One of the reasons I believe in jazz is that the oneness of man can come through the rhythm of your heart. It’s the same any place in the world, that heartbeat. It’s the first thing you hear when you’re born — or before you’re born — and it’s the last thing you hear. — Dave Brubeck



Showing posts with label Hartford Street Zen Center. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hartford Street Zen Center. Show all posts

Thursday, October 29, 2020

"The Three Key B’s of Buddhism, Bowing Boredom and Bliss," by Phil Whalen & Ken Ireland

Phil with Allen Ginsberg and Anne Waldman at Naropa

Bowing, Boring and Bliss


I recall one talk about “Bowing” by Zenshin Phil Whalen at the Hartford Street Zen Center. Damn I loved his talks. He was without a doubt one of the most literate men ever to don the robes of a Zen priest anywhere, at any time. And if you want to challenge me, I’ll be suiting up on the Dalai Lama’s debate ground up here in McLeod Ganj. 


But first things firstI was going to try to record the talk, but was my usual bumbling self with electronic equipment, and couldn’t get the machine working in good time. Being his usual patient-self, he yelled at me, saying that we didn’t have all day and, anyway some things were just not meant to be recorded. Sometimes words are purposefully impermanent. It was not like he was going to recite some goddamn hidden, secret sutra for the last time before he croaked.


So I lost the talk, but I am going to do my best to reconstruct it from the basic “B’s” as I remember them.


He began by saying that if he really wanted to write a bestseller, his publisher would insist that he come up with a title like the “The 10 Recondite Rules for Clean Buddhist Living” or something like that. So let’s give it a try: “The Three Key B’s of Buddhism, Bowing Boredom and Bliss.”  Perhaps Phil’s publisher was onto something. More than 20 years have passed, and I still remember long sections of his talk (it’s also true that as with many teachers, he returned again and again to his favorite topics like an old horse headed back to the barn).


When he was in Japan, in the monasteries and temples there, everyone bowed three times. People just always bowed three times. But for those who couldn’t count, he said, before he just sat down to begin his talk, he bowed nine times. We all bow nine times at Zen Center, why is that? Well he said, when the first students began to gather around Suzuki Roshi in San Francisco, they went to him one day and complained, “Roshi we love you but we’re Americans and we don’t like all this bowing. We don’t understand it. So why are we doing it?” And the Roshi said with a smile, “Oh so you don't like bowing three times? Good. Perfect. I think we should bow nine times. Better that way, More practice.”


So we bow nine times. Better that way. Practice.


Phil then told an anecdotal story about some legendary old Japanese teacher way out in the middle-of-nowhere backcountry who was revered for the callous on his forehead. He explained himself: one of his first teachers had scolded him for being stubborn and told him bowing would be a good practice. So he began bowing. He never stopped. He discovered that the body is stubborn and the mind is stubborn. He said that he would stop when he stopped being stubborn. So he just kept bowing and thus the calloused forehead. In one way or another, we’re all like that.


Then he said that Zen students actually have it very easy. In Tibet all the new monks bow 100,000 times before they do anything. It’s called Ngondro, and it involves the whole body, not just your forehead, hands, arms, knees and feet touching the floor but your whole body flat out, like you were a swimming fish, and it’s so strenuous that it takes a lot of effort to reel back and bounce back up. Do that a hundred thousand times. I’m told that it’s a purifying exercise. But it’s not done with some idea of repentance like Christian pilgrims bowing every three feet along the Camino de Santiago. It’s done because we practice meditation with every bit of ourselves, wholeheartedly, fully, without reservation, holding nothing back. 


And then he said that anyone who’s lived in Asia knows that bowing is just good manners. It’s a sign of respect. You tilt your body down, your eyes are not focused on the face of the person you’re greeting, your whole body is lower. Of course you’re going to bow lower to a king or abbot. There’s a whole book of bowing etiquette: you bow very slightly to someone who’s your equal, but your bow is lower when you greet your parent or someone who’s older out of respect. That’s why we bow to our teachers in a formal situation. We’re showing respect and love. And we show it by using our whole body and mind. Our mind bows down, and for maybe an instant, we’re slightly less arrogant. We have to throw every bit of being into the bow.


But the most important thing, and here is a place where I actually have Phil’s own words, from his notebooks from Tassajara, we have to make it our own. In the rule infested monastery or practice center, we ask ourselves are we “bowing to rules rather than using them? We must contrive to be Buddhas & patriarchs rather than students who are good at following schedules (and bowing).”


But you’ll notice, he said, we follow a certain order in the zendowe bow to the cushion, then everyone else in the room, and we sit. How strange, bowing to the cushion. We’re not bowing to a Buddha, or a person. You can think of it anyway you want to. Sometimes I like to  think that I am bowing to the practice, but that is really way too abstract. Sometimes I do it just automatically, without thinking much of anything. But in any case, we just do it. It’s probably not important what you think about.


Now we get to the B for boring.


We sit and almost immediately after we learn to sit with only slight discomfort and our bodies become both more relaxed and more alert, we get bored. We all have our own experiences, but I’ll tell the world, I get bored.


But then the mind, it’s like fiddling with a bungled up ball of twine, if you try to untangle it when you’re frustrated or angry, the knots are just going to get tighter. You’ll be looking for a knife (He laughed). I’ve pictured the mind as a bag of worms or a net of living anchovies. But you get the point, it’s a conundrum, it’s a mess. It may be filled with ghosts or paranoia or algebraic equations. It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it’s just there, all tangled up. 


So there’s this big mess of thread sitting in your mind, and you just begin to play with it, without much purpose, no rhyme or reason. You tug a bit here and notice a bit that’s a bit looser over there, but you’re relaxed and maybe you follow the thread to a knot that looks tight but on closer inspection, it loosens up and falls away. And maybe after a while there’s just a whole mess of lovely threads in front of you, and though you really don’t fully grasp how it happened, there it is.


Then the bell rings. 


I’ll end by quoting Mr. Robert Bly who tells us to follow our bliss. Of course Mr. James Campbell has also told us to follow our bliss, and he did it on the Public Television Station so it must be something worth doing. But I was watching Bly talk about it on the TV and found him quite interesting, if not persuasivebecause bliss is not something I can buy, like the gummy bears I get at the Walgreens. It’s just there. 


Some very fussy Buddhists might describe it as a fruit of meditation. If you hang out long enough, it’s just there because it’s always been there, but you wake up, or you open your eyes, or you open your heart. I’ll agree that it’s just there, and it really doesn’t matter how it got there. But this it does share with the gummy bears: when you taste it, you know that it’s a gummy bear.


And sometimes it might feel like something is lost in the process. Bly quoted a poem by Antonio Machado which I quite like.

The wind one brilliant day called to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

The wind said, “In return for the odor of my jasmine, I’d like all the odor of your roses. ”

[Machado said,] “I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead … ”

The wind said, “Then, I’ll take the withered petals, and the yellow leaves, ”

and the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself, “What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?”

I think that’s enough for today. Keep bowing. Thank you.


Friday, October 11, 2019

Issan said, "I have things to do."

Originally posted April 23, 2010

A friend was just diagnosed with advanced colon cancer. He asked his doctor if he could postpone the only treatment they recommended, a resection followed by chemo, for just a week. He said, “I have things to do.” 

Yes, we all have things to do, and taking care of them is exactly what we are about. It is the crux of the matter, even if I have a great deal of trouble staying on top of it. I am caught so often between what I really have to do and what are imagined responsibilities. Where between my made up world and life as it presents itself is there any space between for freedom? For me this story throws those questions into a new perspective.

During a Zen meditation retreat, we had been working with the koan “Little Jade.” It is enough to say that in the koan, the sound of a spoken name, the name of a servant uttered so that a secret lover can hear her voice, I reconnected to my old friend and teacher Issan Dorsey.

Photo: ©Rick Gerharter
For some reason, or maybe none, memories about Issan had been surfacing during my meditation. The last ten or so days before he died were such a powerful experience that I have spent almost 20 years digesting the gift that he gave me and many of his friends. Those memories formed a kind of backdrop for work on “Little Jade,” and then suddenly connected me to that brief moment in way I had not felt since he died.

In much the same way the phrase “I have things to do” set off a massive chain reaction in my memory system, and that week sprang to life again.

One night after his dharma talk about the koan "Little Jade,'" John Tarrant opened the floor for questions and comments. He had said that the real point of all our meditation practice was finding a place of freedom. No, it is not really a place at all. I misspoke. He really meant FREEDOM, not some approximation or substitute that might be available when we experience a lesser degree of the suffering that goes hand in hand with life.

Here is the story I told that night and the one that my friend’s words brought to life again. I am trusting that I can write it with enough clarity to allow the freedom of the moment shine through this jumble of words spread across the page.

Issan had an appointment with his oncologist, I think it was on Friday, but it might have been mid-week. It was to be the last time he left Hartford Street. He was quite weak. His skin seemed like it was working hard to cover his bones. He was a sick man—he knew it, we all knew it. Steve Allen and Shunko packed him into the beat up car that had become a kind of hospice taxi, and off they went to General Hospital.

About two hours later, maybe it was as long as three, they returned. I opened the front door. He looked even more white, almost ghost like, and the pain on his face brought tears to my eyes. He didn’t even look at me. I don’t think he could. He held the banister for dear life, while Shunko held onto him under the left shoulder lifting him from one step to the next.

After they reached the top and I heard the door of his room close, I turned to Steve who was still standing at the bottom of the steps and asked, ‘What happened?’

Steve’s voice seemed quite flat as he recounted the doctor’s visit. I am almost certain I recall the story with all the details that I am going to report, though I know that Steve’s emotions and mine have certainly colored what I will say.

They had waited for a long time. Issan was having an MRI, and the doctor was present. Steve described Issan as smiling as he was placed on the moving bed and the noise of the machine. Loud clacking began. Steve stood next to the doctor as they watched the pictures flash on a screen. The cancerous areas showed up as a soft glow, and Steve said that Issan looked like a Christmas tree—every part of his body light up.

The test ended. Steve, Shuko and Issan went into a private room with the doctor. He said to Issan, “You’re dying.” Steve said that Issan tried to smile and said, “Of course I know I’m dying, but I have things to do. It will take at least a month. I have to give Steve transmission, I have to ordain David and Harper.” I could almost hear his voice trailing off. The doctor looked at him and said (it is not difficult to imagine the tone of his voice. This kind of message can only be delivered with love), “No, Issan I don’t think you quite understood me, you’re dying now.” Steve described Issan’s response as a simple matter of fact question: “How long do I have?” The doctor told him that he could die at any time, or he might last a week, even ten days at the outside.

Before they left, Issan thanked the doctor for all that he'd done. An automatic “Oh, thank you” never came from Issan’s mouth and certainly not in this situation—they both knew that it would be their last meeting. 

That doctor was the first of a long line of people who would say good-bye—and thank you.

When Steve spoke I understood the anguish that I saw in Issan’s face. The stage had been set for the last moments in his life. Here was a Buddhist priest, abbot, roshi, gay man, loved by hundreds of people, many who had never even met him, and certainly entirely a human being, clutching onto the banister as he struggled to get up the stairs.

I usually dropped into Issan’s room before the 6 PM meditation to see if he needed anything. Recently Steve and Shunko had been taking shifts to be with him all the time so perhaps Steve had asked me to check in that night so that he could get ready for meditation. I knocked and heard Issan’s telephone voice. That man loved the phone! I opened the door and he pointed to the chair next to him. He was talking with his teacher, Richard Baker. “Oh roshi, you can’t get out here before the 10th? That is too bad, the doctor told me just this afternoon that I won't last that long. Yes, I'll miss you too. I do love you. Yes, goodbye for now. I'll call again or have Steve call you if I have no energy." Here was a different man than the one who only a half hour earlier had been clutching the banister. And it was absolutely the same man but with a brightness in his voice that shocked me—if I said surprised, it would be far too mild to register the degree of the transformation that I felt.

I can’t remember exactly what Issan said next, but after only a few minutes, I had clear instructions to make everyone who would he coming to say goodbye feel welcomed, and that I would do whatever Steve or Shunko asked of me. I was clear that Issan, through Steve, would orchestrate his last days, hours, and moments to accomplish as much as humanly possible of what was on his plate, and whatever that was would be exactly enough.

He was dead 10 days later, taking full advantage of the outside limit promised by the doctor. Richard Baker did come to San Francisco to be with his student and dharma heir before he died.

To read more reflections about the life of Issan, see some photographs, read his dharma talks, go to my Record of Issan page.

"Mindfulness is Not a Part-Time Job," a talk by Issan Dorsey

  A Dharma talk given by Issan Dorsey-roshi Originally posted on 1/13/2012 This transcript appeared in the newsletter of the Gay Buddhist Fe...