PERFECTING THE PARAMITAS EFFORT 2010.6

Today, in this, the sixth of the eight segments, we will examine the fourth of the Six

Perfections, Virya Paramita: Effort, Energy, or Perseverance. In the Introduction

segment, I mentioned that we often feel, and admit, that we do not have the energy for

something, let alone the time. Especially for something like zazen, which can seem so

demanding. But the question in Zen, is: How do we turn this around, and find the true

source of energy in our life, and in our practice?

Reviewing the words of Matsuoka-roshi from the volume Mokurai, Chapter 3: Zen Mind

is Ordinary Mind:

The Fourth Paramita, Perseverance, is an ideal for us which urges us to

exert ourselves and to continue in any difficulty we may encounter in our lives.

This continuing in any difficulty we may encounter is the key. In athletics, there is the

expression playing hurt. Football, baseball, basketball and soccer players all persevere,

through fatigue, pain, even injury. In Zen, there are often circumstances that discourage

our practice: disappointed expectations; friction with our teacher or other members of the

sangha; problems with family and friends; disruption from loss of employment or

income; the list goes on. But we continue our practice, in good times or bad. Zazen is like

the rudder of our ship; it maintains balance sailing the choppy seas of Samsara.

Effort, Virya, or perseverance, the connotation Sensei prefers, we do not readily associate

with activity toward others, so much as a level of engagement. Effort, unlike patience,

generosity, or the Precepts, we tend to think of, as a part of personal Discipline, that area

of the Eightfold Path that includes right effort, right mindfulness, and right meditation.

Again, right effort implies that there can be wrong effort: effort expended on a lost cause,

or an unworthy one; a waste of time and effort, and so on. But remember that the term

right in the Eightfold Path is a verb, indicating that we correct course when we go astray.

We right the boat in the water. When we find ourselves spinning our wheels on matters

that are not worthwhile, or are not working, we take a step back, and if necessary, redirect

our effort into a direction that is right, or correct. It is said that the difference between a

world-class scientist, and a mediocre one is that the former recognizes the futility of an

area of inquiry sooner. And thus wastes less time pursuing trivial or unimportant

investigations. Likewise, we want to practice due diligence in our Zen practice as well as

daily life, to assure that our pursuit of buddhadharma and its manifestation in daily life is

not self-defeating.

But, as we discussed in the practice of Patience, which we tend to think of primarily as

patience with others, practicing patience with ourselves seems to come first, or to be

necessary in order to be able to practice true patience with others. On a deeper or more

universal level, we need self-patience in order to practice true patience with other, in the

sense of existence itself. And we must acknowledge that there are situations in which, no

matter how much patience we practice, no matter how much effort we are able to expend,

the situation will not improve owing to our efforts, to our personal perseverance. This

kind of humility is the necessary balance to our Panglossian sense that, in the best of all

possible worlds, we can accomplish miracles if we only have the heart, and devote

enough time and effort to the cause. This often turns out to be inappropriately optimistic.

But effort also takes an extreme position on the personal level of Zen meditation, where it

is definitely appropriate. When we are entirely exhausted, like the long-distance runner in

the last lap of the marathon — running on empty — when there is no more gas left in the

tank; we reach deeper, and find some new resource that perhaps we didn’t know was

there. A new level of exertion or energy, that at least allows us to cross the finish line. In

sports, this is called hitting the wall, an apt metaphor for extensive Zen meditation

practice, which we call facing the wall. Of course, in Zen, there is no finish line.

This wall, in Zen, we usually think of as an actual wall, the one we face in the zendo,

when sitting. In Bodhidharma’s case, it was a great bluff, a sheer cliff of the mountain

cave at Shaolin Temple in China. But, actually, this is not the real wall, in Zen. The real

wall goes with us when we leave the zendo; it entered the zendo with us. This wall is

always with us. It is an internal wall, we might say, though it is not separate from the

external. Whenever and wherever we make the ultimate effort — whether in athletics, or

the vigorous effort required by zazen — we hit the wall, eventually. This is where we run

out of effort, energy, enthusiasm, encouragement, and we begin to lose heart.

Energy, effort, virya, this Paramita suggests that we will hit the wall, run out of steam.

And it is important what we do, when we find ourselves at this dire strait. Too many

people give up when the going gets tough. On the relative level, unless we find the time

and energy to put an adequate amount of effort into our practice, as mentioned in the last

segment, it probably will not do much good. It may actually be better to avoid or give up

practicing Zen altogether if we are going to make a half-hearted effort. This is the

judgment call called for, in judging whether we are making right effort. Wholehearted

practice is itself enlightenment, according to Master Dogen.

Effort, on the absolute level, then, suggests that in spite of exhaustion, in spite of

frustration, depression, even, or discouragement; that, whatever we do, we don’t give up.

In Zen, we return to the cushion again; just as the athlete, after resting up, returns to the

track, to run the marathon once again. We play hurt, when necessary.

But this resting up part is a very important, perhaps the most important, part of effort. We

must recognize that our energy needs to be replenished. For this reason, we turn to the

example and inspiration of others. Ancestors in the history of Zen provide this kind of

encouragement and inspiration, as does the sangha, those around us who are also making

great effort. Of course, we see only the appearance of that effort, in their sitting still and

upright for long periods of time, and their returning to the cushion throughout the long

day of retreat, or a week-long sesshin. The diligence of others — when we can see that

they are discouraged by the pain, or mental fatigue — when they do not give up, it

encourages us to do the same.

Someone said we run up against it, and back off; we run up against it, and back off; we

run up against it, and back off. Master Dogen is credited with saying something like, Fall

down seven times, get up eight. The fact that we fall down is less important than that we

get up. Someone else pointed out that when we fall down, onto the ground, it is by virtue

of the ground that we are able to then get back up.

The very thing that seems to be working against us, symbolized by the ground, over

which we stumble and fall, is the very thing that allows us to recover our posture, our

status, and to continue on. Knowing that, eventually, in some way or another, we are

bound to fall, once again.

Just as a baby, from flat on its back, then learning to roll over on it stomach, raise its

head, lift its shoulders, eventually rise up onto it hands and knees and crawl around the

room; gradually pull itself up into standing posture — probably imitating its parents and

siblings surrounding it — and eventually to walk, eventually to run; falls down again and

again, learning this process of standing and walking, that, once erect, we tend to take for

granted.

In life, we really have little choice when it comes to exerting energy and effort,

persevering in the face of changing circumstances. As we age, the process the infant goes

through in gaining mobility seems to reverse itself. We go from walking to sitting, with

the aid of our walkers and canes, then furniture, chairs, and wheelchairs. Which is a part

of the problem in the weakening of our legs, and fear of falling, as we become frail. We

have come to rely almost exclusively on sitting, in the conventional sense — at the office,

in our automobiles, while commuting, and so on. Our legs seem to atrophy rapidly as we

grow older. Someone said the knees are the first to go. These days, with people living

much longer, the problems of caring for people who can no longer stand, or walk,

become very pronounced. An ancient Egyptian riddle asks, What is it that walks on four

legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening? This is the

aging person, crawling, then bipedal, and finally assisted by a cane or walking stick.

Nowadays we have walkers, so we might say, What is it that walks with six legs in the

evening. Anyone who has witnessed an aged parent in extended care, finally confined to a

wheelchair — for their own safety, of course — becomes painfully aware of how

shocking the decline of the physical body can be. It requires great effort to cope with it,

on the part of the aged as well as their community.

Our Zen meditation, of course, is not the same as passively sitting on a chair. It is more

vital and vigorous. In that it induces us to get up and down from the floor more

frequently, and to flex the legs, it provides a degree of exercise. Much like a child

growing up, constantly getting up and down from the floor, or the ground, in playing.

This probably contributes to a healthier lifestyle than that spent sitting in office chairs and

automobiles and on the couch. My teacher often said that Zen makes the men younger,

the women more beautiful.

The main point here, is that as we inevitably age, and the physical body inevitably

deteriorates, of course we do the best that we can to balance out our physical health

against the aging process — through exercise, diet, all of the reasonable regimens and

relatively effective approaches that we can bring to bear.

But it requires a different kind of virya, energy effort, or endurance, to accept, embrace,

and tolerate the inevitable decay — the aging process of our own body — with grace,

dignity and compassion. Here, again, another set of circumstances that cannot really be

resolved to our satisfaction. We can only achieve a kind of truce. No matter how much

effort we apply to staying in shape, we cannot halt or reverse the progress, or ravages, of

nature. Any aspiration that we harbor toward longevity is ultimately doomed to

disappointment.

Those who are committing to extreme methods of prolonging life, such as cryogenics, are

to be lauded for their scientific curiosity, for challenging this assumption, or conclusion,

that life is inevitably and forever temporary, or impermanent. But even if we could live a

great deal longer, in the normal course of things; even if we could find ways to keep the

body in relatively sound shape, through harvesting or growing replacement organs, for

instance, or though genetic manipulation — one would have to question whether the

result would be worth the effort.

We become mentally fatigued, emotionally, and, we might say, spiritually fatigued, from

one lifetime of three score and ten years, as is often said to be the time allotted to us.

How would we avoid experiencing a ten-fold, or hundred-fold, increase in that kind of

mental or emotional burden, if we were indeed able to live for several centuries, or even

millennia? While it may be physically possible to sustain life to such an extent, one

would have to question the psychological quality of mental and emotional life, which

would ensue.

In the face of this truth, as in the face of particular situations where our personal practice

of patience makes little difference, we have to reach deeper, into our reservoir of good

will, compassion and patience, and find the energy, make the effort, to continue; even

though, from a relative perspective, physical survival is finally a lost cause.

This then brings us to an appreciation of the purpose of life, the meaning of our existence,

which, as far as we can tell, was never meant to be eternal. In fact, obsolescence seems to

be built into the process of being born, growing, maturing, aging, becoming sick, and

dying. Scientists are looking for the so-called age gene, but so far have not found it, if it

exists. As mentioned before — as a form of generosity — each life, each generation,

makes way for the next, through this natural process of its own elimination.

Far from simply accepting impermanence, we must muster the energy, or perseverance,

to embrace it fully. Buddha’s admonition in the Four Noble Truths, concerning the

existence of dukkha, or change, as fundamental to existence, is to fully understand it. In

order to fully understand the existence of suffering, we must engender the energy, the

effort, required to fully embrace it, rather than resist, or resent, this attribute of our own,

personal existence. We must persevere in spite of it.

Everyone becomes aware of this personal confrontation with impermanence eventually.

The natural process of aging, seeing oneself in the mirror everyday, brings it about. But

much of our effort is expended postponing the inevitable, searching for the fountain of

youth. Effort, as we all know, can be wasted. Let’s turn away from the personal for a

moment, to the more social dimension of virya. Bear with me, as this may seem a long

way around, but we will eventually come back to relevance on the personal level of Zen.

When we look at our own experience in conventional areas of daily life — work,

relationships, family and friends — we see that the energy that we expend, the effort that

we put forth, on the social level, also often comes to naught. Or if not naught, then very

little. So it is natural to become discouraged, in trying to do good for others, the third

Pure Precept. The energy and efforts of others may be in direct opposition to that which

we are making. A kind of tug-of-war ensues, sometimes, between us and others, in which

the outcome is a Mexican standoff. Status-quo is maintained, for both sides of the

struggle.

This is also true in the energy and efforts that we see expended on cultural, national and

international levels. Peaceful relations, such as treaties, between groups, tribes and

nations, sometimes gained at great expense and effort on the part of some, are repeatedly

broken by others. Let’s investigate a familiar and current example, to see how virya plays

out on this scale. Currently, in the US, a great deal of time and effort is being expended

upon the issue of immigration, that is, of the illegal sort. The state of Arizona is

attempting to enforce its own law to control immigration across its border with Mexico.

The federal government is fighting to retain exclusive authority, which is written into the

Constitution. Other states are looking at following Arizona’s example, claiming that since

the federal government has not done its job in enforcing immigration restrictions, states,

by default, have to take it upon themselves.

As usual, in any such conflict, both sides of the argument have legitimate points. And

each tends to criticize and demean the other’s objective, motives, honesty, and so forth.

Those who are in favor of establishing strict laws to control immigration are accused of

being hypocritical, in that the reason we have lax immigration enforcement is that we —

the we here is in quotes — we need cheap labor, and workers who are willing to do the

dirty and low-paying jobs that Americans are said to be unwilling to do.

Whether we agree with this position or not is not the point here. What is germane is that

those individuals who support the stricter, states-rights position may not be hypocrites,

entirely. They may not see that they are amongst those who personally benefit from the

presence of low-paid immigrant workers. The other side may argue that this is a form of

ignorance, and thus a kind of hypocrisy, in that, in effect, all citizens of the US can be

shown to benefit, directly or indirectly, from the presence of this labor force, through

their contributions to taxes, the economy, et cetera.

The point of bringing up this particular, single hot-button issue or conflict, in the context

of Buddhist Effort, is to raise the question, Is this not an extreme expense, not to say a

complete waste, of time and effort? Is the result worth it? When we look at all such

political movements and campaigns, conflicts and issues, and so-called debates, we can

be forgiven for questioning the expenditure, in the form of dollars, organizing, and

gathering to protest, from a strictly practical point of view of its effectiveness, or

efficacy, What is the long-term result? This is the question Buddha is said to have asked,

regarding a war that one tribe was planning to wage upon another in ancient India. It is

appropriate today.

If the intention of our efforts succeeds, is everyone, actually, better off? Is even everyone

on our side of the issue better off? Or, do these actions, in fact, simply help a small

percentage of the proponents get re-elected, or generate more funding for their side of the

cause? When we look at the history of public debate over what were considered life-and death

issues of centuries, decades, or even a few years ago — not to mention in the latest

24-hour news cycle — many seem to simply evaporate. Or go underground, perhaps.

Conditions change, people change, everyone moves on. Well, not everyone. But the

seemingly intractable conflict, or live-or-die issue, often seems to die of its own

irrelevance. Others keep raising their ugly heads in new disguises. But let’s set that aside.

From the Buddhist perspective, the question becomes, how much more effective would it

be, for these individuals, to apply this kind of energy, this effort, this time, and even these

finances, toward their own spiritual awakening? In Zen, this kind of activism, however

well-intended, can be seen to be a kind of avoidance technique, a diversionary strategy

which serves mainly to distract us from more important and urgent matters.

Buddha is said to have used a parable of a thief, to describe the degree of effort that one

should apply to one’s own salvation. And of course, salvation in Buddhism is not the

avoidance of hell, and ascension of the soul to heaven, and being in the presence of God

for eternity, after death; but salvation from one’s own ignorance in this life. He pointed

out that the thief, who wants to steal, say, a prized jeweled necklace from a noblewoman,

whom he has seen wearing the necklace in public, will plot, plan, and think about the

object of his desire — the necklace — day and night, without rest. Every waking

moment, perhaps even in dreams, the thief will be scheming, imagining, calculating, how

to achieve his aim. He will observe the woman, her schedule, the itinerary of daily and

regular activities, timing them; noting when she is guarded, and when she is not; when

and if she is ever alone. Focused like a laser on where and when that crucial opportunity,

to snatch the necklace and get away with it, may present itself. Buddhism has other

similar parables, for example related to lusting after someone for sexual and other

nefarious purposes.

If we regard Buddhist insight, that Zen holds forth, to be the most valuable thing in the

world, then we would likewise become as obsessive as the thief in pursuing his reward.

We would spend each waking hour — not necessarily plotting and scheming, as such —

but in devotion to this one aim or objective, as Master Dogen commented, as if our hair

were on fire. We would continually raise the question, as suggested in the third section of

the Threefold Lotus Sutra, considered to be Buddha’s final teaching, “What is wrong with

me? Why can I not penetrate through to this truth of Buddhism? Why can I not see the

buddhas and bodhisattvas with my own eyes? What is between me and this revelation?”

The cultivation of this type of energy, this almost-obsessive focus of the mind on its

object, is what is called for in Zen. Like a bulldog with a piece of raw meat, we are not

going to let go. Matsuoka Roshi said that it is like swallowing a red-hot iron ball. It gets

stuck. We cannot swallow it and cannot spit it out. This is not truly obsessive, in that we

lose track of everything else, but instead functions as a kind of constant background

perspective — the so-called mirror of Zen — on a 24/7 basis. In this way, our daily lives

— everything that we do, all of our actions and behaviors, as well as the actions and

behaviors of others — become examples of living dharma.

So, as mentioned in the Introduction, how do we find, where do we find, that kind of

meditative practice and attitude that, instead of draining energy from us, actually

becomes the source of our energy? Oftentimes, we think of energy as something we have

a certain amount of, to expend for a certain cause, or in a given activity. But zazen is

different from that type of activity. Zazen is the type of activity that produces energy.

In the sitting posture, we perch on the two protuberances on the bottom of the pelvic

bone, called sitz bones in German, which look like the two prongs on an electric plug.

One way of thinking of the energy of zazen is that as we sit, these two prongs sink deeper

and deeper into the electrical outlet, so that our body is filled with electricity, or energy, a

bit like a low-voltage, gentle, electrocution.

In classical Zen this energy is referred to as ki in Japanese, or chi in Chinese. The tanden,

another Japanese word, is identified as the source-point for this vital energy. Visualized

as a point a couple of inches in and a couple of inches below the belly-button, it is the

center of gravity. As we sit in zazen, the breath is like a bellows, fanning the flame of a

fire, deep in the pit of the stomach, like the coals in the grate of a furnace. With each

breath, the fire becomes hotter, filling the body with heat, energy, burning away any and

all resistance in its path. It emanates from the tanden, developing hara, a Japanese term

for stomach-power. This is the vital source of energy we tap in Zen.

After meditation, we often feel as light as a feather. It is like charging our battery. This

turning-point in Zen, when practice begins to give us energy, rather than consuming

energy, is akin to the flow of a great river. Usually, we regard the various demands on us,

the branches of activities and relationships in our lives, as taking away from us, drawing

from us. But as we practice Zen, all of these apparent difficulties, drains on our energy

and welfare, begin to run, we might say, the other way.

The very adverse circumstances that we may face at work or at home, or in our own

meditation practice, become — challenges to us, yes, but —like the track that the athlete

runs, or the ground that the baby falls down on, and gets back up from, using the assist of

leverage on the ground itself against gravity — we, in effect, leverage all of these

channels of resistance in our lives to our advantage. So that, like the many tributaries of a

great river, the Mississippi, they begin to flow the other way, flowing into the deep river

of our life, replenishing it and filling it with tremendous energy.

Eventually, the river reaches the ocean, and settles into the great worldwide sea. As

mentioned in the Tao te Ching, the ocean is great because it is below everything. This

kind of exertion of energy is finding the energy that underlies our existence, itself. It is

not something that we produce; it’s not something that we can increase or decrease, but

we can certainly waste it, and we can certainly be unaware of it. The kind of energy that

is fundamental to Zen, is what is underlying our existence, underlying the existence of the

entire universe. Just one energy. This energy, we tap into.

We might call it by its Japanese name, the ki of the universe, as Master Hakuin, the great

Japanese Rinzai Zen master, referred to it. He was a great proponent of zazen. Through

our practice, the ki of our body taps into the ki of the universe, so that our practice

becomes effortless, not only in zazen, but in daily life.

Exploring this series of eight talks hopefully will bring about a mindset that opens our

awareness to this boundless energy, and to the dynamic reality of the Paramitas, as

functioning vitally in our daily lives. By combining this study with meditation time on

the cushion, the depth and breadth of the meaning of the Paramitas will become clear, in

a way that is natural to you.

Please join us for the next segment in the series, on perfecting Meditation or

Contemplation, Dhyana Paramita.

© 2010 Zenkai Taiun Michael Joseph Elliston

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