Theory Kyôsaku

The theory is really simple.

The only problem is that theory alone will not help us to be content with our practice.

Although practice of the buddha way is supposed to be the easiest thing in the world, I think it is a fact that we are never quite content with our practice.

Why?


– Though unattributed in the source, this very Soto teaching apparently comes from Muhō Nölke, former abbot of Antaiji.


(Photo courtesy of Antoine Taveneaux and Wikimedia Commons.)

If You Can't Fix What's Broken, You'll Go Insane

The title of this post is a line from Mad Max: Fury Road, the 2015 instalment of the Mad Max film series.

Much has been said about these Australian productions. Unlike virtually every other movie "franchise" (a fast-food industry term that often denotes similar entertainment), it contains no weak links: every release is genetically different, and all five succeed both as stand-alone works and episodes of the larger story.

Reasons for this are highly speculated among film geeks. Suffice it to say that creator-director George Miller came into cinema with no formal training (he's actually a doctor – odd how often that happens) and aside from not knowing any better than to just go out and make a movie, he's also a bit unhinged.

In the best possible way, I mean.

Anyway.

Fury Road is a tale for our times. Made on the very cusp of the current collapse, it takes place, like all Mad Max movies, in a thoroughly collapsed world that was fanciful when the series began. In this respect, it's hard not to read it as allegory – nay, prophecy – of all that's pounding down on us now.

I don't want to spoil this epic for those who've yet to see it, but to service my theme, I'll just say that unlike previous Max films, Fury Road has two protagonists: the titular figure, whom we know well (though played by a new actor), and Furiosa, a newcomer who is in many respects his female prosopopoeia. (English. Use it or lose it.)

The two share a common if involuntary struggle – the old, damaged, half-crazy man, and the younger, vital, ultimately righteous woman – and in the end, Max quietly issues her the above warning.

The Zen of which is undeniable.

As a young man, I was determined not to give in to the hypocrisy and self-centred self-destruction of unworthy authority. Not to serve it, certainly, but also not to enable it. This is why I get both Max (who's my age) and Furiosa.

I understand the ambition to cast down the wicked, even if no-one else has your back, and the danger of accepting that crusade at heart-level, on behalf of others; you can't stop fighting without defecting.

In Zen we have an uneasy relationship with activism. Classic teaching condemns it outright, as wasted effort at best, and multiplying delusion at worst. The fact that this means we've given de facto (and sometimes active) support to unspeakable evil over thousands of years renders that reading of our practice unsound in my eyes.

In the late 20th century, Thich Nhat Hanh came up with the notion of Engaged Zen, of which Kevin Christopher Kobutsu Malone became the head of the arrow in North America. That Kobutsu was ultimately crushed by his ministry in no way invalidates it; if anything, it's a mark of honour. But it does go to Max's point.

I never served like either man, but I've experienced that crushing. And I think all Zenners should consider this thing that I wish I'd learned much younger than I am now.

That the main reason inquity always prevails is because it isolates its opponents, leaving them outgunned and outnumbered.

And that's why you can't beat evil without accepting it.

If that makes no sense, you're in the right room.

Annoyance Kyôsaku

"I always think friction and having annoying things around is absolutely essential for good meditation. Otherwise, you become incredibly selfish, controlling, and easily upset."

Ajahn Sumedho

[I find this note encouraging, as friction and having annoying things around is basically the definition of my life and practice.]


(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

Hermit Habit

The wildlife of the North Pacific rainforest is famously reserved; where the East has its flashy cardinals, red efts, and indigo buntings, our own rubber boas, rough-skinned newts, and varied thrushes are modestly beautiful. The odd Steller's jay or goldfinch may be a pleasant change of pace, but we're satisfied to return to the brown and russet uniform of our understated nation when they've passed.

While sitting my 100 Days on the Mountain, I sometimes daydreamed about founding a North Coast-native order of forest monks. And should that fancy ever gel, we will sit in the forest of my forebears, wearing the habit of our Douglas squirrel hosts: a hooded robe of honest Cascade umber, over an ochre jersey.



(Text edited from the notes for my book, 100 Days on the Mountain. Photo of Tamiasciurus douglasii courtesy of Ivie Metzen, the US National Park Service, and Wikimedia Commons.)

One-Legged Meditation

Though this seems at first glance avant-garde sculpture, in real life it's the famous one-legged torii of Nagasaki.

You can fill in its backstory yourself.

This Shinto devotional object was just another spirit gate, like thousands of others in Japan, until retrofitted for the Atomic Age by the US Air Force. The survivors took its still standing, despite the instant destruction of their entire city and the amputation of over half the monument, as an icon of hope. While rebuilding their home, they carefully preserved this gate, unmoved and unrestored, in front of the shrine that no longer existed behind it. (Though it soon would again.)

Today both are close-pressed by modern urban development, quite unlike the quiet neighbourhood in which they started, though neither has travelled so much as a yard since the day they were built.

And though all of this is as Shinto as it comes, I can't help but find commanding Zen significance in it, too.

To me, that war-veteran torii's silhouette – gates being a foundational metaphor for us, too – speaks to the nature of enlightenment practice. You practice where you are, how you are. If you lose a leg, you practice on the other.

And if an atomic bomb annihilates everything you know, you practice in the remains.

Nothing to do with machismo; it's just that you have no alternative.

I'm particularly touched by the Little Apocalypse – the tidal wave of concrete that drowned shrine and spirit gate in a matter of decades. Because while I struggle to imagine their Great Apocalypse – it's just more horror than my mind can honestly grasp – I've lived, and continue to live, the little one over and over.

Thus the sight of that silent, single-minded symbol of trust and true nature, standing up to its chin in a mindless race to oblivion, has special relevance for me. In that sense, notwithstanding religious distinctions or the brutality it's survived, we're comrade monks.

It's simply the most succinct expression of Things As They Are that I have found.

Today humanity is flirting with holocaust at least as hot as WWII. Given the geo-engineering challenges we choose to ignore; our growing embrace of political ideologies long proven suicidal; and the diplomatic tools we beta'd at Nagasaki, this could reasonably be the end.

It's difficult for me as a historian, a Zenner, and a decent guy, to remain in harness in the midst of our extinction.

So, what to do?

Well…

Sit down.

I'll also be keeping a photo of the one-legged torii of Nagasaki somewhere in the house, where I can see it.

(All photos courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Contemporary view also courtesy of Frank Gualtieri. View of torii after blast from bottom of stairs also courtesy of U.S. Strategic Bombing Survey, 1945; Committee for Research of Photographs and Materials of the Atomic Bombing; Nagasaki Foundation for Promotion of Peace; and the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum. Torii's eye view of the devastated city also courtesy of 林重男 [Hayashi Shigeo].)

Second Thought

Everything happens for a reason, but the reason doesn't happen until everything happens.

(Earlier meditation here.)


Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com and a generous photographer.

The Youthful Imperative

Alan Watts once said, "Now I’m a grandfather, and so I am no longer in awe of grandfathers." If I liked this 20 years ago, when I first heard it, today it teases a secret I feel obligated to share with my young brothers and sisters.

Old people like to say we've gained wisdom. We have better judgment; a longer view. Our superior familiarity has brought us perception and patience. We're slower to inflame, whether with anger or passion.

But the truth is, we're just tired.

Reviewing my twenties, I'm astonished by the heat of my prejudices, my penchant for assigning the role of villain to so many in my environment, my disrespectful impatience.

But I also remember how instinctively willing I was to break eggs, confront hypocrisy, power over and through impediments. Get crap done.

That irritated authority. And that brought pain. And, in surprisingly short order, that produced dread.

Eventually I slipped into idle middle-aged cowardice. AKA that "philosophical perspective" old people are so proud of.

Which is why humanity remains mired to the shoulders in solvable problems. Because our seniority gave us the power to hamstring those younger, and our terror of consequences, the motivation.

So now old people peeve me a lot more than they did before I was one. In my youth I took it for granted that their self-vaunted wisdom must be grounded at a least a little in reality.

And it is, a little.

But mostly it's just self-serving fear and laziness.

Let us meditate upon this uncomfortable truth:

When age brings humility, that's probably wisdom.
When it brings self-satisfaction, that's probably a learning disability.

Old age is an excellent time to practice don't-know-mind. You know, that thing we seldom embrace in our rhetoric and voting record. Because our task is to accept that we had our chance, and that the courage, vision, determination, and primal strength of the young is what we need now. Their willingness to rise to a challenge, even if they get a few things wrong. Even if – nightmare of senescence – they incur some personal damage.

This is their evolutionary role, their responsibility, their crucial contribution. Worry not, unproductive ones: they too will stumble into their day of wan platitudes; their age of weary wisdom.

But for now, they must bring – and we must honour – the dauntless insight of their youth.

Because someone has to actually do something around here.


(Classic meme courtesy of Alex Leo and Wikimedia Commons.)

Putting Stuff Down For Fun and Profit

I was homophobic as a young man. It's true the logging town I grew up in wasn't the cultural nexus of the world, but that's an excuse, not a reason. The embarrassing part is that I kept being homophobic long after I left to get an excellent university education.

So the first lesson shall be:

Don't assume that bigots are ignorant, that they're "just doing what they've learned". It starts that way, sure, but if you're still doing it as an adult, something else is going on.

Something less innocent and more actionable.

What makes my case even less parsable is that I was always the kid who brooked no redneck crap from his peers. Bad-mouth any race or religion on my schoolyard, and you were in for a throw-down.

Homophobia is the only bigotry I ever went in for.

Figuring out how that happened took me a few decades, and is, for our purposes, peripheral. What's less mysterious is why it continued, long after I saw better, and how it finally ended.

The first is shamefully simple: into my twenties, friends and I bonded in part over regressive "jokes" – hack work that taxed our literary talents very little – and I was loathe to be "that guy", the one who takes exception, smashing the fourth wall and casting a pall over the party.

Sadly, it truly was as basic as that. And I suspect it's the same for most bigots: cowhearted fear of being excluded from a social cohort that defines itself, in whole or in part, by that reflex.

The end finally came when I just couldn't stand the ignominy anymore. One day in my early 30s, the rest of me sat the pathetic part down and said, "You're done. From this point, we're Queen's evidence on sexual orientation."

And that was that.

But here's the point of this post:

I thought I was doing this for my gay brothers and sisters: bringing them some greater measure of peace by leaving off my unsolicited judgement on matters well outside my jurisdiction.

But the instant I put that baloney down, a tremendous weight slid off my shoulders.

The relief was palpable – so physical I nearly wept. See, maintaining opposition against an entire demographic – any demographic, whether a certified target of the Right or Left – draws a killing amount of energy. You don't see it; you think your contempt and criticism hurt those other people. You think you're getting even, winning, reigning supreme, in your hammer-headed refusal to stand down from this fight that you picked.

While in reality your designated enemy doesn't even know who you are; the American expression "get over yourself" is germane here. So the only person out of pocket is you.

And the day you stop wasting yourself on that sustained tantrum sticks in your mind forever. That day you authorised yourself to invest all that capital in other, better, useful things. Now you can put those resources to ends that bring comfort, fulfilment, and satisfaction, rather than blindly incinerating them in the firebox of your petty anger.

And the next day, of course, I immediately discovered how many of my closest friends, even family, were gay. They'd been isolating me from that truth so as not to trigger the disdain that denied me their full companionship. And because my pouting kept me stupid, I was literally the last in our circle to know.

In other words, after all that concentrated rejection in the name of continued membership in my peer group, the odd man out was me. My friends, good people all, had given that rubbish up years before.

I think this early experience of clear-seeing primed me for the kensho that would make me a monk ten years later. Because convictions are worthless.

You can generate endless justifications for the unjustifiable, build palaces of pretext, rehearsing your case for a non-existent court that has no judge. But your efforts influence no objective outcome.

You don't change any law of physics; your hard frown wins no argument.

Because what is, is.

And unless you're an idiot, you don't resist it.


Perceiving how little the universe gives a damn about me liberated me from slavery to myself.


(Photo courtesy of Matthieu Bühler and Unsplash.com.)

Mending The Roof

After 20 years of this I know that practice is not like mending a roof and now the roof doesn't leak. It's more like patching a roof and now it doesn't leak there anymore. With each subsequent sit you patch another leak, until sooner or later you're replacing that first patch again, and then the rest, and placing still more new ones.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

We don't mend things in this practice. We practice mending things. This isn't why they call it "practice", but from now on it's why I do.

For some this open-endedness is a hard truth. It leads some non-Zenners to reject our religion out of hand, on the grounds that it's unproductive. I've tried pointing out that it has this in common with everything else – that material productivity is ephemeral at best, in all contexts – but they tend to defend their thesis by defining their terms very narrowly. ("My family life isn't unproductive. My wife and kids make me happy." I sincerely hope so… but your investment won't return any longer or better than mine. This statistic greatly disturbs some folks, in a culture that encourages us to view achievement as a thing that somehow outlives the achiever.)

All of which is old news for any Zen student of average smugness. So it's a bit galling that many of those think practice can change your fundamental nature: stop pain from hurting, loss from evoking grief, discomfort and lack of control from generating fear and anger. The patches you lay today will remain in place forever if you practice properly, they insist. Eventually you'll have a whole roof.

Or to put it scientifically, that web of random gravitational attraction holding in momentary proximity a squirming conglomeration of volatile components, none of which is a roof, will become a roof.

The only roof in the universe, no less. Because that's the power of a single human being and its mighty attitude.

And so the eternal issue of why practice comes up again. As we face the daily failure and futility of this existence – the fact that the register of paths we didn't take is multiplying hourly – we start to feel like frauds. We aren't buddhas. We don't have control of our emotions and reactions. We're still getting angry and sad and disheartened. We aren't sitting enough, or right, or maybe at all, sometimes.

In these moments I try to stop beating myself up for not being fixed. To look beyond complaints that my progress isn't permanent, my product isn’t perfect, and my monkery hasn't made me greater than the human being I was when I started.

Bit much to ask innit, in a universe where none of those things are possible.

But I can nail a mean patch now. I can bang down others as well, at standard human speed, with standard human results.

After which the roof is less broken, even if it isn't fixed.

If not this, what would you have me do?


Fondest compliments to the Nation of Seekers. This thing we do isn't easy, but neither is anything else.



(Photo courtesy of Sergeant Gustavo Olgiati, US Army; the Defense Visual Information Distribution Service; and Wikimedia Commons.)

Street Level Zen: The Great Matter

"We have nothing to live but life itself."

Roger Ebert


(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

Good Video: The Way I Tend To Be

I've loved this song for years but only recently searched out the video, which adds incisive context to the lyrics.

It's a detailed elaboration on the Irish saying, "The first thing to do when you're in a hole is stop digging."

The scenario of this short film is exactly how I used to feel after a break-up, like something of Great Import had happened and I had to lug this massive torch around against everybody's advice, while the world placed bets to see how long I could keep this shit up.

(Fifty-two years, as it happened. That's how long. So maybe there's a winner out there.)

Therefore, for the benefit of others like me – not such slow learners, I hope – here's a brief meditation on the smallness of your suffering and the worth of your life and time.

Don't wait for CNN to show up before you figure that out.

The lyrics themselves bring some Zen of their own to the party. I especially like, "‘Cause it turns out hell will not be found \ Within the fires below \ But in making do and muddling through \ When you've nowhere else to go.

Finally, listen for the drums; they're especially well done.

The Way I Tend To Be
by Frank Turner

Some mornings I pray for evening
For the day to be done
And some summer days I hide away
And wait for rain to come
‘Cause it turns out hell will not be found
Within the fires below
But in making do and muddling through
When you've nowhere else to go

But then I remember you
And the way you shine like truth in all you do
And if you remembered me
You could save me from the way I tend to be
The way I tend to be

Some days I wake up dazed, my dear
And don't know where I am
I've been running now so long I'm scared
I've forgotten how to stand
And I stand alone in airport bars
And gather thoughts to think
That if all I had was one long road
It could drive a man to drink

But then I remember you
And the way you shine like truth in all you do
And if you remembered me
You could save me from the way I tend to be
The way I tend to be

‘Cause I've said, "I love you," so many times
That the words kind of died in my mouth
And I meant it each time with each beautiful woman
But somehow it never works out
But you stood apart in my calloused heart
And you taught me and here's what I learned
That love is about all the changes you make
And not just three small words

And then I catch myself
Catching your scent on someone else
In a crowded space
And it takes me somewhere I cannot quite place

But then I remember you
And the way you shine like truth in all you do
And if you remembered me
You could save me from the way I tend to be
The way I tend to be

Our Worst Nightmare

This week I learned two things:

1. that something called "the Buddha-like mindset" is trending among young people in China and Japan, and
2. it's largely condemned

The phrase "Buddha-like mindset" – or Chinese and Japanese phrases so translated – refers to a tendency among those nations' youth to eschew lifestyles dedicated to amassing status symbols and winning the approval of others. It dovetails with a new tiger-free parental attitude that Simon Fraser anthro prof Jie Yang sums up as "there are not that many kids who will really amount to much, so why give them an exhausting childhood?"

Instead, these mostly male kids are said to grow up shiftless and solipsistic, never making it in the work world, devoting their lives instead to their hobbies, pets, and interests.

Most alarming to cultural gatekeepers, they're also swearing off women. Insofar as courtship is the most grueling of society's approval rackets, these young-to-middle-aged men buy back their sovereignty and peace of spirit by simply Bartlebying that mofo.

All of which is a precise description of me. Or has become, any road.

Of course, as Wikipedia points out, "Although it is inspired by the Buddhist guidance to become satisfied through giving up anything tied to avarice, it is not a Buddhist principle." It is, however, predicated on conventional Zen teaching. To wit, as another source in the WP article puts it: "It's OK to have, and it's OK not to have; no competition, no fight, no winning or losing."

But in fact, in a twist partly reminiscent of Western "lifestyle Buddhism", few adherents actually follow Buddha-like mindset into any spiritual practice. (China's Communist ruling class is turning back flips over it all the same, officially for ideological reasons, but more likely for political and economic ones.)

And really, in the end, it's not surprising that the lions of these Asian societies are greeting this improbable teenage fad with consternation.

Just imagine the atomic tantrums we'd pitch in the Christian West if our kids suddenly started emulating Christ.

While simultaneously rejecting the authority of the Church.

I dare to venture this would be the single worst nightmare we've ever faced.

(Photo courtesy of Ian Stauffer and Unsplash.com)

The Deal

Regulars may have noticed that posting on Rusty Ring has become a little haphazard. That's because I've been managing my mother's home hospice for the last two months. Aside from the daily march of tasks, it also includes regular upheavals in routine, resulting in topsy-turvy days and weeks. Since predictable scheduling is the first requirement of blogging, the results are showing up here.

The underlying situation is of course a source of stress, making the actual work a kind of distraction – and therefore a relief – in an ironic way. But once again I'm finding meditation invaluable. As ever, I hesitate to vaunt it too much, as newcomers and interested non-meditators may form inaccurate expectations.

Zazen doesn't fix anything. It doesn't make me care less, and I'm not sure it even makes me fear less.

It just makes me fear better.

If that makes no sense, welcome to Zen.

I have no idea how I survived these things before I became a monk.

Anyway, I'll continue striving to maintain the regular posting schedule, in full knowledge that I'm bound to fail. And I'll concentrate on offering stuff of value when I do, even if it's a line here and a quotation there.

Because one of the sub-vows of my Rule is, "I will do what I can, even if it's unlikely to succeed."

Peace and progress to all seekers.


(Graphic courtesy of Zoltan Tasi and Unsplash.com.)

The Eight Worldly Dharmas

It just struck me that I've never posted on these before. Which is remarkable, since they're central to my practice, and indeed my life.

Also, since August is "Suicide Month" on Rusty Ring – the time when, for arbitrary reasons, I've ended up addressing that phenomenon most years – this is a good time to bring up the subject. Because suicide is the result of alienation, even though, as the Dharmas demonstrate, we're not alien.

Just dumb.

The Eight Worldly Dharmas (also called Preoccupations, Distractions, Desires, Concerns, Conditions, Winds, or Things I Do Instead of Zen) is a catalogue of 8 human constants that obscure the Path. (Or 4, to be precise, and their equally unproductive opposites – which together represent subsidiary principles of the Middle Way.)

I've had no luck determining the origin of this teaching. Today it passes for Buddhist, but feels like insight that predates us. I don't suppose it matters, but if we've jumped someone else's copyright… deep bow.

Anyway, here, for the first time on our stage, are the Eight Worldly Dharmas:

Wanting to get things
Not wanting to lose things

Wanting to be happy
Not wanting to be unhappy

Wanting acknowledgement
Not wanting to be overlooked

Wanting approval
Not wanting blame

That's my personal stock. Ask in a year and some wording may have changed.

There are other inventories on the Enlightenment Superpath:

1).
getting things you want/avoiding things you do not want
wanting happiness/not wanting misery
wanting fame/not wanting to be unknown
wanting praise/not wanting blame

2).
acquiring material things or not acquiring them
interesting or uninteresting sounds
praise or criticism
happiness or unhappiness

3).
benefit and decrease
ill repute and good repute
blame and praise
suffering and happiness

As you can see there is considerable variation in tone and imagery, but the thrust is consistent. (By the way, "interesting or uninteresting sounds" may sound like a weird phobia, but there's a lot of this sort of thing in the basal Buddhist texts. Random draughts, unethically-high beds, off-putting smells… not the stuff of existential angst, but you're supposed to meditate on it until you grasp the root of the problem. In this case, the writer is saying that we obsess over contextual conditions beyond our control – hot or cold, loved or alone, putting up with rude jerks or being left in peace. Your neighbours playing the Beatles on their stereo, or Slim Whitman. Pick your hell.)

And to be perfectly pedantic, when it comes right down to it, there are really only 2 Worldly Dharmas (split in half, as before):

Getting stuff you like
Not getting stuff you like

Avoiding stuff you don't like
Getting stuff you don't like

But I guess the Ancestors figured you couldn't get a self-help book out of that. For starters, it's too easily memorised.

Any road, this practice is explosive for me. The attitudes of others have played an inordinate role in my sense of self and worth, and if you study the Dharmas carefully, you'll see that they're mostly about that: stuff others give or withhold. The remainder – natural phenomena, like cold in your room or the infirmity of age – is similarly not the fundamental problem.

Not that any of these are trivial, mind you. Irrelevant and unimportant are not the same. But being aware of what originates in your skull restores a whopping measure of control.

Because suffering is actually two emergencies: suffering, and fear of suffering. And of the two, the second causes the most pain.

Doesn't mean the first isn't unpleasant, too. Just that it's not what manipulates you.

But you have influence over that second one.

And that's what the Eight Worldly Dharmas encapsulate: that stuff going on outside you, beyond your control, twangs your desires, and that's what plays you. Stop caring, and the monster is defanged.

And you get to that place by looking deeply. Doesn't happen instantly, but keep at it and you'll be amazed how far not striving will take you. And the more you observe the results, the dumber your desires look.

And the dumber they look, the smarter you become.

And there's not a damn thing anything outside you can do about it.

So that's why I meditate – or just reflect – on one or all of the Eight Worldly Dharmas on a regular basis. Maybe change things up from time to time and contemplate a different inventory.

Because it's about time my demons caught a few worldly dharmas of their own.


(Photo of Narcissus var. 'Slim Whitman' [yes, really] courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

Change

… is something I don't like.

Yeah, I know; Zen is all about acceptance of the immutable, ubiquitous, unresting nature of the universe, and everything in it.

Adopt any religious stance you wish. Invent convoluted ideologies; offer university degrees in them. Devote your life to denial.

But immutable, ubiquitous, unresting change is the literal substance of the universe.

I've needed to migrate this blog to a new host for years now. Blogger was arguably never the best platform for it, and since 2011 the interface has slowly deteriorated to a point where basic functions (comments, search-engine accessibility, mobile compatibility, several others) are sub-par.

As readers have signalled problems, I've assured them that I'm looking into moving. It's just that learning a new platform is long and annoying, costing a fortune in time and frustration, futzing to accomplish basic layout tasks, leaving and revisiting messages on help fora, emailing one's data-engineer brother for yet another pro bono debugging session.

None of which holds my interest. I'm a writer. I don't want to be a code monkey, a salesman, a celebrity, or anything other than a monk who writes on a wall.

But to do that in this new world, you first have to build the wall. Paint the wall. Maintain the wall. Rebuild the wall. Repaint the wall…

And now Blogger have upgraded the wall.

And you know what the word "upgrade" means in digital commerce.

So it's time to move.

The next weeks may be a bit spare in terms of content here, but I expect to be scrawling on a new and better wall when I reach the other side.

One that resolves many of the problems you have with this one.

(Deep bow of gratitude for the patience, forbearance, and loyalty readers have shown through the years.)

The backlog will remain available here on Blogger for as long as they'll have it. (Indefinitely, in theory.) I'd like to migrate that content to the new site as well – another giant headache, when even possible – but one way or the other, I expect to keep the past 9 years of ruminations accessible, to whatever end fellow sojourners may put them.

I'm particularly chagrined at the thought of losing long-time followers, some of whom may only swing by once in a while, but all of whom are deeply appreciated. Churn of that sort is unfortunately the nature of online publishing, but in all candour, assurances that the hot new platform will more than make up for the statistical loss with new readers, are cold comfort.

Make new friends, but keep the old
One is silver and the other gold

And my readers aren't numbers.

So please be advised that Rusty Ring will soon have a new URL. And I look forward to seeing you there, fit and rested from the break.

(Graphic courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous creator.)

The Bee Koan

A bee was browsing the clover blossoms in a pasture one fine spring day when a cow ate her.

"Well," she said, "this is one micro-aggression I am not disposed to enable. I'm just going to sting this stupid cow 'til she throws me up."

But the darkness was warm and moist in the cow's stomach, and in point of fact she'd been working rather hard that morning.

At length she thought, "I suppose I could take a short nap first. You know, to renew my strength for the battle."

And when she woke up, the cow was gone.


Wu Ya's commentary: This too will pass.

(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

Gratitude Kyôsaku

"All you single people who think you'd be happy if you were married, ask a married person.

"All you married people who think you'd be happy if you were single, ask a single person."

Ajahn Brahm


("Korean thanksgiving day night [Fractal art]" courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

Founding Theory of Zen

If you chew anything long enough, you can swallow it and poop it back out.

(Photo of Oligocene coprolites courtesy of the Poozeum and Wikimedia Commons.)

Hard-Condition Meditation

(Readers who are new to meditation might find How to Meditate useful. More experienced meditators might also appreciate Meditation Tips.)




Our Ancestors, from the Buddha forward, gave specific instructions for setting up a meditative environment. The particulars are as universal as they are basic:

Sit lotus or facsimile on a cushion in a darkened, but not dark, room.* Maintain temperatures on the cool but not cold side. Exclude distracting sights, sounds, and smells. And (in some versions) close all doors and windows to prevent stray breezes from breaking your concentration.

(*Cœnobites generally insist on sitting indoors. Since they also do most of the teaching, the "conventional" instructions reflect their values. Hermits, for our part, typically accept, and may even prefer, sitting outdoors. For a brief discussion of this difference, see the end of this post.)

I can testify that these instructions work. In fact they're thunderously effective, and once you've created such a setting and positioned yourself in the midst of it, it's harder to avoid zazen than to embrace it.

'Course if I had ready access to such an environment, I wouldn't need enlightenment. I'd just move in and call it a life.

So for my neighbours here south of the long-lived god realm, I'd like to kick off this new year of practice by sharing some hard-earned pointers for hacking meditative space out of an unmeditative existence.

Unhelpful sounds are one of the most common and troublesome challenges. If you can't get away from them or wall them out, you'll find modern headphone technology a godsend. Queue up something contemplative on your iPod, computer, or other device and turn it up just far enough to allow you to meditate. Ideally the masking material will not include human voices (though unintelligible chanting may work for some) and will not otherwise draw your attention in any persistent way.

The result isn't pure zazen, but it beats no sitting at all.

Nature sound recordings (surf, forest, rain) work best for me. Wordless ASMR videos are good too, though they can turn into a relaxation session if you're sensitive to ASMR. This isn't the end of the world either, as long it doesn't replace zazen practice entirely.

Though New Age or religious music often markets itself as a meditation aid, I find it stimulates discursive brain function and prevents zazen.

Finally, by all means don't overlook good old earplugs. For some reason this simple, cheap solution is largely unknown to a large segment of the population, but those disposable foam plugs working people use to avoid going deaf on the job clear all kinds of sound-borne obstructions. They're most effective on low-pitched noises, such as machinery, but greatly attenuate music, television, and voices as well.

Foam earplugs can be had at any hardware store. Having a pair ready on the nightstand can mean the difference between a sleep interrupted and a sleep ruined.

Physical inconvenience is yet another pernicious trial, particularly if you're infirm, or far from your zafu. Meditating in a modern office chair can solve this. Scientifically-designed to distribute your weight as widely as possible, these ubiquitous devices are fully equivalent to a buckwheat zafu and good zabuton. They're a great fall-back for us cushion-sitters, and if you can't sit lotus at all, they flat-out give you your practice back.

Use is straightforward: lower the seat until your feet are flat on the floor. Place your hands in mudra, if comfortable; if not, rest them on your thighs. Meditate.

There may not be any statues of the Buddha sitting in a polyester swivel chair, but you're doing exactly what he did all the same, and that's all that matters.

Note: most how-to-meditate guides say that if you sit in a chair, you must not touch the back. I've sat both ways in an office chair and enjoyed equal success. I still usually sit bolt-upright, because I'm a macho puritanical Japanese-trained Zen Buddhist and there's an angel in heaven who keeps track of these things and will reward me after death. But if you'd rather sit comfortably, research suggests there ain't one difference.

Bad smells are something beginners seldom anticipate, but for my money they're the hardest thing to sit with; all the more since zazen strops your sense of smell to a razor's edge. Trouble is, barring hard-helmet diving gear, you can't insulate yourself from the atmosphere and live.

I've already covered the value of incense for mitigating stench, even deeply nauseating ones like sewage and cigarettes. The trick is to pony up for the good stuff; cheap incense is one of the stinks we're trying to escape.

Different religions (Christian, Buddhist) and traditions (Tibetan, Japanese) cultivate different vibes, so you might have to shop around to find an incense that works for you. But high-grade Vajrayana, Zen, and Roman Catholic incense have all worked for me. Hippy Crap®, on the other hand, makes me gag.

Sometimes you can't sit. (Like, at all.) Maybe your rooming situation won't permit it. Maybe your schedule makes seated zazen impossible. In such situations it's legal to meditate in other positions and places. My two favourites are in the bath and in bed.

For the bath, fill the tub with hot water, sit down in it, fold your legs lotus-style, and lie down on your back. This has the further benefit of enveloping you in a warm, soundproof, weightless cocoon. I've had some fabulous "sits" like this.

For the bed, same drill: tuck self in comfortably, assume position, and meditate.

You're likely to fall asleep in both cases – I actually do it on purpose at night – but you'll get in some good meditation in the meantime. (You might also drown, in the bath tub. So far I've always woken up, coughing and spitting, before that happened, but if you have some kind of condition that might preclude this, you should probably avoid bath-sitting.)

And of course there's always real meditation. Instructions be damned, the Ancestors advised us to meditate with our surroundings, not apart from them. Try befriending your irritations, looking deeply, understanding your annoyance, and accepting them and it. Doesn't always grow corn, but I've had some ringing successes. At any rate, sitting with my own frustration is one of the most useful practices I do.

Which brings me at last to the indoor-outdoor question. The Buddha sat outdoors. Bodhidharma sat half outdoors: facing the wall beneath a tree in an enclosed courtyard.

Yeah, there are more distractions outside. Stuff falls on your head. Wildlife walks by. It gets hotter and colder. Bugs, uh… bug you.

But I like it. These reminders that "the world" isn't a synonym for humanity powerfully support my practice. Also, sitting lotus in a stifling meditation hall, as I've been constrained to do at the zendo, with sweat soaking my clothes and heart-rate turned up to 11 by the sauna-like air, because going outside would "distract" me, is dumb.

And nothing that's dumb is Buddhist.

But whatever your perspective, do what works, without fail. If you find manufactured discomfort spiritually useful, have at it. And if Norwegian death metal creates mindful space for you, then by all means, with my delighted brotherly blessing, bang your head in good health.


(Photograph courtesy of Stuart Heath and Flickr.)

Issa Nails The Thing

Kobayashi Issa is my all-time favourite poet. Regular readers will find this tediously typical, for though he's one of Japan's Four Great Haiku Masters, Issa is not "the Zen one". (That would be Bashō. I like Bashō too, but he doesn't "hit" nearly as often as Issa.)

Issa annoys modern Zen on many levels. He was ordained in the Jōdo-shū sect, a Pure Land Buddhist denomination that Zenners (including myself) find a bit futile. Worse yet, he was a hermit, and on the contemporary model: he had a family, and socketed his stick dead-centre of the Red Dust World.

Yet his descriptions of hermit practice, and his distillations of eremitical insight, are the most concise, most incisive, and most accurate I've found.

Witness his most famous lines, written hours after his baby daughter died:

This world of dew
Is a world of dew
And yet.
And yet.

That simply can't be improved. If you take anything out, it falls short. If you put anything in, it collapses.

Non-Buddhists may miss the sad satire here. Our teachers often compare human existence (mistakenly but universally called "the world") to dew: it comes from nowhere, sparkles for minutes, and goes back to nowhere. Attachment to same – craving permanence in the eternally temporary – is the origin of suffering.

Accepting this sets us up for cushion error: proudly declaring that we're liberated, because we know the truth.

And yet.
And yet.

Starting to get why this middle-aged suburban church-boy so troubles Zenners?

He's also easy-going, an affront to Zen's samurai puritanism, and accepting of his own nature. His perspective is, in short, eremitical.

Exhibit B:

Napped half the day
no one
punished me.

On the eremitical path, you do what practice suggests. This is different from monastery life, where you do what order demands, what tradition demands, sometimes what the current master demands, whether it makes sense or not.

Life inside requires that kind of discipline; life outside, another kind. Issa's poem suggests that on this day, this was the right call.

And as always, his trademark self-mockery. "If only I were half the monk I claim to be."

Word.

Note the same theme, with a different conclusion, here:

Napping at midday
I hear the song of rice planters
and feel ashamed of myself.

And then there's me on ango:

All the time I pray to Buddha
I keep on
killing mosquitoes.

And what of those elegant Zen dilettantes, as hip in the West today as they were in 18th century Japan?

Writing shit about new snow
for the rich
is not art.

I gotta stop there or I'll copy and paste every poem my brother ever wrote. (I've literally never found one – not one – that isn't my favourite.) If these crumbs have whetted your appetite, you may binge at will here.

OK, one more. Until next week, here's Issa's take on being a haikunist. (Essentially, the blogger of his time and place.)

Pissing in the snow
outside my door
it makes a very straight hole.

(Photo of Kobayashi Issa's monument courtesy of 震天動地 and Wikimedia Commons.)