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.

​​Earlier today I walked out to a path near our home and sat on a bench for a little while. Though it was a sunny day with a clear blue sky, swift winds were blowing through steadily, making things chilly and crisp. I purposefully set out with little protection – no hat, no gloves, a modest button-up shirt – so I could be in and feel the day more fully. Thanks to the sun, most of the snow from yesterday’s storm was gone, although a bit of it remained in areas the sun had yet to or simply couldn’t reach ( I was also aware that this just is how it was in my small corner of the world, knowing [and later seeing for myself] that not too far away the snow still dominates the landscape, much deeper, being melted ever so slowly but steadily). When the winds were calm I enjoyed the warmth and comfort it offered. Even when the gusts picked up the warmth could still be felt, but it was certainly diminished by the bitter, biting cold. And even when I couldn’t feel it, I could see it shining in the dry grasses whipping around and in the glow of golden leaves tumbling by. I got chilled and at times a shiver or two came over me, and my hands and ears, being exposed, became particularly icy. As I was sitting there, abiding and observing, a homeless couple came by, asking for help. From what I had on hand, I kept just what I needed for myself and gave the rest away. During those brief moments there was no awareness of the sun and the wind and my cold hands, just the activity of meeting and talking and offering.
 
This is very much how I have been feeling these past days in the wake of the storms that are the attacks on Paris, Beirut, Bagdad and other places yet to be (if ever) known. Being with what remains in their aftermath, I’m choosing to insulate myself as little as possible with my opinions or explanations or judgments, my heart-mind as open and vulnerable as I can allow. In this, I am buffeted and battered from many directions by gusts and gales fueled by ignorance, hatred, fear, anger, stinginess, prejudice, confusion, certainty, leaving me cold, chilled and weary. There are also times of calm and warmth, people offering words and stories of encouragement, understanding, reason, clarity, insight, infused with humanity and love. Throughout it all the sun still shines, providing warmth and comfort when those gusts subside; being noticed, albeit momentarily, when catching a glimpse of a golden leaf tumbling by in those fierce winds that quickly obscure it; remaining intact despite the storms that roll through. And throughout it all I’m giving what I can, which is mostly listening, presence, attention, a conversation here and there, wondering, looking, not turning away, waiting to see what is needed, ready to offer what I am able.
 
Now the sun is setting, the cold is growing, the day is turning to night and different light will shine in that same clear sky, some of it reflected, some of it sparkling and clear. And tomorrow the sun will come again, making its long, slow arc from horizon to horizon. There may be less wind, there may be more; additional storms will certainly come, and there will be days without a single cloud in the sky. Regardless, behind, throughout and beyond it all, that same sun will be shining and offering its warmth, generously and impartially. I wish to be in it, I wish to nourish and share it, I wish to shine and to receive the shining all around, so that all may know this warmth, comfort and peace.
 
As happens quite often, today my "Little Zen Calendar" offers words that seem so strikingly apropos:
 
“You take it all in. You let the pain of the world touch your heart and you turn it into compassion.” Gyalwa Karmapa
 
Reflecting on this quote, a question seems to naturally arise: “How do I turn it into compassion?” And a response I find arising just as naturally is: “Taking it all in is how you turn it into compassion.” There is more to this than just circular reasoning, and it is not at all advocating a passive stance of acceptance as a way of dealing with things. At the heart of it is the activity of unselfing, and I see this happening in two ways.
 
The first way is in the realm of how we try to protect our hearts. For some people or in certain situations, the choice is not to let anything in, regardless of whether it is beneficial or harmful, knowing that doing so leaves us vulnerable and open to risk, a choice likely rooted in past experiences of pain and heartache. A more typical and widely-practiced approach is to only open our hearts to the positive, those things that bring us joy and happiness and nourishment, avoiding the negative, darker, heavier things that could disrupt our sense of peace and calm. It’s a perfectly reasonable and natural approach to take and certainly seems healthy overall, but when you look more closely, it’s fundamentally about excluding a significant portion of life and the world as a whole. All in all, no matter how we endeavor to protect our hearts, doing so is essentially a self-focused project that develops and maintains a limited territory, out of which can only come limited compassion. “Taking it all in” moves us beyond this territory, relinquishing its boundaries and constraints, widening the focus and reach of our hearts, and furthers the unselfing that leads to compassionate action.
 
Relinquishing the limited territory of our individual hearts transforms the central question of a compassionate response from “What can I do?” to “What is needed and how can I help?” The difference may seem slight, yet it is also quite profound. The former question focuses too much on me and places the responsibility more squarely on my shoulders, whereas the latter puts the focus outside of myself and shifts me into a relationship of partnering with as opposed to trying to fix something. From there I begin to realize it’s not up to me alone to figure out what to do, and I can release the anxiety, pressure and self-concern of trying to get it right with the appropriate measure of compassion. This partnering has a call-and-response quality to it, asking me to simply show up and be available, making it possible for compassionate action to emerge of itself from this place of being receptive and listening and responding; letting go of self-concern frees up my energy and broadens my view, enabling me to be more intimately connected with and responsive to the whole of life. By not restricting or being selective about what I allow to touch my heart, not only do I discover I have an infinite capacity to hold in it whatever I meet, I also find that I have limitless resources to depend upon and access, and I can let compassion itself lead me along without trying to harness and control it.
 
“Taking it all in” also addresses those poisonous winds I mentioned above. It doesn’t matter what side I take, what my politics are, where I align myself spiritually – wherever I find myself along these and other spectrums, adhering strongly to my beliefs and ideas and opinions limits my scope of and connection to reality. I may say: “I listen to the other side of things, I take it all in, I’m open to other people's views and ways of life,” when in actuality everything is passing through pre-established filters for the most part, sorted and judged, then accepted or rejected. To truly take it all in, one must become aware of the filters, the biases, the tendencies that he or she has developed and fortified over the course of time and experience, then be willing to hold them loosely, set them aside and step forward to meet the world as it is, face-to-face. To do so is to have a willingness to be vulnerable and uncertain, to encounter the unknown and the unknowable, and to keep making your way along, eyes and heart open. Yes, it can be frightening and unsettling and discomforting, and yet it seems so very essential. It calls to mind one of my favorite quotes:
 
“People wish to be settled; only as far as they are unsettled is there any hope for them.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson
 
In one of those conversations I had, a friend asked: “How are you keeping your peace in all of this?” I considered it for a few moments and found myself replying: “I’m not. All of this is my peace.” It was one of those wonderful moments of saying something before knowing what I meant, then getting to be curious about it. First off, I realized I didn’t have any thought of “my peace” before the question was asked, and that even now there is no such thought. Considering it further, I see that I am not creating and upholding a peace that is separate or disconnected from what is, nor am I insisting on it feeling, looking or behaving a certain way, nor am I trying to hold it still or keep it unstained. It is a peace made of a willingness to be buffeted and battered by the winds, to be cold, chilled and weary; a willingness to receive the generous warmth of the shining sun, to feel comforted, encouraged and enlivened; a willingness to show up again and again, exposed and vulnerable, stepping into life; a willingness to trust the unknown and being uncertain, to reach out a hand and collaborate with the whole of life, co-creating what is to come.
 
To bring this post to a close so I can step more fully into the life of this day, I offer this:
 
May we be unsettled. May we be uncertain. May we hold loosely what has been and what should be, leaning more fully into and moving forward with what is. May we not try so much to be compassionate as to be compassion. May we be less and less ourselves, and ever increasingly who we are as we journey along together.

​I often hear or come across the practice of Zen summed up as “being fully present, here and now.” I don’t disagree with this and myself say things along similar lines from time to time, emphasizing that the reason one practices Zen is not to get away from the world but to be more fully in it, to engage and be helpful and become more skillful as one takes part in the co-creation of existence. And when I hear messages with a summary of Zen akin to that above, I notice it resonates with my own experience and understanding. But I also notice that sometimes (maybe even regularly) there is a solid thud that comes along with that resonance, or even just the thud with no resonance at all. So I’ve been curious about this thud and why it shows up.

What I’ve come to is, such statements are a partial presentation coming from a partial understanding – which has the propensity to lead to a partial practice of Zen. Taking such statements at face value feels like putting blinders on, narrowing one’s view and focus while simultaneously keeping things beyond that view and focus at bay or shutting them out. There is a very limiting feel to this, when people aspire to “just live in the present moment” or “just be here now.” Not that those aren’t worthy aspirations for which to strive – there is indeed virtue in such endeavors. It’s the "just" that precedes these with which I have an issue, as it can tend to bring about a closing statement of “because here and now is all there is.” Another valid statement, able to be known through direct experience, yet it is also an incomplete one. Not only is the present moment all there is, it likewise contains all there is, the whole of existence emerging and transforming, rising and falling, rising and falling, here and now.

Yeah, this is where things can get weird, especially if someone has previously been stopped short by potentially limiting statements and understandings like those above. There is an esoteric, ephemeral, shamanic aspect to Zen practice that largely remains unknown, especially because of how the practice is portrayed by and spread throughout popular culture. But this aspect is not something that is kept hidden or only introduced after you’ve gone through many years of meditation or reached some “special” level of understanding; it’s woven through the practice from the very beginning, the common and the strange, the practical and the outrageous mingling intimately together. And why not? Isn’t life itself comprised of such a mixing and mingling of the practical and the outrageous?

Here are a few examples of how the Koan Zen tradition invites the common and the strange to hang out together:

In one of the popular and well-known koan collections, The Gateless Gate (the title already providing an example of its own), there is a story about a new arrival to a monastery who asks the teacher for instruction and the teacher replies: “Have you eaten?” “Yes.” “Go wash your bowls.” Very practical. Yet, in this same book, before this story is even encountered, there is another about the ghost of a teacher who was reborn as a fox paying a visit to his old monastery. Elsewhere in the tradition there are tales of a person talking to a rock, a well that sees a donkey, and people traveling to heavenly realms, hungry ghost realms, hell realms. And mixed in with these are stories that state “ordinary mind is the Way” or “the heart of the one who asks is Zen.” There are also stories in which the practical and the outrageous live side by side, such as two friends talking about what it is like to mend clothing: “One stitch is like the next,” says one, and the other: “As if the whole earth is spewing flames.” And there are stories in which the practical and the outrageous are fairly indistinguishable:

     One day, Layman Pang and his daughter Lingzhao were out selling bamboo baskets. Coming down off a bridge, he stumbled and fell. When Lingzhao saw this, she ran to her father’s side and threw herself to the ground.
     “What are you doing?” cried the Layman.
     “I saw you fall, so I’m helping,” replied Lingzhao.
     “Fortunately no one was looking,” remarked the Layman.

Reading about all this strangeness, a very reasonable question may arise: How does this help, and what’s the point? In part, I can say it’s helpful because the world itself is practically outrageous, outrageously practical, unpredictable and wild, far beyond and beneath anything we can and will ever know, and inviting such stories into our usual, knowable lives helps loosen up and expand the territory of our living, connecting us to a greater wholeness. And in part I can’t say, because…well…if it was completely sayable it wouldn’t be worth saying.

Still, I can offer words from someone else speaking to the value of this, which I came across recently and is what gave this post of mine its impetus:

"There are all the subtle realms that for some extraordinary reason we as a culture have dismissed, forgotten, rejected. And yet they belong to all the spiritual traditions—whether [for example] it's the Shaman who works with the spirit realm, or the Tibetan Buddhist who works with the devas and deities in the land, or the Christian monk who works with the Angelic world - who prays for the angels and has icons of the saints - or the Zen monk immersed in the void, in the inner realm – they all need to be included and we all need to get along together because that’s how the world is made. And we are all part of this sacred, living oneness.”

-Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee (posted on the Spiritual Ecology Facebook page)

One thing I appreciate is the through-line with which Vaughan-Lee connects these various realms, not saying they’re the same thing but that there is a commonality among them. Then he takes another step and weaves that thread into the mundane, practical realm we know all too well, which is a crucial step to take because “that’s how the world is made” – all of those realms are this one. What I most appreciate is the shift in emphasis from the different realms to the thread that connects them, so we are no longer moving from one to another or separated from any of them, but instead in a place where they all intersect. I see this place of intersection as a perpetual threshold of being, a space comprised of many things but not restricted by or belonging to any of them, dynamic and alive and flowing. To use the Zen terminology introduced above, abiding in this threshold of the void, one realizes it is not a place where nothing exists but rather a vast expanse of reality, devoid of the divisions and separations often placed upon it (inwardly and outwardly), and the concepts and constructs one has developed loosen, become porous and permeable, or dissolve altogether. Experiencing this directly, intimately and knowing it for oneself deeply and irreversibly changes the way one experiences life and the living of it.

Inviting the practical and the outrageous in and letting them spend time together helps to remove the divisions erected between them, and thus we realize one is no more practical or outrageous than the other, realize that there really is no separation at all. Continuing along from here, we discover that the world is quite strange, wondrous, wild, unpredictable, and unbelievable, and that it’s this way all the time and can be encountered anywhere: resting on a mountainside mid-hike then all at once experiencing the strong sensation of being a small rock on the mountain and being the mountain and being the person on the mountain; momentarily losing all sense of language while attempting to say a simple, well-known blessing before a meal, not able to understand the words or speak them; being struck by the deep beauty and poignancy of life through the simple happening of a golden leaf falling upon your windshield; unexpectedly saying "thank you" to the elevator as the door opens to the selected floor...and really meaning it; walking through a forest at night and suddenly seeing the pattern of reality pulsating and flowing from the trees, as the trees, like Neo seeing the Matrix; walking across the room and feeling an unwarranted wave of happiness surge forth for no reason at all, simply because things are the way they are, with all their joys and sorrows and difficulties and ease. All those worlds and realms, all those ways of being, boundless and limitless, here and now.

This threshold of being is an artful place and place of transformation, marked by spontaneity, imagination and creativity, where multiple sources of inspiration come together to be moved from intangible to material; it is the heart-mind of us all, where infinite worlds gather and wait to become manifest through us, coming forth as poetry and painting, singing and dancing; coming forth in the way we care for a sick child, support and encourage a loved one, or nourish and sustain ourselves; coming forth in how we respond to crises locally and globally, how we engage in social justice and work to bring about change in the world; coming forth in our daily living, in how we meet and connect to life and the things that comprise it, from the mundane to extraordinary.

This continual confluence of all things, this intersection of worlds that includes the realms mentioned above as well as the intricate web of connection between all beings, is how things are and what is happening right where we stand. We can’t not be in it. But we can cut ourselves off from it through the concepts and constructs we establish about reality, which in turn influence our relationship to it, and the degree to which we perceive and experience things to be divided and fractured at any given moment influences the degree to which our responding to them will be divided and fractured.

A major way we uphold a sense of division, as Vaughan-Lee points out, is by dismissing the things that don’t align with what we believe to be important and true. It might be that we choose the practical and reasonable over the fantastic, and if we fall too fully into this practical, mundane world, we can become burdened by and buried beneath it. Instead we might lean heavily toward the ephemeral as a way of escaping and transcending the everyday world, but wandering too deeply into that territory can lead us to disconnect and disengage, to become aloof and complacent. Along similar lines, choosing to work only for others can deplete our energy and resources, leading to that same sense of being burdened and buried, whereas choosing to work only for ourselves can lead to disconnection and disengagement from the world within and around us. In short, solely and completely moving in any one direction limits us and our ability to be effective. But choosing no direction in particular, abiding and resting in that perpetual threshold of being, grounded in the groundless, we can find our place among the endless transformation of all things; rooted in and issuing forth from this place, we can benefit all beings as we discover limitless resources are available and accessible to us, if we but reach out a hand.

As a final homage to the practical and the outrageous and to the value of bringing differing worlds together, allowing them to mix and mingle and influence one another as they dance in this boundless here and now, I’d like to bring in a chant from the liturgy of the Open Source Koan Zen tradition. It isn’t offered at the end of a dharma talk or at the close of a long day of meditation or as part of some event with high ceremony and ritual; it is offered at the end of a meal, after doing something as ordinary and common as sharing food together and filling our bellies:

Out of the mysterious source
we and the things that sustain us come.
Waking and eating, embracing and sleeping,
we walk on the empty sky.

May it fill your belly in kind.

I found myself having a strong sense of pilgrimage today, in part because I was on a return journey from Santa Fe where I visited my teacher, helped a little with an event and spent time with friends. But more so because of the arrival of autumn, which seems to carry the sense of pilgrimage in its being: after the emerging and bursting forth of spring followed by the expanding fullness of summer, there's a simplicity and power in the return to the ground as leaves fall, grass dries and hunches lower and lower, cool air holds things a little closer to themselves. In addition to it being a return, there's a freshness marked by humility and intimacy in it all as the energy starts slowing down and releasing, following a circular path that moves closer and closer to the middle, a place of rest and stillness. In addition my traveling and the arrival of autumn, I happened to encounter several things today that seemed to have the flavor of pilgrimage - some may have indeed been pilgrimages, but it could have just been the story my mind was telling from the place it was in.

For instance, as I was making my way out of Taos, I noticed a line of about 20 people outside of a Catholic church, waiting patiently and sincerely to meet what they would meet inside. The truck in front of me helped bring this to my attention, the driver seeming to notice the line of people unexpectedly then determinedly and somewhat abruptly pulling to the side of the road so the travelers within could go take their place in line. In that action and in the faces of those waiting, there was a feeling of something important and powerful taking place.

Not long after this, as I was heading toward Questa, people in scattered groups of two or three over a distance of a couple of miles were walking southward along the roadside. It was raining and they were wearing colorful and not-so-colorful plastic ponchos, faces somewhat grim yet determined, that same sense of importance and power evident in their walking as they endured the journey. Amidst their solemnity and sincerity there was one man walking alone who waved and smiled as each vehicle passed by, sharing the joy he was finding in his walking. The whole thing was quite striking and had me wondering where they had come from, where they were going, just what was going on. It felt like something significant and I wished I was part of it - in a way I was.

Several miles after crossing the New Mexico-Colorado line, there was a group of wild horses grazing near the highway. The car in front of me had been ambling along slowly and I was getting ready to pass it, but then two horses stepped up close to the road, making as if to cross, so we both slowed down to a near stop, gently rolling by. Looking in the rearview mirror I noticed the horses returning to graze where they had been before, not having stepped onto the road at all. Perhaps all their actions were saying was: "Hello. Slow down. Notice."

There were also a few actual pilgrimage sites along my route: a Tibetan Buddhist stupa a few miles north of Questa, to which I pointed as I was driving by, it pointing back via sunlight shining off its golden spire; the Stations of the Cross Shrine in San Luis, standing out against the orange and yellow of autumn in the background; a roadside shrine in a set of rocks near La Veta that I hadn't seen before, noticing it this time due to several cars pulled over nearby and people out walking among it.

I had also been looking forward to a personal pilgrimage sight - the southern mountains of the Sangre de Cristo range looming captivatingly in my gaze as I rolled from San Luis to Fort Garland. Today, however, they were shrouded in clouds that scattered and spread from horizon to horizon, marbleizing the landscape with light and shadow. There was something perfect and poignant about that, and just as captivating.

As I journeyed along throughout all of this, I was recalling a talk I gave some time ago about having a mind of pilgrimage. It occurred to me then and still seems the case now that sites of pilgrimage need to be seen as much as pilgrims need to see them. In that meeting there is a mutual seeing that happens, an exchange that takes place between the one who leaves things behind and journeys and the one who is stationary, waiting and welcoming all who come. The qualities and actions of both are needed to make the pilgrimage possible, and through both run the same currents of humility and simplicity, determination and sincerity. In the end, it's in the relationship between the journeyer and the journeyed to that the actual pilgrimage takes place: the relationship made up of the journeying and the waiting, of the meeting, of the seeing and being seen.

There's something to this mind of pilgrimage, I find, and it needn't be limited to a certain time or place or season. It can be a way of meeting life itself, a continual offering of seeing and being seen. It loosens and shifts the locus of attention from a single point (whether it be inner or outer), spreading it evenly across the terrain. The dichotomies of this vs. that, me vs. you, here vs. there and the like fade and transform, the mutuality of being and experience emerging more fully and saying wholly, completely: just this, just this, just this - pointing to the lively territory throughout which the ten thousand things are endlessly meeting and mixing and mingling.

In this there is a simplicity, a humility, an intimacy that need not be reserved for or relegated to special occasions or deserving people or worthy endeavors; it can be allowed to unfold and flow forth naturally, effortlessly, moment by moment, regardless of circumstance. Then that mind of pilgrimage is free to appear and abide anywhere, everywhere, nowhere: driving in appropriately cool weather while heading homeward, finding itself in the midst of an unnecessarily hot first day of autumn back on the front range, returning home to find a dishwasher full of clean dishes waiting to be unloaded, having a child ready to be picked up from school, reading emails that await responses, sitting down to update a highly-neglected blog...

Meeting things in such a way, I notice the stories I have about myself or others or the situation - This is happening to me; This is happening for me; What should have happened is...; What needs to happen is...; This is getting in the way and keeping me from...; This isn't as important as that, therefore... - all those stories get quieter, drop away, or don't even arise, allowing me to be more directly with what is happening, with what is. And it is a starting point to contributing to and/or doing something about what is happening, with fewer obstacles and barriers in the way, less energy tied up in those should have, would have, could have beens.

I also notice coming to mind Bodhidharma's response to Emperor Wu when asked about holy teachings: "Vast emptiness, nothing holy." It levels the field, pointing to the arbitrary distinctions we make about and value we place on certain things over others; it's not necessarily saying not to do this (though that is advice to consider), but to realize the provisional and subjective nature of these distinctions we make and values we assign. One could just as easily say "Vast emptiness, everything holy" or "Vast holiness, everything empty" and the message remains intact: nothing more or less holy than any other thing. This dismantles the definition of "holy", releases it from the bounds of the container in which it has been placed, freeing it to show up as it is, without constrain - another invitation to set aside our stories and ideas and meet things just as they are, connecting with their individual, inherent qualities and value.

A koan relating to this mind of pilgrimage comes up as well:

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."

I love this "I don't know" and how it relates to my experience of pilgrimage. For one, it's to say I don't have a story about what it is or should be, I'm not expecting or hoping for anything in particular; I'm finding out as I go, discovering what it is as it happens; and I'm not making a story about what it is based on these experiences but just continuing along, intimate with the journey and curious, curious. Another thing about this "I don't know" is that it speaks to the question of how to have a mind of pilgrimage. To say "this is how to do it" would be to have a story about it, which would simply get in the way. There is something more organic about the experience, that mind of pilgrimage arising naturally, of its own accord, when the usual ways of being with and relating to things don't interfere with or impede it. At most I can notice what gets in the way, notice what leads me to feel out of sorts, disconnected, distant. Or perhaps I can best be a pilgrim through the landscape of life by simply showing up again and again, without agenda, not tied to my stories, loosely holding my ideas about people and things, meeting them directly, intimately, with  deep curiosity amidst the rising, falling and unfolding of it all.

I don't know, and it is intimate indeed.