165: Zen in Daily Life

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**Zen in Daily Life**
Twenty-four seven
Life creeps on in petty pace —
But not forever

Welcome to UnMind podcast, number 165. In this segment, with a sigh of relief, we turn away from the horror show that is the climactic crescendo of the current 4-year election cycle, with its implications for climatic consequences — as we are witnessing with the 1-2 punch of Hurricane Helene and Hurricane Milton, Mother Natures’ odd couple of the moment and probable precursors of more to come. It is as if God’s eraser is being applied to the original plan for this nation, eradicating whole swaths of our occupation of what was once Her sacred wilderness.

In the face of such catastrophe — which we consider “unprecedented,” in the worn-out superlative of the day, “only because of our ignorance,” according to the great Ch’an poem Hsinhsinming, Trust in Mind. Whether innocent or willful, this ignorance causes us to question the bedrock assumptions we make about the importance and relevance of our most personal aspirations in the practice of Zen. Of course, the Earth has endured much worse in its lifetime, known as the “five major extinctions,” where many of the species prevalent on her fragile surface did not survive the change intact. The human species may now be facing a similar extinction, ironically, as an unintended consequence of our success in dominating the planet, or so we are told.

In this context, there seems to be little point in paying attention to the relatively trivial aspects of coping with everyday life, let alone hoping that the outcome of the election is going to make much of a difference, but that is precisely what I would like to share with you in what follows. Zen practice is eight days a week.

For the last year or so, I have been more committed than usual to regularly attend morning meditation at the Zen center, which for me incurs only a 10- to 15-minute drive, depending on traffic, from our home. Nonetheless, because it starts at 6:00 o’clock am, I have to exercise some diligence in going to bed a bit earlier than I might like, as well as getting out of bed, and out of the house, to arrive in time before the others do. In a city like Atlanta, the commute — to work and back, or anywhere else — becomes a part of the calculation. So I thought it might be interesting to you to hear a blow-by-blow account of what I go through as my morning routine. Perhaps it will encourage you to endeavor to visit the zendo in person more often, as one of many of the “damn your lousy excuses” from that chapter in “The Original Frontier.” Let me touch on some of the repeat highlights of negotiating daily practice around regular sitting in a non-monastic setting.

Getting There

Master Dogen reported that his teacher in China, Nyojo Zenji, made a vow to leave his bed “like a pair of old shoes” each morning. I am not sure of what kind of shoes they wore in those days, but in my case at least, old shoes can be a lot more comfortable than new ones. And with the process of aging, getting up and getting going each day can be a real adventure in recovery. Moving from the horizontal to the vertical in proprioception becomes an exercise in defiance of gravity.

Setting the Alarm

A great luxury of being semi-retired, or retired into full-time Zen, as I like to think of it, is the non-necessity of using an alarm. At last I have come into accordance with the old Zen saying, “When tired I sleep; when hungry I eat” — a description of reality, and a prescription for practice, from a time in which no one had a clock, let alone a motherboard embedded in a slab of silicon. I reluctantly set the alarm for 5:30 AM in order to be sure to arrive at ASZC in time to open for the 6:00-7:00 AM sit. When the alarm went off, I was already half-awake. As if my subconscious mind was aware of time as measured by the tick-tock of battery-operated electrons.

Dressing in the Dark

Committed to attending every morning for five weekdays, and to leaving the house just in time, my morning routine is quick and simple. I keep my Zen outfit readily available, so I can dress as quickly as possible, pick up the things I need, and be out the door.

This involves pulling on clothing in the dark, including my long-sleeved tee-shirt made of bamboo. Proceeding by touch in lieu of vision offers three ways to get it wrong, and only one way to get it right. If the garment has a label at the back of the neck that can be felt, it provides tactile clues to orientation to put the shirt on correctly. But If not, you might put it on backward; inside out; or inside out and backward. In one recent instance, I thought I had it right, because in lieu of a label at the back of the collar, my pullover has a small triangle on the front that can be identified clearly through touch. But when I returned home after zazen, and looked in the mirror, I found that the shirt was not on backward — but it was inside-out.

The pants I wear to sit in are also made of bamboo, soft and stretchy, so they tend to be clingy when I am pulling them on, so I perch on my bureau, or chest of drawers, and pull them on one leg at a time — they have tie-strings in front, so no problem in getting the front-to-back and inside-to-outside orientation correct there — but my left foot always tries to find its way into the pants pocket. I have to remember to put my socks on after my pants, because the enhanced friction of cloth-on-cloth increases the likelihood of becoming tangled in the leg of the pants.

Driving to the Center

At 5:30 AM it is still dark in Atlanta at this time of year, so I turn on the headlights. Our car does not have an audible warning if the lights are left on, so I have to be careful about turning them off once I reach the Zen center, and even more so after I return home, when it is light. I have managed to run the battery down more than once. Just another mindfulness moment.

Neighborhood traffic is light at this time of day, though where we live is very much an inner-city location. The route to the Zen center is only three miles or so, as a crow flies, but it passes through six stoplights and one stop sign at the various intersections along the way, which takes about ten minutes. Potholes are the bigger nuisance, and I know from the school of hard knocks where each and every one of them is. Sometimes, half-asleep, I forget, and am rudely reminded by the sudden bump and loud noise, like the kyosaku stick, which, as Matsuoka-roshi would often say, will “wake you up.”

If all goes well, I arrive within fifteen minutes or so of the start time, turn on the lights, burn a stick of welcoming incense, and settle in at the Doan, or time-keeper, station. One of our current fulltime residents is an early bird, so she is usually there to unlock the door and meet and greet any attendees even before I arrive. But residents are, by nature, transient. Again, we are not monastics, and the modern Zen center is not a monastery. It is more like a bivouac, a temporary gathering place where we reconnoiter to rest up and regroup before reentering the fray of the battle of everyday life. Retreats, or sesshin, are an extended version of this hunkering down, more like an attack on our life issues, than a retreat from them.

Attending

Soon, I am sitting in my spot with the clock, gong, and clacker-sticks at the ready to time the alternating bouts of sitting and walking meditation. If others arrive in time, I strike the gong three times at precisely 6:00 AM, which signifies the beginning of the period, marking the three bows the head priest usually makes before joining the group in zazen. If I suspect someone is coming but may be late, I wait until 5 minutes or so after to strike the gong. You can hear the cars arriving in the parking lot outside, and it is better to let the late-comers join before striking the starting gongs.

Sitting

Settling into the posture includes embracing the stubborn resistance of tendons and ligaments in the legs and knee joints to being folded into the pretzel-like figure of crossed legs or kneeling, the so-called “lotus” and “seiza” postures. I favor the more relaxed “Burmese,” or native American style of tucking the legs under, instead of twisting the knee joints to rotate the ankles and feet to turn the soles up, in the classic posture illustrated by various iconic statuary and images of the Buddha and bodhisattvas. Fortunately, these aspects of “sitting upright in Samadhi” are less important than that the spine, neck and head be oriented in one straight, vertical line, “between heaven and earth,” as Matsuoka-roshi used to say.

Timing

Being responsible for timing the sitting, both for oneself and for others, puts a different slant on our perception of time. We typically sit for two 25-minute periods with walking meditation of 5 minutes in between. I do not like looking at the clock, or timing my own sit at home, but when attending on others, I have to keep track of the time for their benefit. So the apparent friction between “self-and-other” raises its unlovely head, sometimes arousing a mild resentment, to accompany the natural resistance of the body to sitting still. When the time for walking meditation (J. kinhin) comes, we ring the bell twice, and strike the clacker sticks, twice at the beginning, and once at the end, of the five minutes or so. All signaling is non-verbal, in order to relieve the participants of the irritant of the human voice.

Chanting

At the end of the last period of sitting, we strike the bell once before beginning the morning service. The sound of the big gong (J. kane) is said to be the “voice of Buddha.” Reciting the daily feature chant from our “Zen Practice at Home” manual, we are reminded of the various teachings of our Indian, Chinese, and Japanese ancestors. When someone is in need of training, we stay behind for a half hour or so to go over the protocols or leading the service, or whatever details they want to review more closely.

Leaving

After “leaving no traces” by restoring the zendo to its pristine appearance, and shutting down the facility, I drive home by the reverse route that I followed coming to the morning session, with variations depending upon the local morning traffic that has increased dramatically over the span of a couple of hours. I know all the shortcuts to avoid the morning rush on the main north-south route of the neighborhood commute to work, as well as local parents escorting their progeny to the bus stop, to be picked up and safely transported to the local schools. It reminds me that Master Dogen once commented that what we are doing in Zen — zazen meditation and Dharma study — is developing “true intelligence.” I find myself hoping that the children being herded to their public and private institutions of learning will someday be exposed to this Dharma, the most refined level of education.

Arriving Home

Within a time span of approximately twice the duration of the earlier commute to the Zen center, given the exponentially increased traffic load, I arrive home again in the daylight of the rising sun. (Although, of course, the sun does not rise, nor does it set, technically speaking. But I digress.)

Sometimes, along the way, I will stop and pick up a couple of large lattes — one regular, one decaf — and perhaps a breakfast croissant, from one of the three or four coffee shops along the way, one of the perks of living in a lively inner-city setting. I am reminded of the historical factoid that coffee shops were once banned in the cities of Greece, when they had become hotbeds of revolutionary fervor. The social or political downside of being over-caffeinated, I suppose.

Other mornings I will make my own breakfast, or crawl back into bed, depending on the after-effects of the prior evening’s schedule and activities. Then, in 24 hours or so, I do it all over, once again. With enough repetition, it becomes routine, this daily practice of public, group zazen, bookended by sleep, work, rest and re-engagement in the passing pageantry of life. Best way to start the day.