This early morning my chest
feels tender and soft.
A friend's kisses linger
on my right cheek, another's
tears on my left.
There is a great stillness
all around.

Who can say that your path
and mine are different?
What path can we take
that hearts may beat
freely again?
An ancient deep, dream
has come to mind.

There is a stillness
deeper than silence,
a peace deeper than calm.
In the flash of the eye,
laughter, or a tear.
No effort needed, no self to seek,
just grace remains.

A Teacher says,words
that are spoken,
can be "unspoken."
Here is nothing to hold onto,
nothing to let go of.
Each raindrop makes a
greener leaf.

Opening the gate,
I entered;
It was indeed not a gate.

...............

Closing the gate,
I came out.
It was, after all, not a gate.

...............

Between what was so painfully hard,
And what is now so easy.
Here is no difference anymore.

...............

The cloud that fleeted away in
my morning dream.
Where will it rest tonight?

Occasionally we can get too close to what is dear to our hearts.
We can need to step back and reassess.
We know when we need to because something doesn't feel quite right in life.

That can manifest as taking more time than usual to see the ego self at work in an interpersonal interaction.
That can manifest as getting lost in laziness following the latest 'great opening' in our practice life.
That can manifest as getting lost in irritation as our life practice becomes too routine.

Or it can manifest in a thousand other ways, but we know deep down when something is just a little out of balance in our lives.

When this is so it can be useful to just take that step back, even from what is dear to our hearts, and be content just to look for a while. Just to keep seeing whats going on.

If we don't then we risk losing touch with what was dear to our hearts.
And we mustn't worry whether others understand or not.
For no-one else can live this life for us.

"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not quite, the not yet, the not at all....Check your road and the nature of your battle"  advises Ayn Rand.

That fire is necessary, for our own welfare, and for our ability to bring positive change for others. Dzongsar Rinpoche calls it Windhorse, the vital energy we need to actually keep on being the change, within ourselves and within the world.

Sakyong Rinpoche points to the motivation that lies behind this energy of the spirtual warrior. Our road, or path, or way, needs the discipline and exertion which comes from clear motivation.

The nature of the battle requires us to see whats going on. We have to sit down and look.  We have to step back and see our vision of what we thought we were doing.

And then seeing how that compares with the vision which got us involved in the path to begin with.

Not analysing, or fixing, or getting sidetracked. Just seeing.
Just touching base with 'what is my prime motivation?'
Not for me, not for others, not for this thing dear to our hearts.
But just 'what is my prime motivation, in life?'

And if we can't answer straight away, or find ourselves thinking up a noble reply, then we really do need to sit down until we see it. There's no rush.

Just seeing it clearly once more can provide the discipline and exertion to get that fire burning brightly again, can clarify the path, the vision, and bring our life back into balance.
Then we're more useful to ourselves, to others, to the world, to that thing dear to our hearts.

Student: In light of what you said earlier, I don't understand the vows. If there are no sentient beings why do we vow to save them? It sounds like a big joke.

Suzuki Roshi: That is because your practice is always confined within the realm of "Why do we practice zazen? What does it mean?" Actually, your practice is very good. Why is your practice so good? I don't understand. [Laughs.]

Student: It doesn't feel good to me.

Suzuki Roshi: Anyway, you are doing well. My lecture may be some enticement. [Laughs.] It may be better for you not to listen to my talks. Just practice zazen.

Student: I don't mind zazen so much, but I don't like to make promises I don't understand.

Suzuki Roshi: If sentient beings are numberless, or desires are inexhaustible, you cannot say, "I vow to save them." Our promise is very silly. It doesn't make any sense. I agree with you. But still we do it. Why? Because we don't feel so good if we don't work for others. We take the four vows, but what we mean is more than that. For the sake of convenience, we say just the four. But I really, truly feel lucky that we have inexhaustible desires and numberless sentient beings to save, and also that it is impossible to save each one of them in terms of "I save you." You cannot save in that way. Whether it is possible or not, whether it is the Buddhist or bodhisattva or Hinayana or Mahayana way, is not the question. Anyhow, do it! That is our vow.

Student: When I promise to do something, it has to have some meaning. If it doesn't have some meaning, I can't say it.

Suzuki Roshi: That is your arrogance.

Student: I don't know, maybe, but--

Suzuki Roshi: You are crying. Even though you are crying, that crying doesn't make any sense. Your effort is still based on some selfish practice. You don't give yourself up. You have to suffer and fight more with yourself. There is no one to fight with, and nothing to fight with. Fight with your selfish practice until you give up. That is the most important point for real students. They shouldn't fool themselves. They don't want to be fooled by our teaching, or by Zen, or by anything. That is right. They shouldn't be fooled by anything.

Student: Well what will I do at the end of talks, when we chant the four vows? Everyone will chant the four vows, and I won't believe them.

Suzuki Roshi: You don't have to believe in them literally. Because various teachers and numerous people recite them, you should do it. If they are cheating themselves, you, too, should be cheated; you should be fooled along with all sentient beings. That you cannot do it means that you want to be a special person. That is good. That much spirit we should have; but that is not our way. My answer is very cold. I cannot be sympathetic with your practice. Maybe some great teacher will give you some candy. Go and get it.

Student: It's not like that, Roshi. Maybe part of it is, but I still don't understand. I don't feel right. Even if the whole world is fooled, if there is something I don't believe in, or I don't understand--

Suzuki Roshi: You don't understand. You see various colors, but how many colors do you see with your eyes? How much sound can you hear? How much can you understand with your small mind? You should know the limit of your thinking mind. Your thinking mind only works dualistically. You have no words to explain this kind of reality. It is almost impossible to understand our teaching through words. But because you stick to my words, or to scriptures, you think the scriptures should be perfect, should be more convincing. You think in that way, but I must confess that what I say is not always right, not always true. I am suggesting something more than that. Not only Buddha, but Confucius also said, "If someone wants to fool you, you should be fooled by them." This is very important.

Student: Even though practice is greater than words, still in the small world of words I don't feel strong enough yet to be inconsistent. If I say to you, "I don't see that lamp, Roshi," then something funny happens inside of me, and sometimes that funny feeling happens inside of me when I say the vows. I think, "Okay, I vow to save all sentient beings," but then something is going on inside that doesn't--

Suzuki Roshi: Yes, I understand that. You know, we priests always put our palms together and bow when we meet. How many times have you put your hands together at Tassajara? When I was young I didn't like it at all. I felt as if I was fooling myself, and I didn't feel so good. But as I had to do it, I did it, that's all. But now I understand, because I understand how foolish I am. I don't have as much spirit as I had before. Truth is truth, and I can't agree with you now. Maybe if I were your age I could agree with you quite easily and we would be great friends, but now I am not your friend.

Student: Roshi, do you think that we have any choice? For instance, am I here at Tassajara by my choice, or am I simply here at Tassajara?

Suzuki Roshi: Your buddha nature brought you here to Tassajara. I don't think it was your choice completely, Maybe twenty or thirty percent is your choice. But most of the reason for your being here is beyond that. That we hear Buddha's teaching is because of our previous study. Wisdom seeks wisdom, and we are listening to the teaching that we listened to under many teachers in past lives. Dogen says this. Even though you feel as if your whole body is saying, "I am feeling this way one hundred percent," that voice that now seems to cover all of your being actually is only a little, tiny part of you. Maybe I shouldn't explain so much in the traditional way.

Student: Well, then, if I were to become a buddha, would I have anything to do with it?

Suzuki Roshi: First of all, try to forget yourself and rely on your true voice, your voiceless voice, your nonverbal voice. "Listen to the tongueless teaching," we say, don't listen to my words. Think about this.

Student: Whose voice is it that we listen to?

Suzuki Roshi: Your voice and Buddha's voice. That is what the Sandokai is talking about. You sometimes think it is your voice, but it is Buddha's voice. Your thinking comes from a one-sided feeling. You think you are here. You think you are Joe or Mary, but actually it is not so, not at all. I think I am Suzuki, but if someone calls me Suzuki, I feel very funny. "Oh, is this Suzuki?" The first reaction is, "No, I am not Suzuki."

Student: Roshi, I may put my hands together in gassho and someone may look at me and say, "Oh, that is good gassho," but there maybe a cold heart behind it.

Suzuki Roshi: Cold heart or warm heart is not the question.

Student: Is it still good gassho?

Suzuki Roshi: Perfect!

Life is much too serious to take seriously.
So i was pleased to find the link to a strange website in my inbox this morning.
Maybe we should get the Buddha figure for the altar at Zen Centre? 
OK probably not...

If you're a sensitive religious soul then maybe you shouldn't click on the links, or maybe you should.   :)

------------------------------------------------------------------

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excerpt from Ed Brown's book 'Tomato Blessings, Radish Teachings'

[p.3]


When I arrived in April of 1967 to undertake my role as head cook of the newly-founded Zen Mountain Center located at Tassajara Hot Springs, I soon became acquainted with the food habits and rituals of the residents. The center had not officially opened yet, but about twenty-five people were already living there. During my first meal preparation, someone informed me, "We do not use salt in the cooking."

I was stunned. I couldn't imagine such a thing. "You don't use salt?" I stammered. No, of course not. The custom was explained to me as though I was from another planet, as though it were the most obvious thing. "We don't use salt in the cooking because salt is bad for you. Everyone eats too much salt." The explanation didn't explain anything to me.

Arbitrary rulings are pretty common in community life everywhere. Someone knows what is right for everyone else, and although the rationale is vague and incoherent --no real information is conveyed--the authority wants you to go along with it (for your own good).

I found the idea of not using salt upsetting and disconcerting, but not being particularly adept at negotiation or inclined to throw my weight around, I went along with it until I had a chance to consult with Suzuki Roshi, our Zen teacher. These are, after all the kind of matters that can be easily resolved by higher spiritual authority.

"What shall I do?" I asked him. "Everybody has all these different ideas."

"Different ideas? Like what?"

"They don't want me to use salt. They say it's bad for you," I told him.

"You are the head cook," he said, "you can use salt if you want." The things a Zen teacher has to clarify. I was relieved. I wanted everyone to be happy and to agree---but they didn't. I didn't want to side against anybody, but the Roshi's authority settled it for me. I could use salt.

Then I asked the Roshi if he had any advice for me as the cook. His answer was straightforward and down-to-earth: "When you wash the rice, wash the rice; when you cut the carrots, cut the carrots; when you stir the soup, stir the soup."

"OK," I decided, "I'll make those words my life." They became a life jacket, the proverbial Buddhist "raft," something which keeps you afloat, 'afloat' even when you are going under.

Some of my companions complained about missing meditation or lectures in order to prepare meals or to clean up after them. They seemed to think that 'Zen' was happening somewhere else, and that we kitchen workers were missing out.

I would remind myself what our teacher had said, that work was equally spiritual practice, another opportunity to see into the nature of things. I decided that I would prove it was true, that I would work as though it was indeed spiritual work. I didn't know any better.

So I worked hard. I worked at washing the rice when I washed the rice, cutting the carrots when I cut the carrots, scrubbing the pots when I scrubbed the pots. Complaints, fatigue,
daydreaming, obsessive thinking, everything was met with a kind of admonition, a kind of reminder, "Just do it. Do what you are doing." I tried in a simple, direct, awkward way to be present, to see the rice with my eyes, to feel the rice with my hands, to have awareness in the movement of my arms. It certainly wasn't glamorous, and nobody said, "Why, thank you so much."

Day after day I put my awareness into activity, trying to find out how to cut vegetables, mop floors, clean sponges. I held the knife this way and that, trying out various cutting motions. Feeling my hands, I sought to use them more effectively and proficiently.

Overlooked details of activity would bump into my awareness. While intent on cutting, I would hear the knife clatter carelessly onto the table. Not just cutting the carrot took attention, but picking the knife up, putting the knife down, wiping the knife, cleaning the knife, sharpening the knife, storing the knife.

I noticed that I needed to develop a more relaxed form of concentration. I would be concentrating so hard on cutting something that the smallest interruption, "Where's more salt? " "What shall I do next?" would be shattering. My awareness would have to be more resilient than that, less brittle: focused, but willing to be interrupted and responsive to the next moment whatever it turned out to be.

Within my body also my awareness was too narrowly focused. While my hands and arms were actively engaged, my shoulders were aching with stiffness. I would have to let my awareness spread out, encompassing shoulders, back, stomach, hips, legs, feet, as well as hands and arms.

Anyone can do this kind of work. Whole worlds come alive.

Entering the world of activity, of actualizing being, the world appears vivid with spinach, lettuces, and black beans; with cutting boards, baking pans, and sponges. You let go of the imagined and hypothetical so that awareness can function in the world of things. Where previously you may have hesitated or waited for the world to provide entertainment or solace, here you enter a world vibrant with the energy and devotion flowing out of your own being.

Food appears.

"Master Ungan Donjo in the Tan district was sweeping the ground one day.
Master Dogo Enchi said: 'You are very diligent in your work'.
Master Ungan replied: 'There is someone who is not diligent'.
Master Dogo said: 'If that is true, you must have a second moon'.
Then Master Ungan stood up his broom and said: 'How many moons are here?'
Master Dogo left without saying anything. "

- Shinji Shobogenzo Book 1 - Dogen Zenji

One Moon, Two Moons :
Oneness and Mindfulness in the Teachings of Zen Master Dogen:

by Mike Eido Luetchford

The expression two moons (or sometimes, two heads) was often used in Chinese Buddhism to indicate a state of divided consciousness. The state when we are thinking about something while we are doing something else is one example of this. But the Buddhist state is oneness in action - a state in which there is no second moon. In this koan story from the Shinji Shobogenzo, Master Dogo praises Master Ungan for his diligence. Master Ungan, however, feels that these words are one-sided, so he states the opposite viewpoint: there is part of me that is not diligent. Master Ungan is saying that he is just sweeping the floor; his action is neither diligent nor lazy. It is just real action in the real world. But Master Dogo misinterprets Master Ungan's words to mean that there is some division or self-consciousness in him; that there is one Ungan who feels diligent, and another Ungan who doesn't. He expresses this by saying that Master Ungan must have a second moon. When our sight is clear, we see one moon in the sky. When our sight is clouded we see two moons, even though there is only one real moon. Master Ungan holds his broom by his side, and standing there very straight and concentrated he asks, "How many moons are here?" He challenges Master Dogo to find any division or fault in his behavior. Master Dogo then leaves without saying anything further.
This simple story illustrates the meaning of oneness in action, one of the most important aspects to the Buddhism that Dogen teaches, and for that reason it is important to discuss it again and again. Particularly since this teaching of oneness is closely related to our understanding of mindfulness, a term that Buddhist teachers in the West frequently use to point us towards right action.

I was fortunate enough to live in a non-western society (Japan) for more than twenty years, during which time I slowly came to see a difference between what I would term a "Western intellectual view" (my own) and an "Eastern holistic view". And I have come to believe that the difference between these two views confuses our understanding of oneness in action, mindfulness and other related Buddhist concepts that have arrived in the West but that originated in Eastern cultures.

It is interesting to note that although Dogen talks about oneness in action many times in his writings (oneness of subject and object, oneness of actor and act, oneness of mind and the world, oneness of time and being), he mentions the term mindfulness only infrequently. When he does so, for example in The Eight Truths of a Great Human Being and The Thirty-seven Elements of Bodhi chapters of the Shobogenzo, the term is usually included in quotations from early sutras. In the first of these two chapters, commenting on a quotation from a sutra, he says "There is mindfulness that exists in moments of owning one's body and mindfulness that exists in moments of having no mind. There is conscious mindfulness and there is mindfulness in which there is no body." It is clear from this quotation that Dogen does not necessarily associate mindfulness with mind. Mindfulness existing in moments of having no mind suggests a mindfulness that can be found in a state where we are not in the intellectual area, where we are not thinking about or monitoring what we are doing. And mindfulness in which there is no body suggests a state in which we are apparently unaware of what our body is doing. These are descriptions of the state of oneness in action. Later in the same chapter he says "Mindfulness as a power is a great brute pulling a person's nostrils", a reference to a koan story in which Master Shakkyo Ezo yanks the nose of Master Seido Chizo in order to explain the meaning of space [Shinji Shobogenzo Book 3, Koan No. 49]. Again it is clear from this story that it is simple and direct action that Dogen is identifying with the term mindfulness.

The Sanskrit term translated as mindfulness is SMRITI (SATI in Pali). The everyday meaning of the Sanskrit term SMRITI is nearer to the intellectual function of remembering, calling to mind, concentrating the mind, being mindful. But interestingly, the meaning of SATI in Pali (the original language of the Buddhist Sutras) also includes the meanings of recognition, consciousness, wakefulness, alertness, lucidity. The term SMRITI/SATI was translated into Chinese/Japanese as NEN, which means thought or idea, but also attention or care. And it is clear that the English term mindfulness in normal usage reflects the intellectual function rather strongly, and that its root in the word mind provides us with a very strong association with thinking.

The problem revolves around what is meant by mind in Buddhism. In Japanese, the character translated as mind is SHIN. But SHIN doesn't mean exactly the same as the English term mind. It means something nearer to attentive consciousness, referring to both mind and heart, and there is a separate term for purely intellectual activity. Note here that, unlike in English, in Japanese the term for heart/mind (SHIN) and the term for mindfulness (NEN) are etymologically unrelated. However, the term SHIN occurs throughout Dogen's writings with great frequency, and it is important to gain an understanding of what he means when he uses this term. For example, what is the "mind of the Buddhas" that he refers to in many places in the Shobogenzo? In the koan stories, masters often state that "the mind of the Buddhas is fences, walls, tiles, and pebbles". This rather strange assertion says that mind is just the world in front of us. One face of reality is our mental interpretation (mind), and the other face is physical phenomena (fences, walls, tiles and pebbles). When we act, we enter a state where we do not separate mind and physical phenomena; we enter reality itself. And the statement "the mind of the Buddhas is fences, walls, tiles, and pebbles" is saying that the Buddhist state is one in which we do not separate mind and phenomena or mind and the external world. This assertion is difficult for the Western mind to grasp, since our culture teaches us that thought is separate from, and precedes and directs our actions. We have come to believe that this is a true description of events in our lives, and thus we give greater value to getting the thinking right before and during acting than to the action itself. Thus we often "taint" our actions with thoughts on how to act right, a state that we can describe as splitting ourselves into two, or having two moons. The phrase "the mind of the Buddhas is fences, walls, tiles, and pebbles" means that when we are acting, mind and external phenomena are unseparated or whole. Although the "enlightened" state of a buddha is often described as some special spiritual state, in Dogen's teachings, the mental state of an "awakened" person is "different from thinking"; a state in which the separation between intellectual thought and physical perception drops away. He calls this state action and describes it as dropping off body and mind.

In Western thought, mental function is separated from physical function to a very much greater extent than in the East (China, Japan, Korea), and this is reflected in the structure of our languages. This may be said to result from a belief in the West (reinforced by Christianity) that there is a soul/mental persona that is "in charge of" and separate from the body. This way of thinking did not originate in the East. It can be easily traced back as far as Greek philosophers such as Plato, and even before that in the teachings of the Zoroastrians. Believing that there is a mind/soul separate from and controlling the body, we also believe that this mental persona should watch our physical body to make sure it is doing things correctly. Thus we split ourselves into two. And the structure of European languages reinforces this idea more than in Chinese or Japanese. For example, we say "I must make sure that I do this correctly", "Watch what you are doing", "Think before you act" and similar phrases, which suggest that the mental persona monitors the body in carrying out its right action. Many people interpret mindfulness on this basis. Since traditional Christian teachings encourage us to become closer to God, naturally we want to become better human beings, more compassionate, kinder, more understanding, more caring. Not only do we want to improve ourselves in this way, but we also want to monitor ourselves during this process. Not only do we want to be good and do good - we want to see ourselves doing good, and see that we have done good. I am suggesting that we unconsciously transfer this view - one that is deeply rooted in Christian cultures - to our understanding of Buddhist teachings.

But this way of understanding Buddhism is completely different from Master Dogen's teachings, and I believe it obscures what the Buddha was trying to teach. It is clear that Dogen taught that the Buddhist state is a state in which there is no second person monitoring the actions of the body, as illustrated in the koan story. This suggests that our Western way of viewing activity as a mental or moral persona monitoring our physical actions is different from Buddhist teachings. The Chinese masters and Dogen urge us to get rid of this second person. This refers to a state of complete attention to or involvement in the task at hand, not a state in which we are thinking about or monitoring what we are doing in any way. This state neither includes the intention to do the task perfectly - to do good - neither does it include the intention not to make a mistake; rather it is a natural or normal state in which we are acting fully and freely at the moment of the present. This state is one in which we do not worry about - that is, we transcend - right and wrong. It could be called a "stupid" or naive attitude to the task at hand, since we throw away all thoughts about what we are doing, and simply do. Simple action at the moment of the present is not the result of thinking according to Dogen. And the rightness of the action is not a result of our mind being full of right thoughts about how to act, but is determined by our overall psycho-physiological state at the moment of action. In Dogen's terms, a balanced body-and-mind produces right action. And he denies that there is anything called "right" waiting somewhere for someone to come and do it. Thus right or moral action for Dogen is in the act itself, not in an abstract notion of right.

There is a continuing problem with using the word mindfulness in the West simply because of our long and deeply rooted historical perception of a mind/moral persona controlling the physical actions of the body. Western morality is also based on this perception. Because of the powerful influence of the mind/body duality on Western thought and religion, it is extremely difficult to grasp exactly what Dogen is teaching.

If we see mindfulness as a state to be practiced and attained, we attempt to use our mental faculties to monitor ourselves, with the aim of improving our behaviour. If we see oneness as a state in which we have to monitor ourselves putting together the two separate parts that we call body and mind, we are intentionally trying to attain something. In Buddhist terms, this is the state of two moons. But when we see mindfulness as dropping off awareness of body and mind, as in the oneness in action that Dogen teaches, then we are unlearning the split between body and mind that our culture has taught us to value so highly. We need to explain that mindfulness means not a split state, but a state of wholeness or oneness in action. This is the state of one moon. Since this is an act of removing or dropping off, it feels like a loss, rather than a gain. It feels more disappointing than satisfying, and it feels more stupid than clever. This is the way that Dogen teaches.

Interpreting mindfulness as one body-mind doing one task at the present moment, there is no second person to think about what we are doing and no-one to judge our action in that moment. Mental processes occur in the period of reflection before our action starts and after it is finished. In the moment of action, we throw these away, and act wholly, fully, in oneness. Dogen teaches that the practice of Zazen -sitting without intention - is the method that the Buddha taught to drop off the separation that human beings have introduced between the physical and mental. In Zazen we sit in the area between the physical and the mental. This is why Dogen teaches that Zazen is not concentrating on thoughts or images, and neither is it concentrating on physical activity such as breathing or chanting. It is sitting in the state of balanced action; a state of oneness in which the mind of the Buddhas emerges quite naturally. And Dogen says in the Fukan-zazengi chapter of the Shobogenzo "If you practice the state like this for a long time, you will surely become the state like this itself. The treasure-house will open naturally, and you will be free to receive and use its contents as you like".

I appreciate the the ruggedness of the universe,
Which is sometimes cruel, sharp thorns of cactus,
And sometimes beautiful chrysanthemums
of fantastic scent.

A crow is black
Because the lotus is white.
Ants run fast
Because the elephant is slow.

We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest.
To realize fresh mountain air that
includes the innocence of a wild flower.

Such a precious human body,
Difficult to rediscover.
Such precious pain,
Not difficult to discover.

Such an old story
Is by now a familiar joke.
A wisely foolish man
Is like a baby learning to walk.

'The glasses of diverse hue
cause the Light to assume colour for us.
When the many-coloured glasses are no longer,
then the colourless Light amazes you.
Make it your habit to behold
the Light without the glass,
so that when the glass is shattered
you may not be left blind.'
- Mathnawi V, Rumi

'Make of yourself a light. Rely upon yourself; do not depend upon anyone else.'
- Shakyamuni Buddha

Can 'other' beings really make us feel hurt, angry, disappointed?
Today 'I' do not feel hurt,  angry or disappointed.
Today I am hurt, anger and disappointment.

Practice opens all our doors and allows us to be vunerable.
And that doesn't always feel good.
Wanting it to feel good is the illusion of control, wanting this, not that.
There is no experience 'outside' happening to 'me'.
I am the experience.
Closing the gap we own the experience.

And it may take effort not to close some of those doors.
Practice asks a lot.
And it asks nothing at all.

Go figure...

Buddhism is really one teaching. Although there are many forms of Buddhism, many ways of speaking about the teaching and many ways of putting it into practice, really all forms of Buddhism are just different ways of getting people to see and realize the basic truths about human life that the Buddha himself saw personally and tried to teach. For each era, for each culture, and also for each person, there must be a unique way of presenting Buddhism, because although the truth may always be the same, there is no truth that is independent of a form of expression. Because people are always different, there must be different forms of expression of the Buddhist truth. In every country that Buddhism has visited there are always people who eventually, probably without trying to do it, find an expression of Buddhism that speaks to the particular cultural condition that formed them. Such people do not create a new Buddhism, they just find a way to make clear in a different way what Buddhism has been saying all along.

In Japan, Dogen Zenji is such a figure. His teaching and practice of the Soto Zen way is uniquely Japanese, and very profound. Suzuki Roshi studied Dogen's teaching very deeply, and based his own understanding on that of his great predecessor.

Suzuki Roshi's way of Zen is the same as and also different from other styles of Chinese and Japanese Zen, and also the same as and different from Dogen Zen. I think it will be an interesting discussion as time goes on to characterize Suzuki Roshi's Zen, and maybe scholars will write about this, as they have written over the years about the characteristics of Dogen Zen. So, although it is exactly contrary to the spirit of Zen --and especially to the spirit of Suzuki Roshi's way-- to characterize anything, I thought I would begin the conversation and try to think of what are the basic points of Suzuki Roshi's way. I am a great one for making lists of characteristics of this or that, and sometimes such lists are temporarily useful, though in the end certainly are not. They are finally only things we make up; but then again, we also make up our lives and then take them quite seriously, to our detriment. So, with all of these caveats, and in the spirit of conversation, which is an endless give-and-take, I thought I would talk a little bit about the eight characteristics of Suzuki Roshi's way. Of course there are eight characteristics; there are not seven or nine.  :) They are:

1. No expectations

2. Faithful daily practice is enlightenment

3. No sticking to any teaching; there is nothing special to do or understand, every moment is always new (this Suzuki Roshi expressed in the phrase "beginner's mind")

4. Zazen is the most important thing in our practice and true Zazen is our whole life

5. Kindness and toughness are not two different things

6. A close and loving relationship with a teacher

7. Whole heartedness in all activity

8. Pay close attention to the details of form, for true freedom is found there (Hinayana practice with Mahayana mind)

I think most people come to Buddhist practice with great expectations. We don't go to Christianity or Judaism or Islam with these kind of expectations, and I think in Asia most modern people do not go to Buddhism with the kinds of expectation we have.

What do we expect? I suppose we expect some enlightenment or some peace of mind or some sense of happiness or relief or profundity for our lives. Maybe we expect some kind of sensational experiences or some serenity of deep wisdom. Maybe we don't even know what we expect, only that we do expect something. Maybe we are excited by the expectation that something will happen and we don't know what it is. I think we have these expectations because Buddhism, and especially Buddhist meditation, is completely new to us. We see it as a possibility for our lives. This is probably true, but then again every moment is full of possibility, only we have become jaded to the possibilities. Since Buddhism is new to us we haven't yet becomes jaded, although maybe some are approaching that! This is our practice, to try not to become jaded even though we are very familiar with the teaching and might not have too much idealism left.

In a way, our expectations are good, our freshness is good, and I think Suzuki-Roshi appreciated it very much, He said we have beginner's mind: in other words, we have great expectations but we don't really have any preconceptions, at least not any preconceptions founded on experience. Since we don't know what we are doing when we do Buddhist practice, we are free to expect the impossible. All our preconceptions are fantastic and imaginary. This is a fresh mind for practice. [Since being a child], Suzuki Roshi wanted to come to the West to practice with people who had that kind of fresh expectant mind.

Naturally then, he taught us non-expectation, non-hope. And this was and is a good teaching for us --exactly because we have so many expectations. If we can use the energy and enthusiasm of our expectations for practice, and transmute it into non-expectation, then we will be able to practice quite well. The strong point about expectation is that it produces energy and enthusiasm, but the weak point is that it leads to grasping and attachment and distraction, which are the opposite of Buddha's teaching. If we expect something we must be completely mistaken about the nature of experience and the nature of self and the nature of time. We think we need something and that later we might get it. Or we think we have a problem and later we might not have it. We think that Buddha lived a long time ago and that we live now. But actually none of these things are true, they are only persuasive projections of our mind. What is actually true is that this moment arises now independent of anything, and everything is included in this moment. Buddha and self are here, and problem and no problem are here. If we persist in having the expectation that things will change and that we can somehow make them change, we won't really understand things or change. When we can give ourselves completely to this moment of our lives --and then to this moment and this moment-- without any expectation, then we can have some happiness. We do not need to get mad at ourselves for having expectations, because it is good that we have expectations. But we have to use expectation to go beyond expectation. Maybe we can say that having no expectations means that we always have expectation but that what we are expecting is nothing. One of my favorite sayings of Suzuki Roshi is something that he shocked people with in a lecture once. He said, "The problems that you have now you will always have." He also said, at another time, "I have found it necessary to believe in absolutely nothing."

As you all probably realize, the Zen school in China was founded on the experience of sudden personal insight into Buddha's mind. There had been many schools of Buddhism in China with many practices and many teachings. Religion does have a way of becoming very refined and complex, and then it may be quite beautiful and satisfying in a way, but it also may remove itself from the simple and profound truths that it was built on. So in China the first Zen ancestors emphasized cutting through complexity to an actual experience of enlightenment that was transformative. This emphasis is both good and bad. It is good because it cuts through scholasticism and gets us to the heart of the matter, our life experience, rather than what it says in the book. But it is bad because it tends to privilege a particular kind of experience, to make us expect and long for such an experience, and become arrogant and therefore confused if and when we do have that kind of experience. We tend to feel that the purpose of practice is to produce a particular kind of experience, and that once we have that experience practice is irrelevant. But for Dogen, and for Suzuki Roshi, the practice and the experience of enlightenment are one and the same. When we do the practice we are expressing our enlightenment, and when we find true enlightenment, we naturally practice.

Suzuki Roshi went to San Francisco in 1959 to be the priest for the local Japanese-American community at Sokoji Temple. He did not take San Francisco by storm. There were no posters, no news articles, no high profile retreats. Instead he did zazen by himself in the mornings, and if someone came and asked him about Zen. he just said, "I sit in the morning please come join me."

His practice was the practice of a simple priest, full of faithfulness and sincerity. He often spoke of how stupid he was, of how his understanding wasn't so good. He said that when he was a small boy at his teacher's temple, all the other students ran away because the teacher was so tough. He said he was the only one who didn't run away, not because he was so good or so strong but because he was the only one who didn't realize that he could run away. He just went on with the practice every day, no matter what happened, for his whole life. And in his teaching he emphasized that kind of steadiness and faithfulness. Not to any ideal or philosophy or belief, but just to the simple life of daily practice. He emphasized routine and repetition. He taught that just doing the practice over and over again, without expectation of any result, but being as present as possible with it, something subtle would happen. He did not travel all over giving sesshin and talks. He just stayed around the temple taking care of things and of his practice.

He was in a way a very ambitious priest; if he were not, he never would have gone to America. But his ambition was not to do great things but just to have great hope and a great faithfulness and to bring that to his practice every day, confident that what needed to happen would unfold naturally, without forcing. He once said that practice is like walking for a long time in a slight mist. You might walk and walk and never feel that you are getting wet, but when you arrive at where you are going you will notice that your robe is soaked. He also said, "if we walk in the mist together and you get impatient with me and want to go ahead, that is all right. Please go ahead."

The longer I practice the more it seems to me that our enlightenment, our insight, our freedom, is in our faithfulness, our confidence, in our Buddha nature, the real nature of our body and mind beyond the appearance we take on in this life. We are not looking for an experience or a knowledge, but only the growing faith that life is life and death is death, and that we are always in connection with this. Because of this, naturally we want to do practice, to bow to Buddha, to make offering, to chant, to sit, to be kind to others and ourselves, and to everything, without making a big deal of it. Our enlightenment is not a state or an accomplishment, it is a moment by moment experience of faithfulness.

It may be true that other teachings and teachers may be much better than ours, more beautiful or wise or colorful or profound. But this really doesn't matter. We are not trying to be beautiful or wise or colorful or profound, we are only trying to practice our whole life through, day by day, with faithfulness. That is all the enlightenment we need, and in the simple daily activity of practice we find enlightenment everywhere.

At the end of last month we had a wonderful sesshin, a silent sesshin. Just to be alive was inspiration enough. One afternoon of that sesshin I was walking to my room and I felt sunlight on my shoulder. It was so warm and bright, almost tender, almost delicious. I almost started to cry it was so beautiful, and I understood then for the first time a Jewish prayer. The prayer says something like, "Blessed are you who creates a whole universe of time that has given me this one precious moment." Something like that. So this is our enlightenment, and I do not think it is just about Zen or about Buddhism. It is about life, real life, life as it is.

I think sometimes if you read Suzuki Roshi's words and think about what he is saying, you might think that he is rather wishy-washy. He often will not take a definite position about things, or if he does, he will soon say that the opposite is true also. He often used the phrase, "the other side".  It meant, well this is one way to look at things, one kind of truth, And then there is also the other side, the other way to look at it. Both are true and both are therefore also false. Sometimes people refer to this as the non-dual point of view, but that term has always struck me as excessively philosophical --and dualistic. Non-dual is very dualistic, because it implies that non-dual is good and dualistic is bad. But dualistic is also part of non-dualistic. The real non-dualistic is both non-dualistic and dualistic. These kinds of thoughts are what happen if you use terms like dualistic and non-dualistic, and this is why I do not like to use them.

Suzuki Roshi understood the idea of non-dualistic not as a philosophical concept but as a way of being. He understood it as freedom, as not being caught by anything, not being limited by views, even Buddhist views or Zen views. Practice is beyond all views, it includes all views and honors all views but it doesn't stick to any views. So he was always interested in pointing out to people the nature of their sticky views, and encouraging them to unstick themselves from them.

There is one famous story about Suzuki Roshi driving up to the city from Tassajara with a student who was an ardent vegetarian. In those days, as I suppose still now, people had some quite definite ideas about was was right and wrong to eat, or good for you or not good for you. When Suzuki Roshi and the student stopped at a restaurant for lunch the student was quite surprised and challenged by the fact that Suzuki Roshi ordered a big hamburger. Probably rare. The student ordered a salad or something like that. But the student was even more surprised when the food came and Suzuki Roshi took the salad for himself and pushed the hamburger plate, without a word, in front of the student. I do not think that this meant that Suzuki Roshi disapproved of vegetarianism. It was not any particular view that he was against or for, rather how do you hold the views that you hold. This was the question for him.

To practice the Way is to be present in each moment, which is beyond time. Suzuki Roshi spoke of this over and over again. When you hold onto views, any views, you create a fixed world, a world of linear time, a world of suffering and opposition. Not sticking to views is not wishy-washy if you're not sticking to views truly comes from the heart of your practice. When your practice is faithful, you stand firmly in the middle of your own life, which is not separate from all of life. Standing in that place, truth is clear, it is not confusing. But how to express truth may change according to circumstances. When your practice is faithful, you will not get mixed up between the truth and its expression --you will know the difference and so you will stand firm with truth but very flexible with its expression. You will know what is important and what is trivial, what is truly helpful and what is not helpful. And even if you do not know what is helpful, you will have the patience and confidence to go forward in the best way that you can, without getting confused or caught or pushed off center. This kind of practice is a subtle thing. It has more to do with a feeling for life than it does with any rules or doctrines. Over and over Suzuki talked about how there are no rules, no definite procedures, and that even when there are definite procedures one should understand that these are completely contingent. One of my favorite phrases of Suzuki Roshi came in response to the question, what is the essence of Zen. He said "Not necessarily so."

Zazen is the most important thing in our practice, and true zazen is our whole life. Suzuki-Roshi definitely emphasized zazen practice, physically taking our posture on the cushion, and all of his disciples who teach Dharma emphasize this point powerfully. In this he followed Dogen's lead. Dogen wrote in Zammai o Zammai: "Sitting in the meditation posture vivifies a forthright body, a forthright mind, a forthright body mind, a forthright buddha ancestor, a forthright practice enlightenment, a forthright top of the head, and a forthright life stream. When you sit in the meditation posture the skin, flesh, bones, and marrow of a human being are made immediately vivid in the King of Samadhis. The World-Honored One always sat in this meditation posture, and all his disciples correctly transmitted it. The World-Honored One taught humans and devas how to sit in this meditation posture. It is the mind seal correctly transmitted by the Seven Original Buddhas." Shakyamuni Buddha sat in this meditation posture under the bodhi tree for fifty small eons, sixty great eons, or innumerable unclassifiable eons. Perhaps he sat for three weeks, or perhaps only for some hours. In any case the Buddha's sitting is the turning of the wondrous Wheel of Dharma; in it is contained his lifetime guidance. Nothing is lacking. The yellow scrolls, and red rolls of the sutras are all here. In this moment of sitting Buddha sees Buddha; all beings attain buddhahood. So our practice is very simple, embarrassingly simple. It is just to sit in this way, up straight, and breathing, and paying attention to our life. There is nothing more to it than that, and yet everything is contained in this one practice. In a way, this is a rather odd idea. We think of truth or religion or spirituality as something broad and mysterious, and certainly non physical, yet Suzuki Roshi taught us that truth is just to sit down in this way, in this particular way. So I find this teaching actually quite troublesome, because it can sound as if people who can't twist their legs up in pretzels and sit still can't practice Zen. And this is a strange idea, don't you think, to have a religion that a sick person or an old person or a disabled person cannot practice? Something about this does not sound right. Once Suzuki Roshi scolded someone who had a superior attitude because he woke up early every morning to do zazen while he wife remained in bed. He told him, "If you think that you are getting up to do zazen and your wife is sleeping and not doing zazen, then you do not really understand our zazen." True zazen is not limited to a particular posture or state of mind. True zazen is ultimate reality itself, and ultimate reality is the actual essence of every moment of our lives. To sit faithfully is to realize this point. So when we sit we know that all beings are sitting with us. And when we get up from the cushion we know that sitting continues. So Suzuki Roshi's simple idea of zazen, like Dogen's idea of zazen, is very hard for us to grasp --maybe it is ungraspable. We have to practice particularly, specifically, with this actual body, with our legs and arms and lungs and heart, our own body, not just our mind, with all its detail. and yet in doing that we have to appreciate that this specific body, in its detail, is not just our body. it is the whole universe. So we actually do have to sit zazen. I do not think there is much Zen practice if we do not do zazen. But we have to understand also that zazen is also not actually zazen. It is just life. Our practice is life.

Kindness and toughness are not two different things. Suzuki Roshi did some hard training in his youth. his original teacher Gyokujun So-on was very tough. Today, in our world, we might almost call him an abusive person, and wonder whether there is something wrong with him. maybe we would send him to a therapist, or maybe Suzuki Roshi would have to go to a therapist to work through his experiences. But Suzuki Roshi loved him very much and felt that his guidance and his toughness was very important.

Suzuki Roshi really wanted Zen Center to purchase a farm, and this is why ZC got Green Gulch. And the reason he wanted ZC to have a farm was so that when times became tough, and food was hard to get, ZC would be able to have food, and to supply food for others. To Americans born after WW II, it seemed almost unimaginable that there could ever be a time when you could not get food. But Suzuki Roshi knew about hard times, he knew about not being able to get enough food. In the early days of Zen in China there were also hard times. Zen was suppressed, monks were kicked out of their temples, and there were many uprisings and revolts and famines. So Suzuki Roshi and the Zen school itself were formed in the midst of difficulties. Suzuki Roshi knew that the Zen life, that human life, requires a great strength. But in this strength is the truest kindness, for strength brings constancy and real kindness is not an emotion or a feeling but the ability to see clearly and follow through, and this requires a great strength. There is no effective kindness without strength. Suzuki Roshi was much loved for his kindness, and he did not consider himself to be a strict teacher. But he understood the virtue of strictness, and there was a strong backbone in the middle of his kindness. He was not sweet or sentimental.

A close and loving relationship with a teacher...

Almost everyone who came into contact with Suzuki-Roshi was deeply affected by the experience, and I find it inspiring to listen to the warmth and immediacy with which his students speak of him even now, many years after his death. He himself had several important teachers in his lifetime, and he trusted them all completely. His root teacher So-on, was, as I said, more or less a mean person, and very often denied Suzuki Roshi those things that Suzuki Roshi very much wanted, but Suzuki Roshi always accepted his instructions, and saw that surrender to his teacher was the best way to train. He also knew that So-on, despite his gruff manner, loved him very much. In Suzuki Roshi's way there is emphasis on the teacher-student relation as a mysterious and yet a warm necessity. Without this relationship, the alchemy of transformation cannot occur. The teaching takes place not in words, but in some much more subtle imprinting, an almost physical communication that occurs in the midst of living daily life together.

A Zen teacher is not a guru. He or she is an ordinary person to be grappled with. He or she will have various rough edges, because of karma, and at the same time, the relationship to a teacher is not the same as an ordinary human relationship, it is our opportunity to develop deep faith and trust in the dharma. We trust our teacher, not as a person but as the dharma itself. When the teacher throws his or her life into Buddha's house and when we make that effort too, then we meet each other in Buddha's house, not in our own house. So we might have all sorts of personal problems with our teacher or not, but if the teacher is true and if our effort is good these personal problems don't matter too much. We ourselves find trust in our buddha nature through the relationship to a teacher. When we trust him or her unconditionally, not as a person, but as Buddha, in other words, as our own truest self, then we have completed our work, and we will always be grateful to our teacher, even if, as with Suzuki Roshi and So-on, there doesn't seem to be much overt affection.

7) Whole heartedness in all activity. Suzuki-Roshi often spoke of the nature of time. that it is not an unfolding of things in a linear or accumulative way, but rather the depth and completion that occurs in each moment. To practice in time therefore means that we must give ourselves completely in every activity, no matter what it is. He often used the word "sincerity" to mean just doing one activity completely and energetically --no matter how we feel about it.

Zazen is the center of our practice, but zazen is just being our self, and being our self is being present throughout the whole universe on each moment. This is why everything that happens, every activity we engage in, is decisive and complete. When we approach the world with our ordinary ego-inspired mind, we have many evaluations about our activity: this activity is good, that one is bad, this activity is interesting that one is not interesting, this activity is more important than that one. Such evaluations absorb our attention and we cannot be really present very often with our activity. And even when we are present, there is attachment, and attachment is like putting on a pair of blinders --we only see half the world. But when we try to pay attention to our preferences without validating them, we see that all our activity is a field of profundity, that any gesture or effort can bring up the whole of reality.

This is the reason why we stress simple work in our practice. We understand work as zazen itself, as, we could say, a form of worship or devotion, or a form of offering. This is especially clear when we clean, and Suzuki Roshi in his early training and throughout his life did cleaning practice. There is the famous story of him arriving early to the Cambridge Buddhist Association where he was to give a talk. Everyone was busily cleaning up the place for the arrival of the great zen master Suzuki Roshi, but he arrived several hours early by mistake and everyone was quite flustered. He said, "Oh, the great zen master is coming, we must prepare." And he stripped down to his kimono and began cleaning with everyone. For me, cleaning practice is very important. Cleaning was something I never really thought about, but I learned from my practice that when I sweep the floor I am actually sweeping my own mind, and the whole universe. If I can put one corner of my room in order, then whole worlds come to order.

Nowadays in our practice we honor people's preferences and we understand that sometimes it is difficult for someone to do something and maybe they should do something else. These days at Zen Centers people actually refuse sometimes to do jobs that they are asked to do, and we honor that refusal and the reasons for it. I think it is good that we do things in that way, and can be compassionate with each other in that way. But it would be too bad if we forget that in the end we need to be liberated from preference and be whole hearted in whatever we do. This is our ideal, this is our goal, this was how Suzuki Roshi trained, and this was his instruction for us.

8) Careful attention to form as freedom. Suzuki Roshi was at pains to teach his free-thinking individualistically inclined Western students that being free to choose and express for yourself is not what it seems to be. In fact, true freedom is not found in the exercise of one's preferences, but in finding spaciousness and full self expression within whatever form appears. He once said that when everyone wore the clothes they liked, and appeared with their own body language, it was difficult for him to see people's real individuality. but when everyone put on black robes and sat on their cushions in exactly the same way, then it became clear the ways in which each one was unique. This seems like a paradoxical Zen statement, but actually it is literally true. By letting go of preference, which is after all only habit and conditioning, our real, our deeper, individuality, our own particular spin on buddha nature, can come through. It was with this spirit that Suzuki Roshi stressed the importance of form, of bowing correctly, of walking and standing with the proper decorum, of following all the temple forms, from striking the bell to eating oryoki meals. He taught that we did this not because it was the absolute way of doing things, the best way, but because formal practice is a way for us to find a big openness inside, a truer freedom than our conditioning would ever produce.

Many people find Zen practice too regimented, too stiff and formal. But it only looks that way from the outside. Actually, when the body is guided by form there can be a soaring spirit inside, a real freedom, and a real beauty. Formal practice is not the best way to live or the Zen way to live, it is just an arbitrary way to do things. But I do not know of anything more effective in helping us to let go of our deeply conditioned nature, which is the force that binds us to our suffering. Formal practice works with the body at its most unconscious level, and if we do not touch ourselves there, I think it will be very hard for us to find our buddha nature and bring it to the forefront in our lives.

Suzuki Roshi stressed this at a time in the West when wild personal expression was dominant. He had to have a lot of patience with hippies and other people who would come to the zendo with their own ideas of how to dress and walk and sit. But he was very patient and always amused by what people did. He was not a narrow minded person, and I think he appreciated the colorfulness of people's approaches to formal practice, yet he knew that there was much suffering in the middle of people's so-called freedom, and he knew that the only way to show them that was to help them find themselves with the forms of practice. So, steadily, and with a kindly voice, he encouraged people over and over.

- Norman Fischer

This morning i sat by the ocean. And the ocean sat in me.

Oh, and although a passing dog did sniff around, it decided to piss somewhere else.
Always a bonus.
:)