Crave On!

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Mountains of sweets for Diwali displayed at a roadside stand, Lumbini, Nepal

“Hi, I’m Jud,” he said, extending a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Hi, I’m Jeff.” It was all I could think of to say, thrown off by his spontaneous manifestation as I sat reading the book he’d just published. “Do you know if this is any good?” I joked, holding up the book.

“Nah, I wouldn’t believe a word of it,” he smiled, disappearing down the hall.

His full name is Judson Brewer, his title, Director of Research at the Center for Mindfulness. His new book is called The Craving Mind, and, according to the subtitle, explains “why we get hooked and how we can break bad habits.” Our sort of strange encounter took place at the UMass Medical School Center for Mindfulness as we both waited to be interviewed for an upcoming PBS documentary about the Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) Program that was started at the Center some 38 years ago by Jon Kabat-Zinn. I recently participated in the eight-week MBSR course, and Jud, as you know, is the Director of Research at the Center… I’m imagining that he’ll figure more prominently in the documentary than I will.

It’s a pretty interesting experience to be interviewed
for a TV show. In the finished product, I’ll be one of the talking heads sitting next to a bunch of books or a plant or something, not looking at the camera, and apparently talking aloud to no one. The person that I’m apparently not talking to is the interviewer, who sits off camera and whose voice will not be heard. Her job is not only to ask me questions, but to act as a sort of silent coach from the sidelines. If I’m making a point that’s particularly relevant or useful to the focus of the documentary, she’ll smile enthusiastically, nod encouragingly, or make that rotating hands “say more” gesture.

The interesting thing is that I noticed pretty quickly that I liked the smiles, the nods, and the gestures, and that I wanted to say things that would elicit those responses from the interviewer. The even more interesting thing is that I didn’t make the connection between my conditioned behavioral responses and the book that I’d been reading. If I’m honest about my motives, my desire wasn’t principally to contribute meaningfully to the documentary; my desire was to be liked. I was craving approval like a Nepalese boy craves the sweet, sticky cashew balls in the photo at the top of this post (it all comes full circle; the Universe has no loose ends).

What was that craving all about?

I didn’t have an awareness of, or a name for, that craving for approval until after the interview was finished and I had walked out of the Center for Mindfulness. Before starting my car, I paused to read from Daily Reflections, a book of brief selections from Alcoholics Anonymous literature that I usually read from in the morning. Ironically, I had mindlessly forgotten to do so that day. Excerpted from a book titled The Language of the Heart, the reading reminded me that

“this very real feeling of inferiority is magnified by [my] childish sensitivity and it is this state of affairs which generates in [me] that insatiable, abnormal craving for self-approval and success in the eyes of the world.” [1]

This isn’t an easy pill to swallow, a less-than-pleasant defect of character to face in one’s self. The good news is that I’m not alone. So common is the human tendency for approval-seeking that it’s addressed pretty explicitly in the Buddhadharma.

The Loka Dham, ma, variously translated as Eight Worldly Conditions or Eight Worldly Concerns, consists of four pairs of opposite states, among which are Fame and Disrepute. Attraction to Fame and aversion to Disrepute keeps us bound to the comfortable familiarity of Samsara, likewise with Praise and Blame, Gain and Loss, and, of course, Pleasure and Pain. In contemplating these Eight Worldly Concerns, I’ve long felt that Fame is a concern that doesn’t much concern me, as I’ve never been concerned with being famous. Lately it occurs to me, however, that the Fame that the Buddha referred to wasn’t necessarily of the variety that lands one’s face on the cover of the Rolling Stone; it has to do more generally with the desire to be looked well upon by others. That concerns me.

As an anonymous friend of mine is fond of saying, “What other people think of me is none of my business.” Holding this thought in mind offers me a glimpse of the freedom that’s available to those who can truly stand in equanimity between the poles of Fame and Disrepute. Awareness of this karmic tendency to crave approval inches me a little closer to the center of the spectrum. Thank God I’ve never wanted to be famous. Hopefully this PBS documentary won’t bring in too many offers…

[1] Anonymous (1990). Daily Reflections, New York: Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, Inc., p. 103.

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Walk of Life

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Turning prayer wheels while walking the grounds of Mahabodhi Temple, Bodh Gaya, India

 

Over the weekend, I got a very strong dose of the “Together Action” that I feared was missing from the Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) Program at the UMass School of Medicine.  Close to 100 participants sat a day-long retreat together at the Stress Reduction Clinic.  The experience was different from any of the retreats I’ve done in the Kwan Um School of Zen.  As with Zen retreats, the retreatants all spent the day in silence, but the five women leading the retreat spoke extensively, guiding us through all of the practices that we’ve been learning over the past eight weeks: body scans, standing yoga, lying down postures, sitting meditation, and walking meditation.  My favorite of these by far was the walking meditation. I’ve tried it by myself at home, and it’s never really grabbed me.  This practice seems to come alive only in the company of other practitioners, and to engage in this activity with so many people was truly a singular experience.

Walking meditation as practiced in the context of MBSR is rather different than the traditional Zen walking that typically punctuates periods of sitting meditation on long retreats.  Here, it was presented as a much longer practice, free-form in nature, different from the in-step, single-file Zen style.  We were invited to walk at a pace that felt natural and comfortable, in a pattern or direction that suited us, and even to leave the room and walk through the lobby and adjacent spaces if we so desired.  The overall effect looked rather like a school of fish moving more or less intuitively as a unit, yet not in unison.  The motion could only be described as “organic,” and what little thinking mind I still paid attention to marveled at the fact that no one bumped into each other despite the fact that most eyes seemed to be cast downward.  This was truly Together Action: I felt not only completely in body, but completely in collective body.  I’m wondering if the prescribed ritual of Zen-style walking meditation frees the mind up to do some thinking while the body does some walking… if perhaps engaging in a more spontaneous, symbiotic experience of group walking meditation more effectively invites the synthesis of mind and body…

I had originally enrolled in the MBSR course in order to see first-hand how meditation instruction was presented in a clinical setting, detached from its association with Eastern spiritual beliefs and from the strong sense of form and ritual that is the backbone of the Korean Zen tradition.  In the past, I’ve helped to facilitate prison meditation groups in the Kwan Um style, but we had a captive audience… literally.  The inmates weren’t deterred by a little bit of chanting or by the grey robes that we wore.  Now that I’m working as an addictions counselor in an outpatient program, it’s imperative that I present mindfulness as a possible tool for the clients’ own recovery without the bias of my own spiritual leanings.  Admittedly, this feels like a betrayal of the tradition I’ve been practicing in for close to ten years.  It felt good to walk into a prison, don the robe and kasa of the Chogye Order, and lead traditional Korean chanting in a place of such confusion and suffering; but a different situation calls for different action.  True mindfulness is recognizing this and responding appropriately.

Together Action is the hallmark of sustained recovery.  As I write, I’m envisioning my clients in the outpatient program mindfully meandering about a room like a school of fish with a single intention and many bodies, and it makes me smile.  It’s a tall order, I know, but I witnessed a huge group of people from all walks of life doing exactly that last weekend, so stranger things have happened…

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Footprints of the Buddha, Mahabodhi Temple

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Ever Mindful

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Detail of the Birth of Siddhartha, mural at Korean Monastery, Lumbini, Nepal

 

“I haven’t seen you in a while, ” said Zen Master Bon Haeng as I sat down for a koan interview at the zen center the other night.

It was true.  I haven’t been sitting with the Open Meadow sangha since I enrolled in a Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction course at the University of Massachusetts School of Medicine, about half an hour away from my home.

“Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction, huh?  Jon Kabat-Zinn started that.”

This was also true.  Kabat-Zinn began the Stress Reduction Program at the UMass medical school  in 1979 based on the premise that meditation could be an effective tool to help patients manage chronic pain.  A meditator and student of Buddhism for several years at that point, Kabat-Zinn understood that human beings create much of their own suffering.  He had a hunch that by allowing people to become aware of their response to pain moment to moment, they would have an opportunity to change their relationship to their experience.  Decades of research have confirmed that hunch.

“He used to practice here, didn’t he?” I asked the zen master, referring to Jon Kabat-Zinn and the Kwan Um School of Zen, respectively.

“Yes, ” he replied, continuing our streak of saying true things to each other.  He then went on to recall how he and Kabat-Zinn, or “Jonny,” as he referred to him, were students of Zen Master Seung Sahn in the early Seventies, along with another youngster named Larry Rosenberg.  As Bon Haeng explained it, Jonny and Larry had traveled to Asia and decided that “zen was dead there.”  They returned disillusioned, determined that a new, “American zen” needed to evolve from the teachings that had migrated from the East with traditional teachers like Zen Master Seung Sahn.  While they respected his teaching, they no longer saw the point of practicing the rigid, formal, and very foreign forms and rituals that he had brought with him from Korea in 1972.

When they approached Zen Master Seung Sahn with their desire to strike out on their own, he responded that once they had finished their training with him, they were free to do as they wished; to leave before their training was complete, however, would be irresponsible.  The Dharma they passed on to their own students could be misguided, perverted, or, at the very least, incomplete.  They parted ways with Zen Master Seung Sahn anyway, and the trails they blazed have profoundly impacted the spiritual landscape of America for the past 40 years.  Larry Rosenberg joined with Joseph Goldstein, Sharon Salzberg, and Jack Kornfield to found the Insight Meditation Society, and Jon Kabat-Zinn took the practice of mindfulness out of meditation halls and into the mainstream institutions of America.

It’s mindboggling how much a part of the popular consciousness the practice of mindfulness has become, but what is lost when we separate the practice from the Dharma?  Three things, according to Zen Master Bon Haeng: the concept of No Self, the idea of Impermanence, and what Zen Master Seung Sahn called Together Action.  Practicing only for ourselves, both Zen Masters insist, is incomplete practice…

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The Melodramas That Surround US

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Giant Buddha statue outside the Japanese Temple, Bodh Gaya, India

 

“To become awakened, one must give up his identification  with the melodramas that surround him.”  Swami Ajaya

This one-liner of wisdom came across my path via the spiritual-quote-a-day tear-off calendar near the coffee pot at work.  This calendar, which appears year after year at this gathering spot, gleans wisdom from across traditions; sometimes I find them helpful, often times not.  As a Zen practitioner, I tend to find many of the quotes either too wordy or too esoteric, but this one struck me like an arrow, as any good teaching should.  Definitely a keeper, it went on the bulletin board next to my work station after its designated time had expired.  That’s a great place for it because, like all good teachings, I forget it every single day.  Spiritual practice is a process of continual remembering.

Friday night was a very important time for “re-membering” in the sense of reconnecting with a spiritual community and the intention that we share.  It was Inauguration Day, a day that shed a bright, harsh spotlight on the melodrama that the country and the world is currently embroiled in.  My partner and I had the opportunity to join our voices with about 200 others at kirtan, the ecstatic singing of the myriad names of the Divine that has been part of the Hindu tradition for millennia.  Prajna, the kirtan wallah who leads the band on harmonium and leads the voices in chanting, used to bring us all together on a monthly basis until she “retired” last year at the age of 70.  Basically, she called an emergency kirtan because she felt that, given the urgency of the situation, the world needed our voices.

What I realized as I chanted my devotion to the Divine in Her many feminine aspects was that it wasn’t just the world (out There) who needed my voice, it was me (in Here) who needed it.  This truth points to a fundamental flaw in the Swami’s statement that one must “cease to identify with the melodramas that surround him.”  As Zen Master Seung Sahn might say, this statement contains a “big mistake.”  (Actually, two big mistakes, one being the gender bias.)  The second big mistake is the perception that the melodramas surrounding me are problematic… it’s the melodramas within me that cause me to suffer.  I’m referring to what Pema Chodron calls my “storyline,” my precious notion of who I am and how I fit in with the world that I perceive as being separate from myself, a world that is never exactly the way I want it to be.  Attachment to my storyline is the cause of my suffering, and it always has been.  Office holders merely present themselves from time to time as convenient scapegoats.

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Western practitioner on the ghats of the Ganges, Varanasi, India. (Blindfold not recommended for giving up identification with the melodramas that surround you.)

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Giving it All Away

 

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Sculpture of the Virgin Mary and Child, Chapel of the Holy Cross, Sedona, AZ

Selflessness in action is humbling to behold.  I was reminded of this after driving to a nearby town to be in the presence of Mata Amritanandamayi.  Amma, or “the Hugging Saint,” as she’s also known, travels from India to the seemingly inauspicious hamlet of Marlborough, Massachusetts every year as part of her North American tour.  Those who come for darshan, or the blessing of seeing her, have the opportunity to wait in line to receive a hug.  Part of Amma’s mission on this planet is to put her arms around as many human beings as she possibly can while she’s here.  Her love and service to humanity goes way farther than that, though;  charitable organizations in her name have made significant advances in the areas of housing, education, and public health in her home country and beyond.  Her foundation is called “Arms Around the World.”  It all comes back to the hugs.

I didn’t get a hug this year, unfortunately, as Amma’s arrival in the States was a little earlier than usual, and it sort of snuck up on us.  To be able to get the full Amma experience, you really need to schedule in a day off.  The hugs are an all-night affair, beginning around 9 at night and continuing until the wee hours.  The hug line is long, and the people in it come from far and wide; on the way through the parking lot, we counted license plates from over a dozen states and Canadian provinces.

What I did get, however, was nearly as great as physical contact with a living saint… I got a chance to witness the continual outpouring of unconditional and unapologetic love.  I sat among the rows of folding chairs facing the raised platform where she receives her devotees, alternating my gaze between the stage and the large monitors that offer up-close views of Amma and her inner circle throughout the night.  Her smile doesn’t fade.  The enthusiasm with which she greets each new person that approached her didn’t wane.  She doesn’t get up from her seat, even for a bathroom break, until the last person in the hall receives a hug.  Her energy seems inexhaustible.

I didn’t know that people could do that.  I’m not just talking about sitting all night without using the bathroom; I didn’t know that a person could just pour out their love like it flowed from an endless fountain.  No one ever told me that that was something you could do.  The instruction I got seems to be that you’ve got to hang on to some love, you can’t just give it all away… What happens when it’s all gone, who are you then?  It’s uncharted water, and there’s a lot of fear there… What’s the price of that much openness, that much selflessness?  I can’t say that I know, I’ve never taken the risk.  It’s nice to know that someone else has, and has lived to take that risk again and again.

I might not be ready to throw my arms around the world and hug it like it’s my only child, loving every last drop of its tragically flawed, misguided and beautifully brutal, cruel insanity, smelling its hope and fear as if it’s the same aroma… but I can definitely do more than I’m doing now.  These are dicey times, to say the least.  A little more love certainly won’t hurt.  No one’s asking me to sit all night on a platform hugging the multitudes, but I can ask myself to be a little kinder to whomever happens to be in front of me in any given moment, maybe even to ask, “are you okay?  Is there anything I can do for you?”

How about you, reader?  Are you okay?  I haven’t blogged in a while.  Please consider this final post of the year to be my sincerest wish for you to be happy, healthy, and free of suffering in the new year.  Wherever you are…

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Together Action

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school children in Kushinagar, India

Last weekend, I attended a workshop on practice forms at the Cambridge Zen Center.  It struck me as an unfortunate waste of time on such an unseasonably warm, spring-like February day; I’d rather have been outside enjoying the weather or inside the Zen Center doing actual practice rather than simply talking about it… Somehow, though, knowing that it’s important to both learn and teach the myriad rules and customs that govern our formal practice, I put my preferences aside and sat in the dharma room as the forms were described and demonstrated one by one.

The forms that govern formal practice in the Kwan Um School of Zen were brought to the United States by Zen Master Seung Sahn in 1972, having been adapted from the temple rituals of the Chogye Monastic Order of Korea.  They’ve since been codified as the Dharma Mirror, which serves as the practice manual for the entire Kwan Um School.  It’s edited and updated periodically, and is currently being overhauled by a teacher in the school, and this workshop, which included at least one Zen Master, was a way for that teacher to get some input and get us all on the same page before it goes to press.  In this sense, the Dharma Mirror is sort of a living document, open to amendment and interpretation as time, geography and culture might dictate.

As heartening as it is to be part of this tradition, it’s still tough to sit through extended discussion on such minutia as whether candles should be lit from left or right or from right to left when opening the altar (it’s right to left, I think… our right, not the Buddha’s), whether an offertory bowl of water should be open or closed during special chanting verses normal chanting, and what to do with our feet during full prostrations (the left foot should be crossed over the right; in Korea, it’s considered an insult to show the soles of your feet to another person, so I guess it’s the best we can do to at least cover up one).  As soon as I found myself wondering “what the hell’s the difference?” I knew that this question was at the heart of my practice in that particular moment.  The practice forms themselves aren’t as important as my relationship to them.

Somewhat limited in his English ability when he arrived here, Zen Master Seung Sahn’s slogan was “Just Do It” long before some ad man spun it into gold for Nike.  He gave this brutally simple, straight-to-the-point instruction to his students not only because his linguistic disadvantage precluded more extensive explanations, but because he immensely valued practice, or action, over speech and concepts.  There are always reasons and rationalizations for the things that we do in practice, but it’s all pretty much just ego food.  The real point is to do what Seung Sahn called “together action” with others, free of individual preferences and opinions.

Zen Master Seung Sahn was often asked by students why we chant in Korean if we have no idea what the words mean… He’d answer that the meaning is irrelevant, but the spirit of the chanting is extremely relevant.  We can chant “Coca Cola, Coca Cola” as long as we do it wholeheartedly and with a clear mind, without like or dislike, and without attachment.  He famously said, “When your thinking stops and my thinking stops, our minds are the same.”  This is the point of chanting, and the point of all our practice: together action to attain One Mind.

As I was sitting a week-long retreat at Providence Zen Center a few years ago, I was struck by the realization that the practice forms and rituals of our school are like a vessel that contains the teachings, in much the same way that the Twelve Traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous create the framework that recovery takes place within.  Like the Twelve Traditions, however, the practice forms not only contain the teachings, they are the teachings.  Through these simple, deliberate, together actions, we have the opportunity to get our minds out of the way and let our hearts do what they were born to do…

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Same old same old

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I don’t have mental insights particularly often, but every now and then one will sneak up on me and leave a lingering taste after its light has faded.  There’s an intersection on my way home from work where traffic typically backs up during rush hour.  One day last week, I approached the intersection at around 4:00, fully expecting to have to slow down and stop.  My expectation was met.  I waited for my turn to cross the intersection, sitting in the same car, on the same road, in front of the same houses that I’d sat in front of at around the same time the day before…  yet something was different. Somehow, I didn’t feel the same as I had the day before.  I didn’t necessarily feel better or worse; just different.  I ran back over the day in my head, wondering what was different about today that caused me to feel different than I’d felt the day before.

Then it dawned on me: everything about that day was different than the one before.  They weren’t the same day and it wasn’t a case of a familiar experience repeating itself.  It never is.  This belief that I do the same thing over and over is just a function of consciousness wherein everything is labeled and categorized in order to make experience more digestible to the rational mind.  On a very basic, molecular level, the car, the road, the houses, and the “me” were not the same car, road, houses, and me that they’d been the day before.  This is a simple and irrefutable scientific fact, yet my mind prefers to reject this fact in favor of the notion that my experience basically consists of a bunch of static, unchanging objects with some occasional fluid activity happening around them. It’s interesting, then, that consciousness not only serves the function of dividing experience into “this” and “that,” it also bundles experience into “this” and “this again.”

Life might seem simpler when it’s all nicely folded and tucked into a pre-existing conceptual framework, but it can, I’ve noticed, get a bit boring.  Buying into the delusion that I’ve already experienced an event allows me the option of checking out and not paying attention, and boredom is nothing if not a lack of attention.  It’s like reading a book while watching a movie you’ve already seen, glancing up from the pages only when your favorite scenes come on screen.  Simply put, my takeaway from my flash of insight while sitting in traffic on Commonwealth Ave. is that you can’t actually watch the same movie twice.  Not if you’re really paying attention.  And truly paying attention, being on the head of the pin where every moment arises and passes away simultaneously, awakens us to the realization that each moment is fresh, each moment is unique, and each moment will never come again.

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