The name of this blog, and the meditation group, was chosen because it means something very specific to me and how I think Buddhism is emerging in America. We need to move away from strict sectarian guidelines and towards a back-to-basics unified Dharma. 481 refers to the 4 Noble Truths, the 8 Fold Path, and the 1 Dharma. We can discard most of the ritual, dogma, superstition and cultural trappings that have grown around the Buddha's teachings as they've hopped from one location to another. We don't need em. The Buddha enumerated the steps of this path and stressed that we must cultivate wisdom, ethics and meditation to walk it. He was not vague.
He was also quite clear on the importance of relying on ourselves. He insisted that his followers explore the Dharma with the full extent of their faculties. We are meant to challenge everything the Buddha taught until we can rest assured that it is the truth. We do not follow blindly but painstakingly build our trust in the teachings through repetitive analysis.
The Buddha established a sangha, or community, of practitioners who sought truth and freedom. He considered this a major part of spiritual life. The sangha was created to help maintain rigorous discipline and offer support and structure to the group. It’s easier to walk a difficult path if there are others present to help when one member falters or fails.
I have looked for a sangha of my own for a long time but Lexington doesn’t have much to offer. Instead of making do with what’s available I’ve decided to create what I want. To that end, I have founded 481Dharma.
I have two main purposes that I hope to achieve with this group. The first is to create an alternative for meditators in this town. Thus far, if you’re not into Tibetan Buddhism or Korean Zen, it looks like you’ll be sitting by yourself. I remember when I first began studying and meditating, I had a lot of questions and there was no one around to answer them. I’d like to be able to help others in that position. It’d be great for them to have a community that they can rely on. Group meditation is also beneficial to practitioners who have been sitting for years. When you meditate alone you get used to all your individual quirks and notions. There’s no one to monitor you, no one to interfere with your habits or jostle you out of the ruts you settle into. If you sit with a group you become more aware of your practice. It’s easier to sit at home, in comfort and privacy, and daydream your meditation session away. Who’s gonna notice? But if you’re part of a group, all in the same place to do the same thing, you’re a little more dedicated. It’s easier to keep coming back to the meditation and remind yourself why you’re there. You’re more on your toes in a roomful of people. Especially when that room is almost completely silent and still.
Lexington needs a supportive sangha that’s unhampered by the rituals and cultural weirdness that prevent so many people from joining a group. Buddhism is simple. It’s straightforward and practical and it needs to be taught that way. Hopefully 481Dharma can fill this niche.
The second purpose is a bit grander. I’d like this meditation group to be a stepping-stone to a larger, more organized Dharma center that can be a real spiritual presence in Lexington. I’m a realistic guy. I know that 481 will most likely never be more than a few dedicated folks getting together to practice and discuss the teachings. But there’s a future that I’d like to create, one that relies on a sense of community.
Noah Levine, my teacher, lives in Los Angeles. I have little in the way of extra money that would permit me to travel there to study with him. He runs a comprehensive program at his center that provides training to those who wish to become teachers. I would like to go through this program and start a full-fledged Dharma organization here in Lexington. Of course, that’s years away. But that’s why 481Dharma can be a stepping-stone to this larger vision. I’m suggesting a $5 donation of everyone who comes to the weekly meditation group. It’s not mandatory and no one will ever be turned away for lack of funds. Generosity is a big part of any spiritual path and I hope people will find a few extra dollars to help out.
Please, if anyone is interested, help me turn this humble idea into reality. It can’t happen without a community.
Here are the pertinent details for the meetings:
481Dharma
Tuesday evenings from 7:15 - 8:45
Saturday mornings from 11:00 - 12:30
At the Metta Yoga Studio
145 Burt Rd. Suite 9
Lexington, KY
Suggested Donation: $5
No one turned away, ever
Please bring your own meditation cushion if possible. The studio can offer blankets and yoga bolsters but we have no real equipment for community use yet. Hopefully that will change. Each meeting will open with a short grounding meditation and be followed by a discussion or a Dharma talk. Lastly, we'll have a longer meditation session, between 20-40 minutes depending on what folks are comfortable with. Instruction will be given so beginners are always welcome. Please email me at purple@481dharma.com if you have any questions or concerns.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
These Days...
…I’m mainly a Theravada practitioner. “Theravada” means “school of the elders,” and that’s what I dig about it. All hipness aside, it is, quite literally, the old school. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m most interested in what the Buddha himself actually taught and practiced, and this is it. Granted, you’ll get a lot of differing opinions on that, but, historically, this is as close as it gets.
Theravada has many aspects I find attractive, but one of my favorites is something it lacks. Whereas Zen and Tibetan Buddhism were transplanted to America via actual Japanese and Tibetans, Theravada was brought here by Americans. They studied in Thailand and Burma and Sri Lanka with renowned masters and then returned to their homeland to teach. When they did, they stripped away a lot of the cultural superfluity that clings to the practice in Eastern countries. After many years of study overseas, they grasped what was at the heart of Buddhist practice and that is what they brought back. Everything else they left behind.
Zen and Vajrayana are flourishing here, due in no small part to their exotic natures. Both practices are markedly different from any branch of Western religion. That often appeals to people who decide to reject their birth religion. It most definitely happened to me. Plus there was the benefit of learning from real-life Asians. Why would I want to study Theravada when it was mostly taught by middle aged white dudes? I was up to my EYEBALLS in middle aged white dudes. But Asian guys in gold silk brocade robes with names like Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche? That was where it was AT.
Many Westerners want the full ride when they embrace an Eastern religion, be it Hinduism, Buddhism, Sufism or what have you. Since both Zen and Vajrayana were established here by Asian masters, people could feel like they were getting the real deal. Not only was the religion mysterious and funky, but you were sitting at the feet of someone who actually trudged across the Himalayas fleeing the goddamn Commie Chinese in order to bring you the Dharma. Unfortunately, he brought all his cultural baggage with him, too.
These masters had no reason to change the Dharma, or its presentation in the West. They were smart enough to realize that it would change over time and adapt to a new land as it had always done. But they weren’t changing anything on their own. So as they set up digs in the U.S., they began teaching their students what they knew. And that certainly included all the ritual and dogma that is associated with Buddhism from the Far East. As their students became more advanced, they often revealed the more esoteric notions hidden from outside eyes. This is especially true with Vajrayana. Its innermost practices are highly secretive due to the belief that a mind that is not ready can be destroyed by them.
When these masters died or retired from teaching, they usually appointed a student to take over. The student became the head of the lineage, or Dharma center, or whatever it was. These days, many Zen organizations are run by whitey. The Japanese teachers have left their legacy in the hands of their non-Asian students and these students are now responsible for the next generation of practitioners. The same is true in the Tibetan branch, though not to the same extent. Vajrayana groups are more likely to be led, or at least overseen, by a Tibetan guru.
This ensures that much of what I consider the pointless ritual, pomp and circumstance of Buddhism will continue. There are few Dharma leaders interested in real innovation here in America. They are comfortable where they are. They now receive the adulation, devotion and loyalty that was heaped upon their Asian predecessors. They hold the power and enjoy all the perks that come with their office. Everything that once seemed so foreign and exotic to them is now second nature. Without examining that, they will keep perpetuating it until the next one is ready to step in and take over.
I had been entertaining these thoughts for some time before I ceased my involvement in Zen. I knew it would probably mean a foray into Theravada, if for no other reason than it was the only one I hadn’t fully explored yet. It had always seemed so plain, so prosaic and unmoving. In short, I had always been attracted to Zen and Vajrayana for the exact same reasons I’ve outlined over these last few posts: because they were bright and shiny and ostentatiously un-American.
To ease into it I started with a book I’d already read, Noah Levine’s Dharma Punx. I’d finished it long ago, when I was still practicing Tibetan Buddhism. It was so life altering, so smokingly cool that I toyed with the idea of abandoning the Vajrayana right there. Noah’s book spoke to me in a way that I hadn’t heard since I originally discovered Buddhism. And it spoke in a voice that was so like, so close to…well, MY voice.
Dharma Punx tells Noah’s life story. It follows him as he grows up disaffected and alienated from a world he begins to hate more and more. He falls into drugs at a painfully young age but the first thing that became a real glimmer of hope for him was punk rock. It shouted ideals to him, other, rebellious, options than what conformist America had so far presented. He plunged into the scene, trying to drown himself in the anger that sought to right all the wrongs that society was wreaking. Oh, and the alcohol, too. The booze and crack and weed and heroin and LSD. Those were a part of the scene and they became a part of Noah’s everyday life. Soon he was stealing from family and friends and living with the other grubby punks on the streets. They fought and fucked and smoked away all the horrors of life. He was in and out of juvenile detention and a full-on alcoholic and drug addict. It didn’t help that his father was a well-known Buddhist meditation teacher. Stephen Levine tried reaching out to his son several times with no success. Noah just wouldn’t accept what he saw as the “hippie shit” from his parent’s generation. It had failed them, how could it be of any use to him?
When he woke up in juvie for about the 5th time at age 17 he’d had enough. He was in a padded cell because he posed a danger to everyone, including himself. He called his dad who gave him some basic meditation instructions. At rock bottom, Noah finally relented. He began sitting and watching his breath. When he got out of juvie, over a year later, he stayed sober. He joined a 12-step program and never went back to drugs or alcohol. His life slowly began to reorient itself along spiritual lines. He started practicing the other tenets of Buddhism in addition to the meditation his father had given him. His body started to look like a tattooed road map of Eastern religion.
These days Noah is one of Theravada’s strongest voices, and certainly the one that speaks most personally to me. He works with youths in juvenile hall and adults in the prison system. He teaches all over America and has started his own center, Against The Stream Buddhist Meditation Society. “Against the stream” are the words the Buddha used to describe his philosophy and practice. Noah, being a punk, has long identified with Buddhism as a form of spiritual rebellion. Bereft of the misguided anger of his early days, he still considers Buddhism a radical choice, perfectly in line with the guiding principles of punk rock.
I happen to agree. I’m also heavily tattooed and still dealing with all the rage leftover from my own misbegotten punk days. Noah looks like me. He’s had many of the same experiences I have. He’s begun healing, as I have, but he hasn’t sold out to the touchy-feely land of “hippie shit” that I so dread. He knows that Buddhism is something concrete that you can practice, not something ethereal and untouchable. And he’s interested in Buddhism emerging in America with all the practical parts intact, and all the lame additions stripped away.
I know it sounds like I’m fawning, but I can’t overstate how important this has been to my life and practice. Real Buddhism urges students to search for their teacher. They shouldn’t accept someone just because there’s no other option. They shouldn’t put blind faith in a teacher because he or she says so. There should be a connection there, something the student notices immediately. Yet the questioning nature should still be present as well. The student should feel passionate about learning from this person yet still maintain the ability to investigate the teachings whole-heartedly before accepting them.
It took me 10 years to find this. I was beginning to despair that a simple, straightforward Buddhism that wasn’t run by aging hippies even existed. Would I have to go crawling back to Vajrayana and wrap myself in her blazing colors? Would I have to finally find a Zen center that would toughen up my face with a shoe? Or would I just have to practice alone, sifting through the mounds of worthless shit in the “Eastern Religion” section at the bookstore for the 3 or 4 useful books written every year?
Theravada was brought to the West by Westerners. In my opinion it is the most uniquely suited to our needs. Within that lineage, I’ve found a teacher willing to challenge the tried and true pillars that hold up the Dharma. Being an iconoclast myself, I’d like to be right there beside him. Noah has gone so far as to mention that we might have to go ahead and get rid of Buddhism itself because it’s become part of the problem. Strangely enough, that doesn’t bother me at all.
Theravada has many aspects I find attractive, but one of my favorites is something it lacks. Whereas Zen and Tibetan Buddhism were transplanted to America via actual Japanese and Tibetans, Theravada was brought here by Americans. They studied in Thailand and Burma and Sri Lanka with renowned masters and then returned to their homeland to teach. When they did, they stripped away a lot of the cultural superfluity that clings to the practice in Eastern countries. After many years of study overseas, they grasped what was at the heart of Buddhist practice and that is what they brought back. Everything else they left behind.
Zen and Vajrayana are flourishing here, due in no small part to their exotic natures. Both practices are markedly different from any branch of Western religion. That often appeals to people who decide to reject their birth religion. It most definitely happened to me. Plus there was the benefit of learning from real-life Asians. Why would I want to study Theravada when it was mostly taught by middle aged white dudes? I was up to my EYEBALLS in middle aged white dudes. But Asian guys in gold silk brocade robes with names like Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche? That was where it was AT.
Many Westerners want the full ride when they embrace an Eastern religion, be it Hinduism, Buddhism, Sufism or what have you. Since both Zen and Vajrayana were established here by Asian masters, people could feel like they were getting the real deal. Not only was the religion mysterious and funky, but you were sitting at the feet of someone who actually trudged across the Himalayas fleeing the goddamn Commie Chinese in order to bring you the Dharma. Unfortunately, he brought all his cultural baggage with him, too.
These masters had no reason to change the Dharma, or its presentation in the West. They were smart enough to realize that it would change over time and adapt to a new land as it had always done. But they weren’t changing anything on their own. So as they set up digs in the U.S., they began teaching their students what they knew. And that certainly included all the ritual and dogma that is associated with Buddhism from the Far East. As their students became more advanced, they often revealed the more esoteric notions hidden from outside eyes. This is especially true with Vajrayana. Its innermost practices are highly secretive due to the belief that a mind that is not ready can be destroyed by them.
When these masters died or retired from teaching, they usually appointed a student to take over. The student became the head of the lineage, or Dharma center, or whatever it was. These days, many Zen organizations are run by whitey. The Japanese teachers have left their legacy in the hands of their non-Asian students and these students are now responsible for the next generation of practitioners. The same is true in the Tibetan branch, though not to the same extent. Vajrayana groups are more likely to be led, or at least overseen, by a Tibetan guru.
This ensures that much of what I consider the pointless ritual, pomp and circumstance of Buddhism will continue. There are few Dharma leaders interested in real innovation here in America. They are comfortable where they are. They now receive the adulation, devotion and loyalty that was heaped upon their Asian predecessors. They hold the power and enjoy all the perks that come with their office. Everything that once seemed so foreign and exotic to them is now second nature. Without examining that, they will keep perpetuating it until the next one is ready to step in and take over.
I had been entertaining these thoughts for some time before I ceased my involvement in Zen. I knew it would probably mean a foray into Theravada, if for no other reason than it was the only one I hadn’t fully explored yet. It had always seemed so plain, so prosaic and unmoving. In short, I had always been attracted to Zen and Vajrayana for the exact same reasons I’ve outlined over these last few posts: because they were bright and shiny and ostentatiously un-American.
To ease into it I started with a book I’d already read, Noah Levine’s Dharma Punx. I’d finished it long ago, when I was still practicing Tibetan Buddhism. It was so life altering, so smokingly cool that I toyed with the idea of abandoning the Vajrayana right there. Noah’s book spoke to me in a way that I hadn’t heard since I originally discovered Buddhism. And it spoke in a voice that was so like, so close to…well, MY voice.
Dharma Punx tells Noah’s life story. It follows him as he grows up disaffected and alienated from a world he begins to hate more and more. He falls into drugs at a painfully young age but the first thing that became a real glimmer of hope for him was punk rock. It shouted ideals to him, other, rebellious, options than what conformist America had so far presented. He plunged into the scene, trying to drown himself in the anger that sought to right all the wrongs that society was wreaking. Oh, and the alcohol, too. The booze and crack and weed and heroin and LSD. Those were a part of the scene and they became a part of Noah’s everyday life. Soon he was stealing from family and friends and living with the other grubby punks on the streets. They fought and fucked and smoked away all the horrors of life. He was in and out of juvenile detention and a full-on alcoholic and drug addict. It didn’t help that his father was a well-known Buddhist meditation teacher. Stephen Levine tried reaching out to his son several times with no success. Noah just wouldn’t accept what he saw as the “hippie shit” from his parent’s generation. It had failed them, how could it be of any use to him?
When he woke up in juvie for about the 5th time at age 17 he’d had enough. He was in a padded cell because he posed a danger to everyone, including himself. He called his dad who gave him some basic meditation instructions. At rock bottom, Noah finally relented. He began sitting and watching his breath. When he got out of juvie, over a year later, he stayed sober. He joined a 12-step program and never went back to drugs or alcohol. His life slowly began to reorient itself along spiritual lines. He started practicing the other tenets of Buddhism in addition to the meditation his father had given him. His body started to look like a tattooed road map of Eastern religion.
These days Noah is one of Theravada’s strongest voices, and certainly the one that speaks most personally to me. He works with youths in juvenile hall and adults in the prison system. He teaches all over America and has started his own center, Against The Stream Buddhist Meditation Society. “Against the stream” are the words the Buddha used to describe his philosophy and practice. Noah, being a punk, has long identified with Buddhism as a form of spiritual rebellion. Bereft of the misguided anger of his early days, he still considers Buddhism a radical choice, perfectly in line with the guiding principles of punk rock.
I happen to agree. I’m also heavily tattooed and still dealing with all the rage leftover from my own misbegotten punk days. Noah looks like me. He’s had many of the same experiences I have. He’s begun healing, as I have, but he hasn’t sold out to the touchy-feely land of “hippie shit” that I so dread. He knows that Buddhism is something concrete that you can practice, not something ethereal and untouchable. And he’s interested in Buddhism emerging in America with all the practical parts intact, and all the lame additions stripped away.
I know it sounds like I’m fawning, but I can’t overstate how important this has been to my life and practice. Real Buddhism urges students to search for their teacher. They shouldn’t accept someone just because there’s no other option. They shouldn’t put blind faith in a teacher because he or she says so. There should be a connection there, something the student notices immediately. Yet the questioning nature should still be present as well. The student should feel passionate about learning from this person yet still maintain the ability to investigate the teachings whole-heartedly before accepting them.
It took me 10 years to find this. I was beginning to despair that a simple, straightforward Buddhism that wasn’t run by aging hippies even existed. Would I have to go crawling back to Vajrayana and wrap myself in her blazing colors? Would I have to finally find a Zen center that would toughen up my face with a shoe? Or would I just have to practice alone, sifting through the mounds of worthless shit in the “Eastern Religion” section at the bookstore for the 3 or 4 useful books written every year?
Theravada was brought to the West by Westerners. In my opinion it is the most uniquely suited to our needs. Within that lineage, I’ve found a teacher willing to challenge the tried and true pillars that hold up the Dharma. Being an iconoclast myself, I’d like to be right there beside him. Noah has gone so far as to mention that we might have to go ahead and get rid of Buddhism itself because it’s become part of the problem. Strangely enough, that doesn’t bother me at all.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Not So Long Ago
Zen. The word itself just smacks of the exotic. Since the 50’s it’s been embedding itself into the American psyche and now it’s part of our everyday lexicon. It still retains its mystery, though, unlike “karaoke” or “sushi.” Those terms have been used so much that they’re not even foreign anymore. “Zen” still conjures misty images of medieval Japan where samurai roam the countryside.
We have these notions of what Zen entails and the mention of it often sends us off into romantic visions. There’s a flood of nearly unconscious associations with it: graceful brushstrokes of calligraphy, dark, flowing robes, shaved heads, narrow, piercing eyes, fingers pointing at the moon, unsolvable riddles, monks sitting staring at walls or rumbling in huge kung fu brawls, crude wooden sticks prodding followers toward enlightenment. These and a hundred others can flash through our minds. Almost everyone has been exposed to an idea of Zen, whether from a Yoplait ad, a book by Suzuki Roshi, or even a movie like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, which has nothing to do with Zen but reinforces our Americanized concepts of it. Zen is totally alien to us but we’re drawn to it. Its apparent opposition to our own culture intrigues us. It seems so formal and austere and centered compared to our hectic, over-stimulated Western lives. Maybe we believe if we could just integrate a bit of its Eastern wisdom into ourselves we could be happier and more peaceful.
Having been a Tibetan Buddhist for several years, my ideas of Zen were only slightly more informed than the average American’s. I’d read some books but was so enamored of Vajrayana’s Play-doh colors and crazy mysticism that I didn’t pay much attention to it. Plus, Zen seemed a lot like Buddhist boot camp. The masters I’d read of were more like drill sergeants than spiritual teachers. Physical violence, mental and emotional torture were standard tools. They were willing to use any means necessary to smash the delusion out of a student. If that happened to be cracking him in the face with a shoe, so be it. If he needed an arm cut off, well, that was the price of liberation sometimes. Bodhidharma, the Indian monk who brought Buddhism to China, reportedly sat down in a cave and hacked his eyelids off so strong was his commitment to awakening.
Fuck that, I say. I was perfectly comfy with my Vajra teachers. They were warm and fuzzy and so sedate that sometimes it was a struggle to stay awake when they gave a talk. I didn’t want to have to play some freaky game of Enlightenment Dodgeball when the wrenches and shoes and dishes started flying at my head.
Zen is strict, man. In all the Tibetan centers I’ve ever been to, when people meditate they shift position slightly when they get very uncomfortable and scratch their noses when they itch too bad. Zen requires sitting like a statue. Once you were settled into position you were done. Move only if you were willing to take the wrath of a terminally irascible master prowling the room like a panther.
But I was willing to give it a second look. Vajrayana had proved to be untenable and I needed something to give my practice structure. I needed a framework on which to hang my hang-ups.
I found out that there are two major branches of Japanese Zen. Since I practiced Japanese martial arts at the time that seemed like a good place to start. The Soto sect focuses almost solely on zazen, which is sitting meditation. There is little in the way of instruction, usually something along the lines of “Just sit, dummy.”
Rizai utilizes meditation as well but it also relies heavily on koans. Koans are those maddening, unanswerable questions we’ve all heard of, even if only in passing. The most famous is probably “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” Practitioners are given a specific one to work with and aren’t allowed to move to the next one until they solve it. Despite the fact that it can’t be solved. Welcome to Zen, fucker!
The idea is that when you sit down in meditation you wrestle with this painful question. Your mind ceaselessly turns it over looking for any seam or flaw, any way in. There’s no way in, of course. There’s no way to solve a riddle with no answer. And that’s the catch. Koans are a way to trick your mind out of its usual state. When your brain gives up in exhaustion, actual insights can occur. Our normal dualistic mindset of subject/object can’t penetrate a koan. But when we’ve tried every angle and have no choice but to surrender, when we stop grappling so fiercely with it, sometimes we can SEE. We’ll realize that the question has tormented us straight through to the clear light of true awareness. The koan has essentially hounded us into a mini-awakening, a flash of real insight the Japanese call kensho.
Or so I’ve read. I certainly wasn’t about to try Rinzai Zen. Soto sounded much more manageable. “Just sit” versus “Just sit and wage mental war with this indefatigable psychic monster that will haunt your dreams and shadow your every move until you conquer it with the perfect light of non-dual awareness, can I get a Hallelujah.” Zen already struck me as the Marine Corps of Buddhism. I didn’t need to try for Special Forces while I was at it.
So I started studying Soto Zen. The book that really sold me on it was Harcore Zen, by Brad Warner. Brad is a punk-rock bassist who lived in Japan for more than a decade. He was practicing Zen here in the States but when he moved he really dug in deep. Eventually, against his own better judgment, he allowed his Japanese teacher to ordain him as a real, live Zen master. His book was a totally irreverent, blasphemous, uncompromising explanation of what Zen really is (and isn't) and why it doesn’t care about me. It tore down all the walls protecting my naive little image of what I thought it was all about. I was thrilled because the book spoke deeply to my rebellious nature. It showed me that Zen was indeed some crazy shit, but it was MY KIND of crazy shit.
The more I practiced Zen the more of an asshole I became. I found out that my inner nature is quite close to those masters I had read about that delighted in abusing their students in the name of enlightenment. I meditated, but because liberation is (usually) the only important thing is Zen, everything else about my practice suffered. I wasn’t kind because the Truth was more vital than kindness. Obstacles were flattened in true Zen combat-style. I wasn’t open-minded because Zen was THE WAY. Anything else was pale imitation. I didn’t study because Zen can’t be learned from books, it can only be mastered by doing. And, by the way, it can’t be mastered either. Enlightenment isn’t possible to attain because you already have it. How can you struggle for what you already possess? The only way to achieve is to forget about achievement.
Soon I was completely bogged down in the double-talk. None of this was Zen's fault. I just wasn't prepared, nor did I have a teacher. I couldn’t tell if I was progressing or regressing. Zen is highly technical but you have to watch it out of the corner of your eye. If you look directly at it you’ll never see its true form. I began to realize that Zen was opaque to me. I wasn’t getting it and I was becoming a terrible Buddhist. I understand why it’s great for some people but it was just tearing me down.
A big part of it was all the cultural baggage that came with it. The Buddha himself didn’t actually teach Zen. The argument is that at a lecture one day the Buddha didn’t say a word, he just held up a flower. One of his disciples, Mahakashyapa, smiled. Everyone else just looked on dumbly. The Buddha supposedly decreed that he had just passed a special teaching to Mahakashyapa, one that didn’t rely on words. The smile as the flower was held up represents the sudden awakening that Zen champions, and Mahakasyapa become its first patriarch.
From there it went to China, where it took a healthy roll in Taoism and Confucianism. Eventually it ended up in Japan where it soaked in Shintoism for a bit. At this point I’m inclined to believe it didn’t much resemble what the Buddha originally taught. The Chinese and Japanese cultural influences that tag along with Zen are easily noticeable. When it arrived, Buddhism was spiced with the constituents that already existed in these countries. The result was a very particular version of the Dharma, one that was easily distinguished from its cousins. Through practice, I realized that these versions of Buddhism didn't appeal to me. I was American (still am) and the mainly Japanese approach that I was involved in was too alien. My own cultural experiences didn't jibe with it.
And so it came to pass that Zen faded from the spotlight of my love. It was banished to the wings alongside Vajrayana. The Buddha had exhorted me to investigate all spiritual avenues for truth and never to accept something at face value. Thus far I had investigated two branches of Buddhism and found that neither one of them satisfied my requirements. I had prowled through both systems and my personal experience was telling me that they were wrong for me. The Buddha told me to trust my experience. I was going to trust him.
Back at my bookshelf I pulled out a book that was very special to me. One of the few books I consider sacred. After my initial discovery of Buddhism, this book was the thing that moved me the most. The Buddha’s teachings made me a radical, but Noah Levine’s book Dharma Punx made me a spiritual revolutionary.
To Be Continued in “These Days”
We have these notions of what Zen entails and the mention of it often sends us off into romantic visions. There’s a flood of nearly unconscious associations with it: graceful brushstrokes of calligraphy, dark, flowing robes, shaved heads, narrow, piercing eyes, fingers pointing at the moon, unsolvable riddles, monks sitting staring at walls or rumbling in huge kung fu brawls, crude wooden sticks prodding followers toward enlightenment. These and a hundred others can flash through our minds. Almost everyone has been exposed to an idea of Zen, whether from a Yoplait ad, a book by Suzuki Roshi, or even a movie like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, which has nothing to do with Zen but reinforces our Americanized concepts of it. Zen is totally alien to us but we’re drawn to it. Its apparent opposition to our own culture intrigues us. It seems so formal and austere and centered compared to our hectic, over-stimulated Western lives. Maybe we believe if we could just integrate a bit of its Eastern wisdom into ourselves we could be happier and more peaceful.
Having been a Tibetan Buddhist for several years, my ideas of Zen were only slightly more informed than the average American’s. I’d read some books but was so enamored of Vajrayana’s Play-doh colors and crazy mysticism that I didn’t pay much attention to it. Plus, Zen seemed a lot like Buddhist boot camp. The masters I’d read of were more like drill sergeants than spiritual teachers. Physical violence, mental and emotional torture were standard tools. They were willing to use any means necessary to smash the delusion out of a student. If that happened to be cracking him in the face with a shoe, so be it. If he needed an arm cut off, well, that was the price of liberation sometimes. Bodhidharma, the Indian monk who brought Buddhism to China, reportedly sat down in a cave and hacked his eyelids off so strong was his commitment to awakening.
Fuck that, I say. I was perfectly comfy with my Vajra teachers. They were warm and fuzzy and so sedate that sometimes it was a struggle to stay awake when they gave a talk. I didn’t want to have to play some freaky game of Enlightenment Dodgeball when the wrenches and shoes and dishes started flying at my head.
Zen is strict, man. In all the Tibetan centers I’ve ever been to, when people meditate they shift position slightly when they get very uncomfortable and scratch their noses when they itch too bad. Zen requires sitting like a statue. Once you were settled into position you were done. Move only if you were willing to take the wrath of a terminally irascible master prowling the room like a panther.
But I was willing to give it a second look. Vajrayana had proved to be untenable and I needed something to give my practice structure. I needed a framework on which to hang my hang-ups.
I found out that there are two major branches of Japanese Zen. Since I practiced Japanese martial arts at the time that seemed like a good place to start. The Soto sect focuses almost solely on zazen, which is sitting meditation. There is little in the way of instruction, usually something along the lines of “Just sit, dummy.”
Rizai utilizes meditation as well but it also relies heavily on koans. Koans are those maddening, unanswerable questions we’ve all heard of, even if only in passing. The most famous is probably “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” Practitioners are given a specific one to work with and aren’t allowed to move to the next one until they solve it. Despite the fact that it can’t be solved. Welcome to Zen, fucker!
The idea is that when you sit down in meditation you wrestle with this painful question. Your mind ceaselessly turns it over looking for any seam or flaw, any way in. There’s no way in, of course. There’s no way to solve a riddle with no answer. And that’s the catch. Koans are a way to trick your mind out of its usual state. When your brain gives up in exhaustion, actual insights can occur. Our normal dualistic mindset of subject/object can’t penetrate a koan. But when we’ve tried every angle and have no choice but to surrender, when we stop grappling so fiercely with it, sometimes we can SEE. We’ll realize that the question has tormented us straight through to the clear light of true awareness. The koan has essentially hounded us into a mini-awakening, a flash of real insight the Japanese call kensho.
Or so I’ve read. I certainly wasn’t about to try Rinzai Zen. Soto sounded much more manageable. “Just sit” versus “Just sit and wage mental war with this indefatigable psychic monster that will haunt your dreams and shadow your every move until you conquer it with the perfect light of non-dual awareness, can I get a Hallelujah.” Zen already struck me as the Marine Corps of Buddhism. I didn’t need to try for Special Forces while I was at it.
So I started studying Soto Zen. The book that really sold me on it was Harcore Zen, by Brad Warner. Brad is a punk-rock bassist who lived in Japan for more than a decade. He was practicing Zen here in the States but when he moved he really dug in deep. Eventually, against his own better judgment, he allowed his Japanese teacher to ordain him as a real, live Zen master. His book was a totally irreverent, blasphemous, uncompromising explanation of what Zen really is (and isn't) and why it doesn’t care about me. It tore down all the walls protecting my naive little image of what I thought it was all about. I was thrilled because the book spoke deeply to my rebellious nature. It showed me that Zen was indeed some crazy shit, but it was MY KIND of crazy shit.
The more I practiced Zen the more of an asshole I became. I found out that my inner nature is quite close to those masters I had read about that delighted in abusing their students in the name of enlightenment. I meditated, but because liberation is (usually) the only important thing is Zen, everything else about my practice suffered. I wasn’t kind because the Truth was more vital than kindness. Obstacles were flattened in true Zen combat-style. I wasn’t open-minded because Zen was THE WAY. Anything else was pale imitation. I didn’t study because Zen can’t be learned from books, it can only be mastered by doing. And, by the way, it can’t be mastered either. Enlightenment isn’t possible to attain because you already have it. How can you struggle for what you already possess? The only way to achieve is to forget about achievement.
Soon I was completely bogged down in the double-talk. None of this was Zen's fault. I just wasn't prepared, nor did I have a teacher. I couldn’t tell if I was progressing or regressing. Zen is highly technical but you have to watch it out of the corner of your eye. If you look directly at it you’ll never see its true form. I began to realize that Zen was opaque to me. I wasn’t getting it and I was becoming a terrible Buddhist. I understand why it’s great for some people but it was just tearing me down.
A big part of it was all the cultural baggage that came with it. The Buddha himself didn’t actually teach Zen. The argument is that at a lecture one day the Buddha didn’t say a word, he just held up a flower. One of his disciples, Mahakashyapa, smiled. Everyone else just looked on dumbly. The Buddha supposedly decreed that he had just passed a special teaching to Mahakashyapa, one that didn’t rely on words. The smile as the flower was held up represents the sudden awakening that Zen champions, and Mahakasyapa become its first patriarch.
From there it went to China, where it took a healthy roll in Taoism and Confucianism. Eventually it ended up in Japan where it soaked in Shintoism for a bit. At this point I’m inclined to believe it didn’t much resemble what the Buddha originally taught. The Chinese and Japanese cultural influences that tag along with Zen are easily noticeable. When it arrived, Buddhism was spiced with the constituents that already existed in these countries. The result was a very particular version of the Dharma, one that was easily distinguished from its cousins. Through practice, I realized that these versions of Buddhism didn't appeal to me. I was American (still am) and the mainly Japanese approach that I was involved in was too alien. My own cultural experiences didn't jibe with it.
And so it came to pass that Zen faded from the spotlight of my love. It was banished to the wings alongside Vajrayana. The Buddha had exhorted me to investigate all spiritual avenues for truth and never to accept something at face value. Thus far I had investigated two branches of Buddhism and found that neither one of them satisfied my requirements. I had prowled through both systems and my personal experience was telling me that they were wrong for me. The Buddha told me to trust my experience. I was going to trust him.
Back at my bookshelf I pulled out a book that was very special to me. One of the few books I consider sacred. After my initial discovery of Buddhism, this book was the thing that moved me the most. The Buddha’s teachings made me a radical, but Noah Levine’s book Dharma Punx made me a spiritual revolutionary.
To Be Continued in “These Days”
Sunday, November 2, 2008
In The Beginning
I’ve been practicing Buddhism for about 10 years now. I discovered it at a time when "suicide" was no longer just the first word of a really cool Ozzy song but an increasingly viable option. Much longer and I would've buried myself beneath rock bottom. Instead, I connected to the Buddha’s teachings in a way that was sublime. It wasn't like I was learning something new; it was like I had plugged in to something I already had. Nothing had ever felt so honest and precise and innate. Rather than deciding to accept something, I discovered what I was.
After reading a couple of general books on Buddhism I became attracted to the Tibetan variant, usually called Vajrayana. “Vajra” meaning diamond and “yana” meaning “vehicle.” This follows from Mahayana, the “great vehicle” of Vietnam, Korea, China and Japan (to name a few), and Hinayana, which is a derisive term that means “lesser, disgusting, paltry, vulgar vehicle”. It was generally used to belittle early schools of Buddhism, as the Mahayanists believed their emerging interpretation of the teachings to be vastly superior. The so-called “Hinayana” eventually became extinct. The only surviving lineage of early Buddhism is what’s called Theravada, which thrives mainly in Thailand, Cambodia and Sri Lanka. It's simple and straightforward and has a paucity of brocade robes, inscrutable practices, and staggeringly ornate hats. I dismissed it instantly in favor of the more elaborate layout of Tibetan Buddhism.
The Tibetans believe their version of the Buddha’s teachings to be the pinnacle of the Dharma. They see both the original ideas as well as the later Mahayana (which occurred after the Buddha’s death) to be building blocks. To them, this final iteration of the philosophy, their impervious “diamond vehicle” is the great culmination of everything the Buddha taught.
And I was all about it for quite some time. Buddhism may have resounded in me in a way that way truly sublime but the Vajrayana filled a callow spiritual hole. The gap in me that I’d previously flooded with drugs and alcohol was soon brimming with arcane mysticism. My first contact with the Dharma left me with the (correct) impression that it was practical and down to earth. That somehow slipped my mind after I encountered Tibetan Buddhism.
The Vajrayana is acrawl with gods, goddesses, ghosts, demons and all manner of unseen beings. It veritably crackles with all forms of magic and ancient superstition. Its leaders and lamas are dressed in Victorian outfits for mysterious rituals so abstruse that I doubt they make sense even to Tibetans. The actual Dharma teachings are riddled with secret practices and rites that must be revealed slowly to followers so they aren’t driven insane by the potency. It’s like a twisted labyrinth aimed at enlightenment with shortcuts, power-ups and enchanted weapons all along the way.
Tibetan practitioners make up about six percent of the world’s Buddhist population yet it’s probably the most visible branch in America. This has much more to do with its marketing value than anything else. It’s extremely exotic, and that’s what Americans want in an Eastern philosophy. Zen is a close second because Japanese culture is also very mysterious and romantic. The list of products that rely on ad campaigns influenced by Tibetan or Zen Buddhism is stupefying. Americans are generally comfortable not knowing the specifics. We’re pretty content, even willful, in our ignorance. Tibetan Buddhism is from OVER THERE, and it serves to flavor our existence, not alter it.
I, however, wanted my existence turned inside out. Tibetan Buddhism was so the opposite of my mundane Baptist upbringing that I took to it out of sheer rebellion. It was exactly what I had always vaguely imagined the spiritual teachings of a country I'd never heard of to be.
For years I was the type of practitioner that I now disdain. A goofy-chanting, reincarnation-spouting, Free Tibet-sticker-having, hanging-on-every-word-the-Dalai-Lama-spoke, freakin mystic VAJRA CHILD, man. I had forgotten everything the Buddha had originally taught me, especially the command to always question, always investigate, and never simply believe. I had completely fallen into the world of Vajrayana, which is sometimes called the “devotional vehicle.” I had bought the whole enchilada. Or it's strange, Tibetan equivalent.
Soon I realized I wasn't a very “devoted” kind of guy. I kept coming up with questions that the higher-ups had no answers for. I was concerned with what I increasingly saw as utterly superstitious clutter around the Buddha’s perfectly reasonable ideas. I was annoyed that, rather than straight answers, I was told to rely on my teacher. That he was an enlightened being and of course I wasn’t going to understand everything right now. I just had to relax and put my faith in him.
This sounded a bit too much like Christianity to me, which I’d already rejected. I thought Buddhism was a spiritual revolution and here I was spinning my wheels in the same dogmatic muck I thought I’d already escaped. It didn’t take long before I realized I’d surrendered the Buddha’s do-it-yourself ethic for some trance-eyed Himalayan theosophy.
There’s a lot of good in the Vajrayana. Most of it has to do with people just being good. The Tibetans are the undisputed masters of compassion. They have so many practices to cultivate loving-kindness it’s almost an integral part of their nature. The Dalai Lama may be a goofy bastard but he’s kind. He’s soft and warm and welcoming and forgiving. These are all qualities that any Buddhist should aspire to possess. Most of what I’ve learned about compassion I’ve learned from the Tibetans. I still wear a Tibetan prayer wheel around my neck so I don’t forget it. Hell, I tattooed their most-used prayer around my wrist.
Regardless, I had to get out. I withdrew from the small community of Vajra practitioners in Lexington. I meditated alone and I tried to decide how to pursue my Buddhist studies. I skimmed the few Theravada texts in my library, and, for the second time in my life, brushed it off as too simple and prosaic. I decided Zen was what I was looking for. It was artful and elegant and it tolerated no bullshit. It was direct and to the point, whereas Vajrayana was circuitous and vague. After the lavish world of Tibetan Buddhism, rife with blazing colors and complex practices, the austerity of Zen felt like freedom. This was it. Zen was what I needed.
To Be Continued in "Not So Long Ago"
After reading a couple of general books on Buddhism I became attracted to the Tibetan variant, usually called Vajrayana. “Vajra” meaning diamond and “yana” meaning “vehicle.” This follows from Mahayana, the “great vehicle” of Vietnam, Korea, China and Japan (to name a few), and Hinayana, which is a derisive term that means “lesser, disgusting, paltry, vulgar vehicle”. It was generally used to belittle early schools of Buddhism, as the Mahayanists believed their emerging interpretation of the teachings to be vastly superior. The so-called “Hinayana” eventually became extinct. The only surviving lineage of early Buddhism is what’s called Theravada, which thrives mainly in Thailand, Cambodia and Sri Lanka. It's simple and straightforward and has a paucity of brocade robes, inscrutable practices, and staggeringly ornate hats. I dismissed it instantly in favor of the more elaborate layout of Tibetan Buddhism.
The Tibetans believe their version of the Buddha’s teachings to be the pinnacle of the Dharma. They see both the original ideas as well as the later Mahayana (which occurred after the Buddha’s death) to be building blocks. To them, this final iteration of the philosophy, their impervious “diamond vehicle” is the great culmination of everything the Buddha taught.
And I was all about it for quite some time. Buddhism may have resounded in me in a way that way truly sublime but the Vajrayana filled a callow spiritual hole. The gap in me that I’d previously flooded with drugs and alcohol was soon brimming with arcane mysticism. My first contact with the Dharma left me with the (correct) impression that it was practical and down to earth. That somehow slipped my mind after I encountered Tibetan Buddhism.
The Vajrayana is acrawl with gods, goddesses, ghosts, demons and all manner of unseen beings. It veritably crackles with all forms of magic and ancient superstition. Its leaders and lamas are dressed in Victorian outfits for mysterious rituals so abstruse that I doubt they make sense even to Tibetans. The actual Dharma teachings are riddled with secret practices and rites that must be revealed slowly to followers so they aren’t driven insane by the potency. It’s like a twisted labyrinth aimed at enlightenment with shortcuts, power-ups and enchanted weapons all along the way.
Tibetan practitioners make up about six percent of the world’s Buddhist population yet it’s probably the most visible branch in America. This has much more to do with its marketing value than anything else. It’s extremely exotic, and that’s what Americans want in an Eastern philosophy. Zen is a close second because Japanese culture is also very mysterious and romantic. The list of products that rely on ad campaigns influenced by Tibetan or Zen Buddhism is stupefying. Americans are generally comfortable not knowing the specifics. We’re pretty content, even willful, in our ignorance. Tibetan Buddhism is from OVER THERE, and it serves to flavor our existence, not alter it.
I, however, wanted my existence turned inside out. Tibetan Buddhism was so the opposite of my mundane Baptist upbringing that I took to it out of sheer rebellion. It was exactly what I had always vaguely imagined the spiritual teachings of a country I'd never heard of to be.
For years I was the type of practitioner that I now disdain. A goofy-chanting, reincarnation-spouting, Free Tibet-sticker-having, hanging-on-every-word-the-Dalai-Lama-spoke, freakin mystic VAJRA CHILD, man. I had forgotten everything the Buddha had originally taught me, especially the command to always question, always investigate, and never simply believe. I had completely fallen into the world of Vajrayana, which is sometimes called the “devotional vehicle.” I had bought the whole enchilada. Or it's strange, Tibetan equivalent.
Soon I realized I wasn't a very “devoted” kind of guy. I kept coming up with questions that the higher-ups had no answers for. I was concerned with what I increasingly saw as utterly superstitious clutter around the Buddha’s perfectly reasonable ideas. I was annoyed that, rather than straight answers, I was told to rely on my teacher. That he was an enlightened being and of course I wasn’t going to understand everything right now. I just had to relax and put my faith in him.
This sounded a bit too much like Christianity to me, which I’d already rejected. I thought Buddhism was a spiritual revolution and here I was spinning my wheels in the same dogmatic muck I thought I’d already escaped. It didn’t take long before I realized I’d surrendered the Buddha’s do-it-yourself ethic for some trance-eyed Himalayan theosophy.
There’s a lot of good in the Vajrayana. Most of it has to do with people just being good. The Tibetans are the undisputed masters of compassion. They have so many practices to cultivate loving-kindness it’s almost an integral part of their nature. The Dalai Lama may be a goofy bastard but he’s kind. He’s soft and warm and welcoming and forgiving. These are all qualities that any Buddhist should aspire to possess. Most of what I’ve learned about compassion I’ve learned from the Tibetans. I still wear a Tibetan prayer wheel around my neck so I don’t forget it. Hell, I tattooed their most-used prayer around my wrist.
Regardless, I had to get out. I withdrew from the small community of Vajra practitioners in Lexington. I meditated alone and I tried to decide how to pursue my Buddhist studies. I skimmed the few Theravada texts in my library, and, for the second time in my life, brushed it off as too simple and prosaic. I decided Zen was what I was looking for. It was artful and elegant and it tolerated no bullshit. It was direct and to the point, whereas Vajrayana was circuitous and vague. After the lavish world of Tibetan Buddhism, rife with blazing colors and complex practices, the austerity of Zen felt like freedom. This was it. Zen was what I needed.
To Be Continued in "Not So Long Ago"
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