Gurglings

Yesterday I discussed briefly the spirituality of my childhood. For the last eight years or so, the arrow of my moral compass has pointed toward India (though recently it was begun to shift back toward Japan, where it had been for at least a decade prior.) My yoga teaching has been largely inspired by my teacher Tias Little, and one of the reasons I chose Santa Fe as my point of re-entry was in order to study with him. In 2010 I took three, one-week yoga teacher trainings, two as a participant and one as his assistant. During my times on the mat with Tias, I learn far more than I can hope to pass on. And more important, I follow verbal breadcrumbs that lead me exactly to where I am.
(The following entries are things that profoundly resonated with me at the time of training and are basically nothing more than a self-indulgent recording of that. Be forewarned.)

How interesting that as infants we engage the world strictly orally. Later, we create the world through another oral process, through words.

Reality as film: the illusion of the continuation of image. The stills are the aggregates. The light of our being serving as the light that animates.

Regarding the Chakras (ala the Anatomy of the Chakras training I was in), I'm currently stuck in the Vishuddha, as a writer, and as one who has recently returned to the land of my mother tongue.

Humor in the US of the put-down variety, a competition like everything else here. Japanese humor more of the pratfall variety, a social release valve.

Time spent near water increases prana. Relates to my own philosophy that the World's most beautiful cities are those that utilize their waterfronts well.

Incense is time literally passing before our eyes.

I'm an introvert with extrovert tendencies. I consistently play out my internal dramas and process in conversation. (Sorry!)

In Japanese, 'perception' is chikaku. Chi=knowledge. Kaku=Comprehension, satori, awakening.

Disillusionment with American life is a sign that I'm once again emotionally invested.

Buddhist eight-fold path related to Chakras, as stages toward liberation. (As are the 7 cities of Cibola, according to the incredible writing of Frank Waters).

I wanted to be a star in the land of conformity (Japan). I want to be conformist in a land where everyone wants to be a superstar. (US)

In this New Mexico of dramatic outer landscapes, I pass most of my time in inner landscapes. I need to return to external landscapes, including those citified.


On the turntable: Stiff Little Fingers, "B's, Live, Unplugged, and Demos"

Immaterial Witness

I live in Santa Fe. This means I live amidst a hodge-podge of religions as great as at any other place or time in history. After the indigenous earth religions of the natives came the Spanish Catholicism that attempted to eradicate it. The Third Wave brought the Anglo seekers of the original draft, those artists and writers of the early decades of the last century, who created the myth of the noble Indian, which motivated further waves of Anglos to follow. More recently came the hippies and the neo-hippies, who too came looking for that simple native spirituality, yet this round of pilgrims had one eye ever on the East, diluting the local brand with elements of Buddhism and the New Age. Most recently came Indians of a different genetic strand. There are currently a handful of vedic ashrams or ayurvedic schools in the area, with yoga schools thick on the ground. Living here I am exposed daily to a wide variety of people, all grounded (or in far too many cases, ungrounded) by some belief system or other.

Spirituality in 21st Century America is far different than what I've experienced in Asia. During my own training and travels, I have noticed no real separation at all between spirituality and daily life. The evidence is everywhere, no matter the country or culture or class. Spirituality is at once sacred and personal, and is at the same time secular and universal. They walk their talk. Or more appropriately, there is little talk at all, and why would there be, since it is like talking about how to breathe or how to eat? By contrast, expressions of personal emotion here in the US feel dramatized, but that's not really our fault considering all the way we're constantly spoon fed overblown emotions by the media.

But why then, do we Americans talk so much shit about our feelings but rarely focus on what's valid, on what's real? Self-expression sounds scripted, like in a bad TV show. I naturally find myself making comparisons with the Japanese, who are as impenetrable as the concrete that they're so busy girding their nation with: a cultural and historic hardening and protecting from the inside out. By contrast, American emotions run as wild and unpredictable as a river. The approach to spirituality is interesting, frequently talked-up and emphasized as a sort of adventure. Which strikes me as odd considering that spirituality's purpose is to dam that unpredictable river of the emotions. Long ago, Trungpa Rinpoche downplayed this as spiritual materialism. In Japan, I found most people just turned up at a retreat and silently did their thing, uncomplaining about the omnipresent pain, physical or psychic. In the US, it's like it didn't happen unless we promote it. We wear our spirituality like a coat, putting it on and taking it off with every slight change in the weather. The worst are those who talk up others' spirituality, spouting aphorisms or stories of long-dead sages, as if we haven't already heard them. I often want to say to them, firmly but politely, "Just do your practice and cut the Zen talk already!"



On the turntable: Krishna Das, "Heart as Big as the World"
On the nighttable: Jack Kutz, "Mysteries and Miracles of New Mexico"

Resurrection Day

Shortly after leaving the Zen Center, I went down to Belen to attend Easter mass with my mom. I hadn't been in a church for close to a decade, and I was surprised how much my attitude towards it has changed. Mostly, that has been influenced by own openness to spirituality. Ten years ago, I was a firm believer in the Japanese concept of "jiriki,' or self-power. This was apparent in the paths I walked, as a martial artist and a practitioner of yoga and zen. It was only after my son died, during that 'lost year' when my soul was open and stripped bare, that I found myself in numerous situations where I felt guided, and had experiences that even today I can't explain. I began to accept that while I was free to play the game of life according to my own strategies, the game board itself had been set up for me. Over the subsequent years, I began to identify the richness of a spiritual world, in particular as it relates to place.

So it was in the little Spanish church in the little village of Tome on that Easter weekend. As I entered the church, I bowed deeply, then bent over to take off my shoes. The residue from a month in the zen center was apparently still upon me. Hands in shasshu, I slid into an empty pew, the seat wooden and hard with a back at nearly a right angle. While self-flagellation is now frowned upon by the modern church, those little touches of discipline still remain. These seats would allow no sleeping, and little relaxing. Then the music started up, hymns sung in Spanish. I always found it funny how not only the churchgoers but the musicians themselves sing these verses in what is almost a mumble, as if embarrassed. One of the hymns had me humming along, as the melody was similar to Bob Marley tune, with that trad Mexican-style of picking on the downbeat.

As for the mass, I was surprised by how much of the ritual I'd forgotten, despite years of indoctrination. One change new to me was the collection system. When I'd been young, it used to be a small basket that was passed around. (When taking this from the hands of a neighboring stranger, I'd always wanted to say, "No thank you," but never had the guts to actually make this joke.) Today, two man came down aisle by aisle, their baskets at the end of a long pole. As they'd lean in so as to reach the innermost seats, they 'd smoothly thrust their arms forward as if shooting pool.

Most expectedly, I found myself remembering the Lord's Prayer, reciting it as automatically as I now chant the Heart Sutra. The rest of the mass went on as it always has. I really enjoy the priest here, with his common-sense approach to spirituality, and unwillingness to get caught up in the more radical dogma, as expressed in those right-to-life signs out on the front lawn. (When I met him a couple years ago and relayed the story of Miki confusing a confessional for a bathroom, he threw back his head in laughter.) During the sermon, he compassionately acknowledged an apparently epileptic young man having a seizure in one of the pews, yet continued on in order to keep the flock on focus. This seizure was evidence of my jaded view of Catholicism; how it maintains its strongest presence in countries with the most poor and disenfranchised, where the population has little but their faith. While thinking this, I looked over at the woman in the pew in front of me, sitting there attached to her oxygen tank. From the perspective of Great Faith, how does she relate to a God who would put her through such a trial?

While I think it would take a major effort for me to lose such a cynical stance to organized religion, I did feel a profound shift, from the feeling a decade earlier of crushing repression, to one of welcome. I think that I found much joy and peace in the community that had gathered for this holiday. Heading home, I managed to walk out the doors without bowing, carrying a strange desire to reconnect.


On the turntable: Frank Zappa, "Sheik Yerbouti"

Zen Knock-Knock Joke

"Knock-knock!"
"Who's there?"
"Who IS there?"


On the turntable: Ministry, "Filth Pig"

Where Have I Found Beauty

Where have I found beauty? Most of my life it's been in sound, in music, be it the intricate interplay of instrumentation, or in a single soulful voice. In the sounds of the wild, most recently the birdsong I haven't heard in 15 years. I remember a story Keith told me, of holing himself in the wilds of Northern Quebec in order to write his next album. Beside his cabin was a small brook, and later, when it came time to record, he found that all the songs were in the same key and rhythm as that moving water. Sound still resonates with me, as just this morning, the ding of the wake-up bell made me long for ice cream.

More recently, I've found beauty in light. Yesterday, I was struck still, paralyzed by the shimmer of light tossed by the windmill onto the pine tree before the Zendo. Wim Wenders taught me this wonder of light, with the yin and yang monochrome of "Wings of Desire." I'll never forget, a day after watching that film, standing on the small bridge behind Shimogamo shrine, unable to move yet again, not wanting to lose the play of sunlight on water passing below. This reflection on reflection is always a treat, always a surprise, never knowing when the light will once again stop the world for me.


On the turntable: "Red Allan (Giants of Jazz)"

What's Dead Inside Me

(During the film retreat, we were given journal assignments. Over the next few days I'll post mine here. They're of the first-thought, best-thought school, unedited and not particularly good...)

"What is dead inside me? What a ridiculous question! How can anything be dead, so long as I myself am alive? As Buddhists, do we not emphasize the constant flux of things? Anything currently dormant has by all means the potential to reanimate. To think otherwise is un-Buddhist. Shakyamuni himself recognized the world, and the beings that exist within it, are made up of constantly shifting aggregates. Death too is not a constant immovable state. Does not a body decompose? Does not that decomposition become the organic makeup of the next generation? If you think otherwise, I'll show you the shit stains on my khakis from hours of kneeling in compost out in Upaya's gardens. Or I'll ask you how you're enjoying the kale in today's lunch, which rose from that same supposedly dead matter. Or I'll tell you about the latest in my series of dreams where my late son comes to play. I refuse to let his death, or any death, dehabilitate me. That occasional flicker of sorrow will quickly turn to joy, then on to something else. I refuse to buy into this fixed idea of death. And it is this very refusal that I live my most vividly."

On the turntable: "DGC Rarities, Vol. 1"
On the nighttable: Francois Bizot, "The Gate"

Growing to the Movies

The snow is falling, despite the calendar showing May. I'm walking to my car, body heavy, shoulders rolled forward in fatigue. I'm walking like an old man, not so much from the weather as from the weight of the previous five days. I'd attended a Zen retreat that was a film retreat that was a writing retreat, led by Upaya's Sensei Beate Stole, and co-taught by Natalie Goldberg and Dyanna Taylor. Prior to entering the zendo that first night, I wondered how the three of them would pull this off, this retreat named "Going to the Movies," but jokingly called by some the "First Upaya Film Festival." Yet any feelings that this would be five days of popcorn and entertainment disappeared moments into the premiere feature, a short student film made by a woman whose husband had been medivacked from Iraq after suffering major burns. Each subsequent film packed a similarly significant wallop. The films that we saw in the mornings were especially hard hitting, each of us in that room quietly wandering off to lunch, brutalized by what we'd just seen. Even the lighter films seemed to set us up, the comedy serving to lull us into a false complacency, unprepared for the painful truths about to batter us. I felt particularly bludgeoned by day three, despair giving way to despair. But in the midst of all this darkness there was hope. A couple who finds solace in the fellowship of suffering. The absurd yet unfailing optimism of extreme environmentalism despite a chorus of contempt. The genetically driven perseverance to continue despite increasingly difficult conditions. Art as means of humanizing systematic dehumanization. Activists who lose what they're fighting for but, through the courage of the spirit, somehow get more than what they'd wanted. A victim's self-justified sadism finding identification in mutual suffering. Cultivating compassion for those whose actions hardly warrant it. Overcoming inconceivable trauma with blind faith.

Prior to the retreat, I'd wondered what to expect, thinking somewhat flippantly that, well, meditation and film are both about sitting and observing, right?. But as the week went on, I realized that what we do in the Zendo is superficially a collective act, but ultimately, we are sitting alone. Film is the same. Though we are all watching the exact same images, the internal process is vastly different for each of us. Which is why we love not only to view films, but also to talk about them. How ruthless (yet, in hindsight, brilliant) to bar this discussion. The film retreat came at the end of a intense Spring practice period, where we were in silence for most of the day, forcing us to keep that critical mind at bay, and allowing all the reactions from our own personal journey to arise with full voice. Natalie Goldberg facilitated this in giving us writing assignments, pen and paper allotted equal importance to the meditation cushion. We were allowed only a single opportunity in which to discuss the films, but even then it was limited to a four minute monologue that inevitably returned to the realm of personal reaction and experience. The critical mind was once again banished behind the velvet rope. Ironically, each of the 10 films were about community, and how we can overcome our suffering -- both individual and shared -- in combining strength through human connection. My own desire to connect culminated in me walking the Upaya grounds one afternoon, desperately looking for somehow to have a conversation with.

Of all the films, I was most affected by "Stranded," yet another telling of the 1972 plane crash of the Uraguayan rugby team. This time, we were told the story from the point of view of the survivors, and got to see where they were 30 years later. This brought a sort of closure to me, having been exposed originally to their story in the film, "Survive," back in 1977 . When I saw it, I was all of 10 years old, and this film could be the source of my fear of flying. The seventies, and the wake of the Vietnam War, were full of similar disaster films, dramatizing the breakdown of the American dream. At my current age, 42, I get the metaphor, but as I child, all I could identify with were the graphic images my young mind was unable to disconnect from.

During the introductory talk of the retreat, Natalie asked us to write on our relationship to film. I wrote that film takes me places I'm not ready to go. I wasn't ready to enter the worlds represented by any of these films. I see myself as an 'educated' film viewer, easily seeing "the man behind the curtain," but I still found myself manipulated and beaten up. The films we watched, and the order in which they were shown, were a premeditated Zen lesson in the ways of the mind and the mind's reaction to the constant bombardment of stimuli in the modern world. I wasn't ready to feel pity for Richard Nixon; I wasn't ready for the rage and hopelessness I felt in viewing "Manufactured Landscapes" (though half of that rage was resentment at the obvious manipulation by the filmmaker in his use of soundtrack and visual composition); I wasn't ready for several of the characters to lead me into areas of my own suffering and grief.

The final night, we saw a presentation by Gerry Moffatt, a mountaineer who doesn't like to be called mountaineer. He showed us stills and video footage from a handful of his expeditions: recreating Mallory's attempt at Everest, skiing the Andes, rafting the uncharted rivers of Bhutan. Gerry being here in the first place was a complete fluke, though it was poetic that he closed the show. For in his talks, we heard him speak warmly and lovingly of the members of his teams with whom he shared hardship and peril. The films we'd been viewing all week had exposed us to inconceivable challenges. Gerry's footage too were filmed images of similar challenges, this time in the form of stone and storm, ice and water. Yet he and his community had found ways to-- not conquer, not surmount -- but harmonize with those challenges, in a way that was ever on a human scale.


On the turntable: J.J. Johnson, "Tangience"
On the nighttable: Francois Bizot, "The Gate"

Weird Scenes Inside The Gold Mind

I'm not after mindfulness as much as knowing the self.

Obsession on Emptiness and Form. Astronomical black holes as tangible evidence of this duality. Spending a day in silence doesn't cover the cacophony of thought. The two Suzukis: D.T.'s emptiness of zen scholarship vs. Shunryu's form of practice. (Or vice versa perhaps?) Shunryu's sowing the seeds of practice in American soil, hoping some would blow back across the sea to Japan and germinate as revolution in temples there.

The way Americans overuse the word 'Master.' But who truly knows everything about something? No one I've ever met. We can't even master the fundamentals of being human. Breathing? Not from what I've seen as a yoga teacher. Eating? I see obesity everywhere. Defecation? The TV is loaded with commercials for irritable bowel syndrome, constipation, hemorrhoids. Let's save the word "Master' for golf, shall we?

Having children is an act of optimism.

Ken looks younger every time I see his photo, as if he is receding while I grow older...


On the turntable: Tounami Diabate, "The Mande Variations"

Notes from Upaya

I'm housed in a room called 'Tatami," which is a wide space over the offices. To enter, you need to express humility by ducking through a low door, then do a Quasimoto-like lurch beneath the 5 foot ceiling. The very first night, I smash my head into the metal latch that hangs down from the center of the door frame. It takes over an hour for the blood to clot.

One night in zazen, I'm obsessing on my desire for popcorn. Just after we finish sitting, I go over to the Querencia kitchen to find that one of the priests has just freshly popped some. (Cue The Police.)

Throughout the month, I'm enchanted by the colorful birds, mostly hues I'd rarely seen in Japan. They are a living palate against the monochromatic winter desert landscape. One afternoon I go sit above the snow-obscured stream to watch them. Time, and the afternoon, soon disappears. At night I'm serenaded by coyote song, their yip yip yips awakening me. I aurally track their progress along the stream below. Some nights they are echoed by the barks of dogs, apparent frustration at a cruel twist of DNA.

One silent lunch period, I find myself staring down into my bowl of quinoa. The cooking directions say that they are ready when the white DNA ring is visible. But caught up as I am in the concentration of the retreat, I'm hypnotized by the sight of the atomic element on display before me, momentarily having penetrating into the heart of reality.

One afternoon, there is a wedding. The bride is in a beautiful, though unorthodox, white dress. Like a geisha's, her dress was dipping in the back, but it didn't stop at the upper shoulders. Instead it hung all the way down to the small of her back. Traditionally in Japan,the back of the neck is considered the most sensuous part of a woman's body. In seeing all the way from nape to waist, I felt like I was exposed to secrets I wasn't privy to, the dark mole set against white skin, the knobs of vertebra leading downward to softer, rounder, fleshier bits.

The energy rushing up my spine, swirling around my heart, softening flesh that has been like protective leather for so long. Healing.

At breakfast, I smear what I think is green chili on my eggs, then, while expecting the usual blast of huevos rancheros, my taste buds instead are numbed by the taste of tahini.

All month, sitting eyeball to eyeball with Green Tara's dog (which I later learn is named Dominga, and belongs to Roshi). On my cushion in front of the painting, every day I'd find my attention drawn deeply into a different detail. Like the mind. Like life.

When I first started sitting zazen at temples in Japan, I loved all the accompanying ritual. Here I find resistance to it, especially the English chants. The Japanese use the phonetically (Sino-ized) Sansrkit. Why can't the Yanks?

As the snow continues to build up, I'm beginning to get worn down by the lack of color. The sudden glimpse of a blue shovel leaning against a fence is the most colorful thing in the world.

Watching guests do their training brings to mind how attached we are to habits. One guy does zazen in his jeans, cell phone still strapped to hip. A women does outdoor walking meditation with sunglasses on. Another woman in expensive designer wear looks terribly uncomfortable pushing a mop. But who am I to judge? Most of these people have a stronger meditation practice than my own. (Where the dharma sideswipes my bad habits would fill an entire blog.)

During the silent retreats, I find myself doing zazen everywhere, eyes pointed down in that 50 yard stare, following a breath coming with ease.

Getting vibed by a few women after Eve Ensler's talk. It reminds me of how teen boys, after seeing a kung fu film, leave the theater jumping around and kicking stuff.

Outdoor kinhin, like a samba line of awareness.

During a meditation exercise, the difficulty I had in connecting with a childhood memory. The way my back softened when I looked into my partner's eyes. How hard it was to hold it.

Natalie Goldberg's comment: "Why would you write a memoir if you have no regrets?"

How anger can be fuel for powerful meditations.

The final day, a thunderstorm comes over violently. We keep to our cushions, sitting strongly, holding the space, the silence. I feel a connection with everyone then, and my eyes fill, feeling the love.


On the turntable: Midlake, "The Trials of Van Occupanther"

Dust

I'm in Santa Fe, training for a month at Upaya Zen Center, and having a fine time, thank you. The hours of meditation, the long work periods, and all the snow are helping to ground me in this land of big skies.
Yesterday, while sitting on my cushion and polishing the mirror, a limerick showed up in my head like a surprise guest:

There once was a person of zen
Who pondered the now and the then.
He sat on his seat,
Losing touch with his feet,
Counting breaths that never seemed to reach ten.


On the turntable: Morcheeba, "Dive Deep"
On the nighttable: Michael Downing, "Shoes Outside the Door"