141: Teaching Design and Teaching Zen

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**Design versus Zen**
They can be compared,
but only for the contrast —
You alone decide

If you are paying an undue degree of attention to the details of my UnMind podcasts, you may have noted that the last segment was titled “Teaching Zen & Teaching Design,” while this one is “Teaching Design & Teaching Zen.” A trivial difference without a distinction, you might say. The emphasis on design thinking may have been a bit confusing, and Zen will be the major focus of this one. But either is here used as a foil for the other, in the spirit of “Harmony of Sameness and Difference,” the second great Ch’an Poem in Soto Zen liturgy, by Master Sekito Kisen:

Hearing the words understand the meaning
do not set up standards of your own
Not understanding the Way before your eyes
how will you know the path you walk?

In design circles we say that communication is not the message sent, but the message received. Thus, in parsing my words, and any potential relevance to you and your practice, I ask that you look past my clumsy use of language, which is itself dualistic in nature, to the nonduality of reality as experienced in your consciousness, especially in your meditation.

In the last segment I pointed out one obvious contrast between Zen thinking and design thinking: We do not think that we can think our way to enlightenment, in Zen. Meditation goes beyond thinking. Or perhaps more precisely, Zen’s shikantaza, the immediate, long-term effect of zazen, defined as “objectless meditation,” resides in that space that exists before thinking. Thought takes time, and so is always looking back on what has already transpired.

When it comes to practicing the method of zazen, as well as adapting Zen’s worldview, the common premise going in is that thinking, as such, is not going to prove very useful, though it is our most useful tool in apprehending, and recognizing, what Master Dogen referred to as “non-thinking”: neither thinking nor not thinking; the mental middle way.

Both design and Zen’s meditation process involve a trans-sensory level of learning, which in Zen may be more aptly defined as “unlearning.”

So it is not exactly accurate to say that we can “teach” Zen, though we do our best to share our experience, including some “do’s and don’ts,” in an interactive dialog. As Matsuoka Roshi would say, “We teach each other Buddhism.” I often learn more in a given exchange, say in dokusan, more than may the identified student. Shohaku Okumura Roshi once commented, during a dharma talk that he gave at the Atlanta Zen center, that he was only “the teacher” because we were there as “the students.” When at home, or in a different context, he was certainly no longer a teacher, as such.

We say that Zen cannot be taught, but that it can be learned. Learning Zen, versus learning anything else — especially something as tangible as product design — also differs in that the proof of the pudding, in Zen, is in a taste so intimate and personal that it cannot be shared with anyone. Whereas if I can sit in the chair you designed and built, I can tell for myself that you either know what you are doing, or not.

For example, my wife and I once had the distinct pleasure of an overnight stay in Wisconsin, in a small cabin that had been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, called the Seth Peterson Cottage. It was a lovely, compact building, in which neither Seth Peterson nor the great architect had ever set foot, both having died before it was complete. The relevance to our focus here is that while the building, and its lovely arboreal siting, were works of genius, the breakfast nook was very uncomfortable, consisting of flat banquettes with no cushioning. But they matched the walls, also clad with plywood. FLW was known for this emphasis on appearance over comfort, also evident in an exhibit of his higher-end home furnishings mounted at the Art Institute of Chicago Museum during my tenure there.

Zen and Design both entail apprentice modes of training. That is, developing a grasp of Zen is rather like the process of learning to build a Steinway grand piano. The master or journeyman and their apprentice exchange few words, instead the apprentice simply observing and imitating what his mentor does. In near total silence, the essential functions and processes are communicated through actions, not words. And eventually — lo and behold — the piano is ready to play.

This apprentice-journeyman-master triad is analogous to the initiate-disciple-priest model frequently found in Zen circles. The former wording may be more appropriate to our times than the latter — laden as it is with quasi-religious overtones, which do not quite fit the reality of being a Zen adept in America. Although we have great respect, bordering on reverence, for our teachers in Zen, we do not let it go to our heads when we find ourselves on the other side of the relationship. Or we should not, in any case. We who find ourselves in the awkward position of being expected to lead others in this most personal of all problem-solving arenas tend to think of ourselves as more like coaches. The student is like an athlete, who is endeavoring to reach the elite level of the sport. If they are not willing to do the work, no amount of coaching is going to help. If they are, it does not take much coaching to move the dial. This also applies to design.

After all, I cannot know for sure what another person needs to know, in terms of Zen. I can only know what it is that I do not know; and perhaps, how to go deeper; as my root teacher would say. He would often remark that it’s not what you say or do — in leading a Zen service, for example — it’s how you do it. That is, it is natural, and okay, to mess up: you may miss the gong at the time designated; blow a line in the chant, et cetera. But as long as you do not let that get in your way, or disrupt the focus of the others present, no harm, no foul. It is more in the attitude with which you approach things — a balance of wholehearted sincerity and lighthearted joy — that will convey the essence of Zen, than it is in the precision or accuracy of your performance. Zen requires an agile sense of humor, and a goodly dollop of humility.

Another dimension of the training process shared by Zen and design professionals is that of “training the trainers.” Although in both cases we are not really propagating a priesthood, but promoting a practice, the notion that our successors will carry on the tradition of training others is implicit in most professions, as well as in Zen. Zen should be approached professionally, rather than mystically, the latter being an example of unhelpful connotations often associated with Zen in the West.

One of my professors at the Institute of Design one day proclaimed that the main thing you pick up from your professors at university consists of their attitudes toward the work. I would add that you also pick up learning habits and a work ethic: learning how to learn, as the standard trope goes. The same goes for Zen. Attitudes need adjustment.

But the focus of Zen training is not exclusively in the realm of ideas, but rather in the realm of direct experience. Zen is not about reality, or what we can do to manipulate it, but a direct pointing at reality. This is how we approach it on the cushion, without relying on ideas, words and concepts.

In Zen as well as design, the issue of control comes into play. In planning, designing and building something, anything — from a chair to the Brooklyn bridge or Holland tunnel — we have to control the materials and processes that will achieve the end we are attempting to achieve. Otherwise, the chair will be uncomfortable, like Frank Lloyd Wright’s plywood benches, or we may build in a future disaster, like some of the dire engineering collapses we have witnessed from time to time. But trying to control everything has its limits.

In meditation circles, we often hear phrases such as “controlling the breath” or “emptying your mind of thoughts.” These represent attitudes 180-degrees from that in Zen meditation, which is not one of exerting control, but rather relinquishing any real or imagined level of control. We follow the body in assuming the posture, and we follow the breath, rather than attempting to control it. What’s sauce for the body is sauce for the mind. We let thoughts go, until they die down to dull roar, on their own. If you do not agree with this non-control, next time you are meditating, and Mother Nature calls, just tell her to buzz off: You are meditating just now. See how that works out for you.

Similarly, in design processes, you have to relinquish your tendency to force materials and processes into a mold that is unnatural for them to perform the way you want them to. The concrete has to be adequately reinforced for the tunnel or building to withstand the stresses of gravity, or hurricane-force winds. The fasteners cannot weaken the wood, or the chair will collapse.

I could go on, but will close with one more aphorism from design thinking: there are many design ideas that are simple in concept, but difficult in execution. Zen may be the poster boy for this truism. Zazen is irreducibly simple in design, but Zen can be maddeningly difficult in daily execution. It is not the fault of Zen, but rather of our stubborn monkey mind. But don’t give up. Only you can do this. You are the only one who can design your Zen life. Only you can redesign it, as reality intervenes.