought by the things that are landing on it these days. Yet deep down I know this is not the route to take, I know before I can offer what is needed and help with the transformation of it I must welcome, receive, and attend to what is coming to meet me. I am curious about the stories that come along with these things and wonder about what each of them is wanting and hoping for, yet ultimately I'm not too interested in these specifics or trying to figure out or satisfy each of them. I'm more interested in being like that altar which provides a space for all of these things to exist side-by-side, none of them more or less important than the other, gathering them all together and moving into what is next without rejecting any.

This is what I find myself grateful for on this Thanksgiving Eve: this complex, complicated, astounding, devastating, wondrous, beautiful, impossible life, and for the living of it. My heart is heavy and my mind is weary, and at the same time they are imbued with the brightness of joy and love, and in this there is no conflict but rather a sense of completeness, for this is what it means to be alive. I find that I can trust this, and a sense of gratitude arises, not contingent upon or connected to anything in particular. It just is. Being in this gratitude, things remain just as complicated and impossible as before. I still don't know where things are going and how they'll end up, and I don't have any strong ideas of how to navigate my way through it all. But I'm showing up for it, and I'm taking part in it, and I'm giving myself to the transformation of what is now into what is next and beyond, endlessly.

As I do with the dedications that come along each month, I'll soon head out to offer them up in flames under the full moon, shining brightly. The now-empty altar will become full again, and the cycle of welcoming and receiving and offering continues along, just as the moon continues along in its own way, from full to dark to full again - letting go of all it has become to be the living of all that it is.