Hermitcraft: Towel Zafu

When I first became a hermit monk I had no zafu, so I sat on a sofa cushion. That got me off the ground – no pun intended – but was bulky, interfered with my thighs, and couldn't be transported on road trips. So a few months in, having researched zafu alternatives on the Enlightenment Super-Path, I upgraded to this. Since it took some time to perfect, I thought it might help others to share my experience here.

The suggestion I found online was "use rolled-up towels". This proved underwhelming for a few reasons, worst of which is that bath towels unroll readily beneath a sitter.

So I rolled the three thick terrycloth bath towels again, as tight as I could – painfully so – and bound them with jute twine. That prevented them migrating in the cardinal directions. It did not, however, stop them from telescoping out of integrity and firmness.

So I cut them loose again, fluffed them up, and started over. This time, after layering them on the floor, I cut two lengths of jute about a foot longer than the towels were wide and laid them width-wise across the stack, about four inches from the end. Then I cut four new jute bindings and tore up my knuckles hard-rolling them again.

After retying as before, I knotted each lengthwise string on opposite sides of the roll. (Be sure to weave them over and under the four shorter bindings before tying, to dissuade all from wandering. Also, I suspect four long strings would do even better.)

This was major improvement. But the roll still mushed down quickly, no matter how hard I rolled and tied it, and contact with the floor and my backside caused the bindings to wander and fray, and even untied the knots.

So… again with the unrolling, fluffing, knuckle-grinding, and tying. But this time I also made a drawstring cover to protect the bindings. (The velours I used has velvety knap that grips mat and meditation trousers and reduces travel while sitting.) For maximum structural support, I cut it so tight I could barely get it on. And because the fabric was under constant stress, both from me and the resentful towels inside, I double-sewed all seams and took other sailmaker measures to toughen them up.

After a lot of jerking, shoving, and swearing, I managed to force this cover on. (Pro tips: push the terrycloth down with two fingers and pull the cover up over them a half-inch with the other hand. Then turn the roll three inches and repeat, continuing patiently till you've got the cover on. A quicker trick is to tape collars cut from round plastic bottles around the roll and remove them as you progress.)

The result served me daily for a year, until I received the buckwheat zafu I now use, a birthday gift from my mom. (And during my 100 days I sat on a roll of closed-cell foam, which worked out somewhat better than the towel roll.) But I still keep the old bolster around, just in case; for example when passing my zafu and/or seiza bench to people who've asked me to teach them how to meditate. It's also a memento of the determination I brought to this pursuit, and the wonderful sense of growth and success in that early practice.

To be sure, even a well-built towel zafu isn't the equivalent of a real one; it's heavy and hard, and needs regular rebuilding – say, every two months or so – to restore loft and elasticity and repair bindings that come adrift. Also at those times, launder or rotate out the towels, which tend to compress and become stiff and thin with service. If at all possible, machine-dry before rebinding, because hang-dried towels don't recover their nap until they dry somebody.

The bursitis I've since developed would axe my old friend for twice-daily, hour-long sits – a problem I also had, though not as severely, with my closed-cell foam on the mountain.

But at the time this old bindle technology was just the ticket. I sat on it daily, travelled with it, and built a solid monastic practice on it. Given that store-bought options are expensive, this can get you into Zen right away, even if you don't have much money.

Deep bow to all who enter the Path, by whatever trailhead.

Why We Sit

Zazen doesn't solve anything; it just makes things possible.


(Photo courtesy of Gerald Ford and Wikimedia Commons.)

Not The Only Seeker In Town

So I'm browsing through the Good Value Army, not looking to buy anything, when suddenly I spot 'mongst the random rummage...

This.

It's a seiza bench.

And not just any seiza bench. This one is made by Shasta Abbey, so you know it's up for serious practice. (Note the upholstery and rockered legs. That's quality sit.)

For the uninitiated, seiza means "kneeling" in Japanese. Which the Japanese, as a chair-free people, do a lot of. Which means all Zenners – even non-Asian ones – must do a lot of it, too.

And that's a problem, because as I've pointed out, we Westerners are a chair-bound lot. I'd go so far as to call us crippled, in this respect. (Though that said, I'm told the Japanese themselves no longer inhabit the floor as much as they used to, so that Japanese meditators of my generation and younger often experience similar difficulty in Zen practice today.)

But since Westerners also view cheating as a feat of intellect, sometime around the 1970s we adopted this modest little ruse, which allows a guy to sit like a white man while still looking all enlightened and everything. Truth is, even "kneeling" in this fashion will mess you up; I've often held this position for upwards of two hours, and can affirm that your knees and ankles will gently remind you they're there when it's over.

But wait! The bench is also a crutch to help you stand up! Beat that, anachronistic old zafu!

I've wanted one of these literally since I took the path, because it helps change things up during sesshin and there are other places and times where it's a more appropriate choice than a cushion. It also helps greatly in everyday life, such as when doing a project on the floor.

But sturdy and comfortable seiza benches are expensive, and I have this thing about buying stuff I can make.

In other words, I spent the last 16 years preparing to build one.

Which, as you can see, was very shrewd of me, because I've just scored this deluxe model for less than the cost of lunch. Just waiting there amidst all the wooden salad spoons and beat-up tennis rackets, for an old bald fellow dressed all in black to snatch it up like a thrift-store turtleneck.

Road it took to get here included at no extra charge.

WW: Everybody loves the zafu

(First the cat, now the dog.)

Product Review: Dharmacraft Classic Buckwheat Hull Zafu

One of the hallmarks of eremitical monasticism is its visceral anti-materialism. It's not that hermits never buy things, we're just deeply suspicious of the impulse.

Thus, our practice-related purchases must pass rigorous muster:

• They have to be truly necessary.


• They have to be unencumbering: no dragging things across the surface of the planet just to establish credibility with others.


• They have to be non-habit-forming: no adding things you will soon find yourself unable to practice without. 


• Buying has to be demonstrably more economical than making.

That's why in almost 7 years I've posted exactly one product review. And it's no coïncidence that it's for a different sort of the same item I'm reviewing today.

I received my Dharmacraft Classic Buckwheat Hull Zafu almost 15 years ago, as a birthday gift from my mom. (Yes, hermits have moms.) And it's still going strong.

Prior to that I sat on a zafu of rolled-up bath towels, bound together with twine and forced into a tight-fitting cover sewed from scrap material. It got the job done, and I still use it as a spare today.

However, the rolled towels pack down and get hard with use, making long sits, or multiple short ones, painful to my hip joints and back. So after a year of consistent meditation I decided to add a classic Japanese meditation cushion, or zafu, to my practice.

Research determined that I didn't have the sewing skills to make a reliable one, and that, combined with the cost of materials, justified buying a well-made commercial alternative.

Hence, my Dharmacraft Classic Buckwheat Hull Zafu.

This cushion – Dharmacraft's basic model – enables me to sit for long periods with minimal discomfort. (Its buckwheat-hull stuffing is kinder to long sits and my aging frame than the slightly less-expensive kapok model.) I've used it intensely for a decade and a half without drama. (Just dharma. Zen dad joke, there.) My single criticism has since been resolved: the old model I've got has to be unstitched to add more buckwheat and then sewn back up. But a zipper on the current design eliminates even that annoyance.

In fact, the basic item is now a natural cotton insert zipped in a washable cover. (Mine is sewed into its cover, meaning that you have to cover the cover to protect it from dirt and wear. I eventually tied it up in a cloth bag, which works perfectly, but all of the other monks laugh and call me names.)

The current iteration comes in a large array of colours – and even combinations of colours – and goes for $69.00 US from their website at this writing. Cheap at the price for serious practitioners of Zen, at least for those of us who sit lotus.

You might say, it's the basis of practice.

WW: Pumpkin zafus

(Saw these in town the other day. Turn 'em upside down, you got a monastery's-worth of cheap zafus.)

WW: Zafu cat

(Putting my meditation cushion to productive use.)

Product Review: The Mobile Meditator Zafu

The Mobile Meditator
provides monastic-
quality support.

One of the drawbacks of writing a hermit blog is you don't get to write many product reviews. As a rule, hermits don't "do" products; products mean materialism, which means consumerism, which means buying things, which means having money, which means valuing money. Which we also don't do. (Forget ice to Eskimos; the real test of salesmanship is selling anything to a hermit.)

But just as it's nice to eat out every so often, it's also fun to to review something you didn't make, find, or receive as a gift. And this is a good one, as it's something hermits need, and we can't really make.

The Mobile Meditator Inflatable Meditation Cushion is exactly what it says it is. But does it work? The only other product out there that seems to fill this description is widely held to be a piece of, well, karma. Although I've never used one, sangha brothers and sisters tell me it's underwhelming. And many Internet reviewers agree. So I was cautious about gambling my grubstake on an inflatable. Can you really buy a truly portable zafu, small and lightweight enough to carry into the woods, but serious enough to support your back and backside during prolonged sitting? And can you be sure it won't fall apart at a rate that would offend Pema Chödrön?

Yeah. It's called the Mobile Meditator.

Folded up and stuffed in its pouch.

I won't go into specs here, since the manufacturer's website is precise, but this zafu is small when deflated, full-sized when inflated, and almost frighteningly light in both states. Three-chamber design makes it fully adjustable. You know how one thigh is always higher than the other in half lotus, queering your balance? Well, on this zafu, you can tune half to feel almost like full.

Three chambers also mean it takes longer to blow up, especially since the valves have to be pinched just right while blowing into them; that's to prevent the air from coming back out. It also makes the zafu harder to deflate, which you have to do pretty thoroughly to get it back in the included protective pouch. But those hardcore valves also guarantee surprise-free sitting, and better yet, they make it possible to adjust posture on the fly: just reach down and pinch the one on the offending chamber, and your body descends, elevator-style, into proper position.

Mine looks like a giant burnt crescent roll.
Feels like one, too.

The Mobile Meditator is crescent-shaped, which lends itself to Western-style, on-cushion positions. Those who prefer the "Japanese wedge" might get it by inflating the Mobile Meditator hard and using it backward; I don't sit that way, so I can't say. I was initially afraid it would soap-bar out from under me, being vinyl and all, but the flocked surface clings to me militantly. In fact, it clings to everything militantly, making it a magnet for all manner of filth. But it's a small price to pay for a tight seal with the planet. (A light touch with an old-fashioned, bristled clothing brush does adequate clean-up.)

I have heard Brand X users complain of feeling like they were sitting inside a Moon Walk, unable to settle firmly on their inflatable base, but thanks to its shape and design, the Mobile Meditator provides positive purchase. It's not as solid as my beloved buckwheat, but I quickly became accustomed to the slight difference.

The zafu on its back.

To date, I've only come up with two criticisms of this otherwise excellent product. First, it's sweaty; after a long sit, my Enlightenment Base is wet and greasy. This is uncomfortable, but in all honesty, I can't imagine a way to make an inflatable zafu that doesn't do this. So I just place a folded towel on it before I sit, and that solves most of the problem. On the other hand, the company could easily do something about its limited colour choice. Right now the Mobile Meditator comes in two flashy Las Vegas versions (Very Red! and Very Orange!), as well as black. I'm happy; I like black. But they really ought to add a conservative blue, and maybe an earthy green and brown. Just sayin'.

I sure can't complain about the price. At $24.95, a person could be forgiven for assuming it's cheap junk. But it's not; it's cheap quality.

I don't really know exactly how tough this thing is yet, as I've only just got it. However, in a few days I'm going into the woods to meditate for a hundred days, which is why I bought the Mobile Meditator in the first place. Of course I won't do anything stupid, like jump on it or use it directly on the ground or shove it into a bear's mouth to save my life. But I think we can safely assume that this summer will be the Mobile Meditator equivalent of a Timex commercial.

I'll let you know how it goes.

UPDATE, September 2011:

Not well, as it happens. The zafu popped on the third day out, and I ended up rolling up my closed-cell sleeping pad each day to serve as a cushion. I wouldn't read too much into this, though; the conditions were extremely challenging for anything inflatable. By way of comparison, my Thermarest pad, which I used as a zabuton, also developed a leak, and the Mobile Meditator is nowhere near as sturdy as that is.

So the Mobile Meditator is not great for exterior hermitry, at least not as-is. I suspect you could make a cover for it of leather or some artificial material (the stuff they make industrial hoses out of comes to mind), and that would probably keep it alive in abrasive conditions.

Before I leave this topic, let me also say that I cut the side chambers out (only the big middle one popped) and used one for my pillow at night and the other as knee support with the rolled-mat zafu. Both served throughout the ango with no further complications, and are still perfectly airtight. The knee support was particularly welcome, since the little cushion could be adjusted with a pinch, and sitting on that hard foam roll increased joint stress rather a lot. 

I Get Off With A Warning

So it's midnight, and I'm meditating on the lower deck when my fat lamp suddenly goes out. With only twenty minutes to go, I decide to sit tight. (No pun intended.)

Until something literally almost climbs into my lap. I yell, and it scatters. After collecting a flashlight, I see this.

It's the night shift. (Note my zafu and zabuton in the upper right.)

They scope me out, more from procedure than concern.

"Don't look like much."

"Don't smell like much, neither."

"No worries, guys. It's just a big Buddhist monkey."

And they continue their rounds, as if no one were there.

No one important, anyway.