UnMind. 77. Simplicity & Methodology — Atlanta Soto Zen Center

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Let’s keep it simple.
It’s complicated enough
without our meddling.

In the last episode we said we would shift gears a bit from a general emphasis on the intersection of Design thinking and Zen as problem-solving activities, to a closer focus on some of the more salient details of both endeavors, and where we may find some overlap. This will necessarily constitute an exercise in finding harmony in comparing samenesses and differences in the two fields, which forms the title and substance of Sekito Kisen’s Sandokai, the briefest of the three major Ch’an poems we chant as liturgy in Soto Zen. The most relevant couplet for the conflation of Zen and Design is:

Existing phenomenally like box and cover joining
According with principle like arrowpoints meeting

The first line points to the province of Design and engineering, the manifestations of humankind’s ability to manipulate material phenomena through form following function, the foundation of cultural evolution, which explains the success of our species becoming the dominant sentient being on the planet. The second points at that elusive essence of existence, the underlying noumenon, that evokes the true nature and meaning of our world and our place in it. Almost impossible to suss out, like arrows meeting in mid air.

Zen has a history of emphasizing sameness over difference, especially with regard to the various schools of Zen that developed in history. Master Tozan Ryokai, founder of Soto Zen in China, makes this point powerfully in his masterful poem Hokyo Zamma: Precious Mirror Samadhi:

Now there are sudden and gradual in which teachings and approaches arise
With teachings and approaches distinguished, each has its standards
Whether teachings and approaches are mastered or not
Reality constantly flows

Any differences in teachings and approaches, style and pedagogy, pale in comparison with the sameness of their focus and intent, in what we like to think of as distinctions without a real difference, at least in terms of goals and objectives. All rivers ultimately flow to the ocean, and all methods in Zen eventually reduce to the direct experience of insight. If not, they are not only not of Zen, but non-Buddhist in nature. And yes, we can speak of goals in Zen.

In this episode, a promised, we will focus more specifically on the method leading to Zen’s solution to the fundamental problem of existence. The approach Zen prescribes is, of course, zazen, but we will delve more deeply into some of the techniques and subroutines that we find helpful in meditation. Whatever pedagogical variants we may find between the branches or sects of Buddhism throughout its history, they fall under the rubric of method, more than that of purpose or philosophy. And since all branches of Zen have prioritized meditation to one degree or another, the variations tend to be in the area of subroutines of the zazen method, or communal support activities such as chanting. As Master Dogen reminds us in Jijuyu Zammai: Self-fulfilling Samadhi:

From the first time you meet a master without engaging in bowing, offering incense, chanting Buddha’s name, repentance or reading scripture
You should just wholeheartedly sit and thus drop away body and mind

Thank you, Dogen, for that clarification. This makes our marching orders crystal clear, while illustrating the difference between the absolutely central practice of zazen, and the relatively peripheral performance of the various monastic protocols of a more communal or devotional nature. You can spend your whole life going through the motions in a vain and ultimately futile attempt to conjure insight through indirect means. Or you can cut to the chase directly in zazen. Your choice. Or, of course, you can blend the two in an appropriate mix, as Master Dogen apparently did, in guiding the practice at the various monasteries he founded. But he never lost sight of the indispensable role of zazen. You can do without the rest.

I have chosen the principle of simplicity for this episode, which is a kind of unspoken precept of both Design and Zen, as a foil against which to discuss methodology, primarily that of Zen, but with some reference to Design. Simplicity is held in high esteem in both, as an aesthetic value as well as a functional objective. Even in higher science and mathematics, the simpler, more elegant solution to a given problem is regarded as most likely to be the correct one.

Methodology is not simply a fancier word for method, but is defined as the study of method itself. As such, it is a specialized but central focus of design processes, the idea being that our approach to problem-solving is itself a kind of meta-problem to be solved. If we are to engage and evolve the most effective and efficient approaches to solving the problem at hand, whether under contract to a client or redesigning to address our own needs, we must be open to questioning our SOP (standard operating procedure) from time to time. With the development of digital media and remote working online, the latest and greatest methods for group process has become a kind of cottage industry. Keeping up with them can demand our attention on a nearly full-time basis, like a medical doctor staying on top of new therapies and drug treatments.

Revisions to and variations on methods of meditation practice, as transmitted from generation to generation over the 2,500 years of its history as we know it, must comprise an inventory of innumerable twists and tweaks, most of which are probably not important enough to concern ourselves about. The fundamentally natural process of seated upright meditation — which in itself was probably a variation on meditating while standing, walking or lying down — is so basic and integrated with the human body that anyone sitting still enough for long enough will begin to experience its benefits. As long as they do not quit, which reveals another natural disposition of the human mind, the monkey side of it.

Sitting still enough for long enough raises some fundamental questions on its own. How still is still enough? How long is long enough? These two questions, while answerable only on a deeply personal basis, nonetheless are responsible for some of the simplicity of the design of Zen over time. Living in the age of Buddha some 2,500 years ago, time devoted to sitting in meditation would have had a different connection to the time necessary to devote to the demands of everyday life. We supposedly benefit from a glut of modern inventions and technologies deemed to be “time-saving.” But at the same time modern life seems to generate more and more time-consuming activities and preoccupations, partly to keep up with, and to be able to afford, all these devices that supposedly save us time. We think of living in simpler times as the antidote to our current busy-ness, but if we consider carefully we will probably conclude that there was nothing all that simple about previous chapters in history. The basics of aging, sickness and death were ever-present, and much more in-your-face than they are now, in our overly-medicated, comfort-obsessed, pain-averse culture.

Sitting still to a greater degree than may be natural was traditionally reinforced by strict discipline, imposed by seniors in the monastic environment, particularly that of Rinzai communities, rumor has it. Sitting longer must have also been a standard encouraged or imposed by peer pressure, the example of others. The natural herd instinct of competitiveness lends itself to this kind of conforming behavior. As did the threat of being ejected from the monastery, a sobering prospect in those days.

But being comfortable, while sitting still enough for long enough, is also emphasized in Soto Zen, and there is no reason to believe that it was not for those in the early days of developing the social framework for what is, after all, a very individual initiative, on the cushion. One person’s comfort may be another’s agony. Speaking of meditation cushions, this is one obvious overlap where Design and Zen come together as a necessity.

It is said that when Buddha left the band of ascetics with which he had been wandering the country, he acquired a bundle or sheaf of grass, then spread it out and used it to sit in meditation. He could have sat on the ground, but apparently his yogic training included the use of some kind of padding or equipment to enhance comfort and support the erect posture. We may imagine that he turned it on its side, leaving the binding tie in place, so that it made a kind of softly rounded mound, for him to straddle in some comfort. How he paid for it is another question for scholars to speculate about. Master Dogen makes a point of describing in detail the proper cushions and arrangement of the robe in Fukanzazengi, his seminal tract on the meditation he had learned in China.

So the design of the method of Zen, as well as the equipment to use in practicing it, was operative at the inception of the tradition. Later, issues such as durability and portability may have come into play, but it begs credulity to assume that Buddha would have carried the sheaf of grass with him down off the mountain, after that fateful night.

The simplicity of both the method, and the gear needed to exercise it, we will explore further in the next segment. Meanwhile, enjoy your practice of zazen, no matter how complicated you may be making it. Eventually you will redesign Zen for yourself, jettisoning all unnecessary accoutrements and extraneous attitudes. That is, if you do not cave to temptation, and give up too soon. Good luck with that.