Brief Visual Meditation

Courtesy of a Zen droogie on social media.

Muslim Dharma

A lifetime sitting with the central tenet of Islam has led me to accept it.

You must submit.

Islam means submission in Arabic. A muslim is a person who has submitted.

Specifically they submit to Allah. He's also the only thing worthy of submission. If your orders come from anywhere else, you waste your life marching into a dead end.

Most religions recognise this truth, though they express it differently.

Buddhists call it acceptance of the Dharma. You don't get enlightenment from your teacher, your religion, or even the Buddha.

It comes directly from the Dharma.

This may seem fanatically reductive, especially when the people shouting it at you are really referring to themselves when they say "Allah" or "Dharma".

But taken at face value, I'm convinced it's exact.


Because Allah isn't just the only authority qualified to lead you.

He's also the only one you can trust.


(Photo courtesy of Muh Rifandi and Wikimedia Commons.)

What Is Practice?

What is zazen?

Just sitting.

What is practice?

Just doing.

What for?

For nothing.

Just do it.

Practice the dharma for the sake of the dharma.

There is no goal to reach, nothing to long for and nothing to attain.

Just follow life in this one single instant, right here, right now – the life that you are presently living.

Be one with reality, that is all.


– From an unsigned teaching given at Antaiji, possibly by Muhō Nöelke.


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

Good Song: Nobody Asks

Here's insight we can use.

In this short meditation, Rusty Ring favourite Peter Mayer sums up the lesson we all should have learned long ago, but that many – perhaps the majority – of us are still sulking over.

Candid elaboration on the Zen notion of dependent co-arising, as applied to the human condition (a subordinate form I prefer to call co-dependent arising), the whole track consists of little more than Peter's own voice and guitar, enhanced here and there with a ghostly violin at the edges. It all adds up to power that commands attention, and a sedate simplicity our sort esteem.

Another cut from Peter's excellent album Heaven Below.

I've got this on frequent rotation these days, as I absorb demands to take arms against successive waves of faceless, vaguely defined offenders. Give it a click; see if it doesn't help to keep you on-task as well.


NOBODY ASKS
by Peter Mayer

Nobody asks to be born
They just show up one day at life’s door
Saying here I am world
I’m a boy, I’m a girl
I'm rich, I am sick, I am poor

Nobody asks to be born

No one is given a say
They’re just thrown straight into the fray
The bell rings at ringside
And someone yells fight
Some just end up on the floor

Nobody asks to be born

And no one’s assured
Of a grade on the curve
Or a friend they can trust
Or a house where they’re loved
And no life includes
A book of how-to
Because nobody has lived it before

So to all the living be kind
Bless the saint and the sinner alike
And when babies arrive
With their unholy cries
Don’t be surprised by their scorn

Nobody asks to be born

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.)

Good Cartoonist: Avi Steinberg

If you haven't discovered Avi Steinberg, you're in for a treat. (And if you have, a welcome visit back.)

Avi's deceptively simple New Yorker cartoons have a knack for penetrating the heart of the problem, often in ways that illuminate the crux of our delusions. Though not a Zenner to my knowledge, his work repeatedly strikes Zen-adjacent targets with a clarity worthy of Nasrudin.

I've avoided possible insult to Avi's copyright by not posting any examples on this page, though the writer in me is, like, "Really? You're trying to drive traffic to his Substack without showing anybody why they should go?"

But such is the looking glass of these greedy times.

So you'll have to trust me. Click the links. See what I'm talking about.

Start here.

I don't know if the guy meditates, but this about sums it up. It's part of a protracted exploration of the nature of anxiety, of which pretty much every frame is gold.

Then sample a few from his timeline:

Winning.

The perils of mindfulness.

Why it's hard to keep writing.


Then click through to some more.

Or just Google Avi and click on Images.


And then we'll all sue him for stealing our lives.


(Photo of Hotei figurine courtesy of Adrian Pingstone and Wikimedia Commons.)

Anzac Day Meditation

Died aged 18 near this spot.
April 25th, 1915.
Did his best.

Australian tombstone at Gallipoli.


(Photo courtesy of Chris Sansbury and Unsplash.com.)

Understanding Zen Practice

"Open during remodel."



(Photo courtesy of Amy Serin and Wikimedia Commons.)

The Infinite Monk Theorem

"An infinite number of monks,
with an infinite number of zafus,
and an infinite amount of time,
would eventually get around to meditating."

Wu Ya

(This assertion has never been formally tested, but my suspicions are the results would be similar to those of another famous thought experiment.)




(Nineteenth century Japanese drawing of a monk meditating, or maybe sleeping, courtesy of the US Library of Congress and Wikimedia Commons.)

Good Song: Come Join The Murder

I had never heard of this alt hymn, or the artists who built it, or even the television series that launched it, before I first heard it on Celtic Music Radio some weeks ago. (Or maybe The Whip, or Folk Alley? Apologies to the unknown programme director with the sound judgement to add this track to the rotation.)

Which is probably for the best, as I understand the climactic scene behind which these poignant verses run would have superseded any connexions my own mind might have made.

And the work is deeply moving on its own.

In the meantime I've listened to it over and over again – I'm listening to it now – and suggest you do as well.

Listen without the lyrics. Let the chant flow through your skull. If the current moves you, listen a few times more before you engage your binary drive.

Just savour the oracular growl of Jake Smith (aka The White Buffalo), voicing the literary dexterity of lyricist Kurt Sutter. (While we're up, let's also note that the titular "murder" refers to a posse of corvids, not a capital crime.)

Those birds – crows, jays; ravens above all – were sangha during my forest ango; omnipresent, providing a guidance hard to quantify in the Red Dust World.

But you can take my word for it. These words–

Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap

–arrested me.

Never mind that the story puts a darker spin on it; for me this quatrain encapsulates my experience on the mountain, taking me back to that time and place.

More sit than song.

And as Marshall McLuhan didn't quite say:

"The meditation is the message."

Therefore, for the good of The Order, I say in brotherly communion:

Let us clear our minds of discrimination, and contemplate this wisdom.


Wu Ya's commentary:

"Look, it's just a song."

–烏鴉


Come Join The Murder

by The White Buffalo and The Forest Rangers
words and music by Kurt Sutter

There's a blackbird perched outside my window
I hear him calling
I hear him sing
He burns me with his eyes of gold to embers
He sees all my sins
He reads my soul

One day that bird, he spoke to me
Like Martin Luther
Like Pericles

Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
And he'll make you king

On a blanket made of woven shadows
Flew up to heaven
On a raven's glide
These angels have turned my wings to wax now
I fell like Judas
Grace denied

And on that day he lied to me
Like Martin Luther
Like Pericles

Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
And he'll make you king

I walk among the children of my fathers
The broken wings, betrayal's cost
They call to me but never touch my heart now
I am too far
I'm too lost

All I can hear is what he spoke to me
Like Martin Luther
Like Pericles

Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
And he'll make you king

So now I curse that raven's fire
You made me hate, you made me burn
He laughed aloud as he flew from Eden
You always knew
You never learn

The crow no longer sings to me
Like Martin Luther
Or Pericles

Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king

Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
And he'll make you king

Delate Wawa

The hardest thing in this world, is to live in it.

Be brave.

– Buffy the Vampire Slayer


(Photo of young Iranians standing against the forces of autocracy courtesy of Samoel Safaie and Wikimedia Commons.)

St. Stephen's Day Meditation

"I have learned silence from the talkative,
toleration from the intolerant,
and kindness from the unkind;
yet, strange, I am ungrateful to these teachers."

Attributed to St. Stephen, in honour of this his feast, 2024.






(Page from a mediævel manuscript on the martyrdom of St. Stephen courtesy of the J. Paul Getty Museum and Rawpixel.com.)

What It Takes

Long ago, in the first years of my Zen practice, I encountered a teaching that's remained in my mind through the intervening years. Unfortunately, despite my obsession for note-taking and record-keeping, an hour of combing through my files hasn't produced line or author.

So I'll have to report both from memory as best I can.

I recall that the source was a modern Chinese Chàn teacher, born in the 19th century. This makes him almost certainly Xuyun; the more since in the course of my digging I discovered in an early practice folder a text file of his teachings. Sadly, this wasn't one of them.

Whoever it was, the Chàn master in question had this to say:

"You ask why there are so many schools of Chàn. [This was possibly translated as 'Zen'.] It is because people have different natures. They require different practices. That is why there are so many schools of Chàn. It takes that many."

At the time, having just taken the Zen path following a lifetime of convicted Christianity, I was impressed by the wisdom and generosity of this pronouncement.

As my practice grew deeper and broader, I would come to see the very soul of Zen in it.

Such freedom from jealousy and turf-warring is rare; nowhere more so than in religion.

In the course of my subsequent Zen vocation, I've been a bit disappointed, if not surprised, to find that this is not in fact our party line. The truth is, though Zenners score higher on the many-paths test than Christians (low bar that they are), our reflex too is to malign teachers in other schools; even other teachers in our own.

The error in this goes beyond fundamental insecurity and egotism. At the end of the day, like all we purchase with that two-sided coin, it deprives us of wealth.

Because other schools, lineages, denominations, even faiths (that's right, I said it) encode centuries of enlightenment instruction. Buddhism isn't like other religions; our founder said enlightenment comes of action (meditation), not faith. The clear implication is that the world is full of people very unlike us who must nevertheless be enlightened.

And that means an honest seeker won't simply tolerate superficial differences in doctrine and dogma, he or she will welcome them as a blessing, delving into them to profit from the insight they embody.

In the end, I'd suggest we go Xuyun one better:

Given that our species is still stumbling around in the dark, 2500 years beyond the Buddha, screaming war and weeping bitter tears, it's obvious we don't have enough schools yet.

The Show

Practice isn't just sitting; nor is it just form.

Practice is what happens in your head while you're out living.

This truth may be a little more accessible to hermits, who seldom congregate for zazen, and whose indulgence in other forms is necessarily spare and simplified. But the stuff you do at Zen centre, while valuable and worthwhile, is only a rehearsal for practice.

The actual practice begins when you leave the zendo.

Or the cushion, for free-range monks like me.


(Photo courtesy of Petr Sidorov and Unsplash.com.)

Taking Delivery

It's been a long time since I had a dramatic sit – the thing Zenners call kensho. This is mostly down to lifestyle constraints that have made practice scattered in recent years, as well as the fact that I've been doing this for 22 years. After the first few, your brain acclimates to the meditative state, becoming simultaneously more inured to and less precious about it.

Which is why the other night thrilled me as I've seldom been since those early days.

The set-up was predictable: I'd had an opportunity to sit regularly and deeply for several days, and also to sit outdoors, in a quiet, rural setting, which is always productive for me.

If the sea is also involved, so much the better, result no doubt of a lifetime as a bay boy, itself the product of my family's centuries-deep maritime tradition. And as it happens, I was sitting on a bluff over a particularly active passage – a narrow channel where the tide runs like a river, during a week of deep, still summer nights. But on the last one the temperature plummeted, a storm blew up, and I found myself sitting at midnight in a tearing wind, bundled to the chin. Still didn't help my hands, frozen in dhyana mudra.

I did this because I'm a macho Japanese-trained Zen hermit, determined to log half an hour of pointless suffering to prove my monastic manhood.

But that's not what happened.

Instead, my mind spent about twenty minutes (I imagine; could have been ten, might have been 50) confronting the gale, complaining about the cold, starting at alarming sounds soft and loud in the dark around me.

And then I slipped into The Zone.

My mind settled into an equanimous hum. My consciousness assumed high alert, a sort of excitement that's neither fear nor expectation, just… receiver-on. I thought nothing, but noted everything. The gusts iced my face, roared in my ears, yanked my clothes, tore branches off the huge firs around me, and I neither defied nor surrendered to any of it.

The storm, the night, the planet, and I, just, like, were.

It's been a long time since I saw that place.

Why I did that night, in that location, is an open question. Certainly, I was awash in 190-proof oxygen; the stuff was practically forcing itself into my lungs. And the very fact that the storm was an unremitting distraction probably made it a trigger; the symbiotic relationship between concentration and disruption being well-documented in Zen.

(This would be a good time to remind fellow seekers that your meditation practice is your own and so are the results. The cushion stories of others can infamously cue feelings of inadequacy and dissatisfaction, leading some to conclude they're no good at practice or not doing it right or using the wrong incense or whatever. If my account inspires you to go sit in a windstorm, and the result is nothing more than a head cold, it might simply mean that you have more common sense than I do.)

But one way or the other, I took delivery. Thanks for the encouraging experience. On to the next.


(A Storm Off The Normandy Coast, by Eugène Isabey, courtesy of The Eugene Victor Thaw Art Foundation, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and Wikimedia Commons.)

Hermits and Hotdogs

In the fifty-odd years I've worked with pets and farm animals, I've learned that anxious and abused ones often fear men – but women, not so much.

Some of this gender-specific apprehension may be down to the fact that we're bigger, louder, and maybe don't smell as nice. But a lot of men also appear to believe the world is an action movie, of which they're the beefcake.

They hurt everything that doesn't meet their approval, usually while shouting. And those guys create dread and disconsolation in many creatures.

Catch enough of that, and any sentient being learns mistrust.

You can accomplish a great deal with their victims by just sitting nearby, not reaching out, speaking quietly or not at all. It takes steady patience, but often eventually works. Perhaps the target simply concludes, based on available data, that we're not really "men". (Or maybe that we're just not failed men, which would be accurate. Brothers barging around hotdogging for the camera snatch the lion's share of attention, which is why we non-gnawers of scenery tend to fade into it.)

I was put in mind of this recently during a night sit in the back yard. First, a coyote stepped into view 30 feet away. He seemed unconcerned, not just with the intense human habitation all around him, but even the intense human right in front of him. I hissed, and he ducked away.

Then not one, but two squirrels almost climbed into my lap, in the course of whatever before-bed routines they were pursuing.

As a Zenner who sits outdoors whenever possible – it's a form in my hermit practice – I've had countless similar experiences with wildlife. I've also used this technique intentionally, with lost or traumatised cats and dogs; nervous horses; and at least one refractory laughing dove.

The grace of these encounters never ceases to thrill. For a brief instant I'm freakin' St. Francis.

Very brief, to be sure. But a flash of kensho all the same.

And a reminder that true warriors are silent and watchful.


(Photo of a true warrior courtesy of Wikipedian Petr Novák and Wikimedia Commons.)

Swordsmanship

“Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.”

I've recently been pondering this Philip K. Dick line. A lion of literary science fiction, Philip's life was dogged by mental illness complicated by drug use. This led, as such things often do, to a fascination with metaphysics and transcendental philosophies. And an enduring preoccupation with reality, that thing human brains are singularly ill-suited to detect.

Perception challenges notwithstanding, I think the writer wields a sharp Zen katana here. We humans are especially apt to mistake ourselves – our cultural assumptions, our half-experienced experiences, the truisms we were taught as toddlers – for objective truth. "That's the way of the world," we say. Or, "That's just the way the world works."

Problem is, we're not talking about the world, or anything like it, when we say that. Far less any rule the world may impose.

For the benefit of those still struggling with the concept, let me take a page from Philip: the world is that thing that remains, unmoved and unchanged, when the last of us has died.

Which could be rather soon, at the rate we're going.

I find this principle a productive "empty" meditation. You know, those paradoxes we Zenners like to chase on the cushion as calisthenics for our power of perception:

"Picture an empty mirror."

"What was your face before your grandmother was born?"

"Mu."

So I sit and imagine a planet millions of years hence, unmarked by human striving.

Endless global landscapes that bear no trace of our passing.

The utter inexistence of economics or religion, art or technology, love or hate. And the profound absence of any recording witness whatsoever, anywhere on the planet.

An Earth returned to the ground of being, removed that single self-centered force of denial that dominated a second of its lifecycle, its pan plumb flashed out.

As Philip conjectured: a vast and infinite reality, entirely innocent of human delusion.


(Photo courtesy of Vadim Mivedru and Unsplash.com.)

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].)

New Buddhist Superhero

OK, hear me out:

Equani-Mouse.

(Interested parties can buy the wall decal from this Etsy store; illustration from linked page.) 

WW: Sitting shadow

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.