UnMind 78. Methods & Materials — Atlanta Soto Zen Center

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No matter the tool —
Whatever materials —
The method is Zen

In the last episode we ended by noting that the design of the method of Zen, as well as the equipment used in practicing it, were operative from the very beginning of the tradition. We said we would further explore the simplicity of both the method, and the gear needed to exercise it, in this segment. The broader scope of the intersection of methods and materials is a major concern in Design thinking, especially what is called design-build, the production dynamic of problem-solving in the material world.

Typically for any solution to a real-world problem, it is not enough just to come up with a bright idea. It has to be tested in the real world, subjected to a developmental process that may involve going back to the drawing board repeatedly, until all the ins and outs of form following function have been satisfactorily addressed. Additionally, cost considerations typically play a determinative role, driving efforts to “cost-improve” the innovation to meet the evaluation of the market, expressed as sales.

This rather mundane but familiar reality in the age of mass-marketing is useful as a metaphor for the development and propagation, or “marketing,” of Zen. Known for its extreme simplicity, material reserve and social restraint, the spread of Zen Buddhism nonetheless engendered some markedly extravagant cases of material consumption, as attested to by the colossal statuary, and imposing monasteries constructed in its countries of origin. The investment in material resources, talent and labor is only magnified by the fact that they were built by hand, in lieu of electricity or any other source of power, other than human muscle, and perhaps the occasional watermill. As someone who has a sense of what it takes to build something, touring some of these sites in Japan left me incredulous. It beggars the imagination that such edifices could have been accomplished absent an alien assist with laser-like precision tools, a sci-fi conjecture offered to explain the pyramids and other ancient, unexplainable wonders of the world.

A sociological perspective might suggest looking at the development of lay householder practice as a design innovation in Zen’s largely monastic history. Or the ideal of the homeless mendicant, in possession of seven basic items: three robes, a pair of sandals, sun hat, begging bowls, monk’s bag (equivalent of today’s ubiquitous backpack), et cetera, as a reductio ad absurdum of simplification, requiring no real investment in gear. Let alone whole buildings, as opposed to the monastic model, which required massive expenditures of time and treasure, energy and social capital to create whole communities, if somewhat codependent upon the societies of the times.

Separation of church and state was apparently rudimentary, and our imagined isolation of the monastic community from the larger population is just that — imagined. Yet the emergence of householder or lay practice, honored as its own legitimate avenue of pursuit of spiritual training, is a relatively recent development. Exceptions to the rule abound, such as Vimalakirti and Emperor Ashoka in India, Layman Pang in China, and others, but they prove the general rule.

Both approaches may be regarded as optional and historically successful solutions to the same set of problems, differing mainly in the design of delivery systems. In terms of contemporary location strategy, such as in the retail sector, the monastic model would fall into the category of the destination purchase — Big Box stores that draw shoppers from a radius of miles or more. The lay practice model would be more akin to the convenience store — the 7-Eleven, small units located at key intersections of traffic, currently tied to frequent stops, such as the gas station. Last I heard, there are something like 15,000 Soto and 8,000 Rinzai centers operative in Japan, most being small neighborhood temples.

Extreme examples for the monk would include the hermitage, a solitary redoubt in the fabled grass hut or an available cave. Versus the lone householder, who manages a practice without benefit of an organized community. What is necessary for sustaining Zen practice, like any other problem, is a huge variable. The personal dimension remains relatively constant through time, while the social dimension evolves.

The method of Zen, particularly its uniquely simple meditation, is the main action item we transmit to others, and in particular to the next generation. It is on them to bring it to fruition in their life, of course, but it is our responsibility to clarify the distinct and determinative aspects of zazen practice to the extent feasible. The dispositive message in promulgating our legacy is: Where Zen differs. That is, from the other forms of meditation on offer in the village square today. Which, by the way, were there from the beginning of the spread of Buddhism.

Materials required for Zen practice are minimal at base, largely reflecting social accretions garnered from the cultures through which it has passed. Again, the monk’s total toolkit was based on seven essential items, addressing the Design question: How much is enough? on a minimalist basis. Some wag put forth the notion that if you want to “sell” Zen to Americans, sell them the gear. Zen is a very material real-world approach, but not in the sense of spiritual materialism, Trungpa Rinpoche’s coinage.

If we examine today’s suggested equipment for zazen, it consists largely of the same simple furnishings that would be found in any Japanese Soto temple: the humble floor mat (J. zabuton) and round support cushion (J. zafu). Variations include foam blocks of Tibetan origin, kneeling benches (J. seiza), and wedge-shaped cushions designed for chair-sitting, that help sustain the proper upright posture of the spine, instead of slumping.

As a designer, I have a tendency to redesign everything, an urge that I need to keep in check to some degree. Accordingly, I have attempted the near-impossible: to improve upon the traditional gear for sitting upright for long periods of time. Particularly as I age, along with my contemporaries, the natural deterioration of the physical body suggests that additional attention may be appropriate to appurtenances and accessories designed to deal with the conditions of aging, inherent disabilities and other infirmities. No major breakthroughs yet, but we will keep on trying.

Turning our attention to the design of the method itself, aside from the particulars of time-of-life and general health, we find the simple division into three areas of focus that Matsuoka Roshi emphasized: posture, breath, and attention. I like to encapsulate these under the rubric of “natural”: assuming the natural posture, finding and following the natural breath, and eventually recovering the natural mind.

My use of “natural” may have had little or no relevance in the culture of the countries of origin, as they were perforce closer to nature than we are today. There were fewer buffer zones between the presence of aging, sickness and death than we see today, with our hospitals, clinics and extended care facilities with direct channels to the morgue and mortuary. Access to food, in the form of animal and vegetable products, was likewise not shielded from the reality of slaughter and butchering, with portions neatly packaged in sanitary packaging, as is normal today in much of the civilized world. What would be totally unnatural in earlier times is taken for granted today. So the term “natural” has resonance mostly in the social milieu.

The form of meditation in Buddhism, beginning with what must have been yogic training for Buddha, has probably gone through countless permutations. Early emphasis on posture is seen in yogic poses (S. asana), focus on the breath in complex exercises (S. pranayama), and attention directed to mystical or trance-like states, as well as to the attainment of paranormal powers (S. siddhi). Thus our current take on the purpose and practical effects of zazen may not necessarily comport with those at any time in its history. Zen is always contemporary, but we have to revise its presentation to fit our times.

When we research the techniques in contemporary Soto Zen meditation, such as counting the breath, we find that they may not be mentioned as such in the early records of instructions, such as Master Dogen’s Fukanzazengi. However, we can probably safely assume that some such approaches were conveyed in person, with the spoken teachings of the day. The written record, while impressively extensive, has to represent the tip of the iceberg in comparison with the live dialog, as it does yet today.

But the basic role of counting the breath in zazen is probably of a piece with that even in the earliest yogic teachings. Pranayama’s detailed proportioning — via counting so many beats for the inbreath, holding in, the outbreath, and holding out — were most likely approximations to the slower and deeper pace and volume of the breathing cycle actually experienced by adepts, in deepest levels of sustained mediation. In other words, a model of the natural breath, not its specific manifestation. The natural breath, for any human being, may be supposed to be similar, notwithstanding biological variations in lung size and capacity. Smaller mammals breathe at higher rates than larger mammals, in keeping with their variance in metabolism and heart beat, as well as their life span expectancy. Breathing is a variable.

Counting the breath, as taught in modern or ancient times, may be considered relatively peripheral to the ultimate purpose of zazen, as are rituals and protocols followed in group practice. Any such ancillary subroutine is clearly provisional, and subject to being transcended at some point in one’s experience. Some teachers say that after counting the breath, one should follow the breath, tracking its progress from inception at the tip of the nostrils, through the throat and into the lungs, hitting bottom in the stomach, i.e. abdominal breathing; then reversing the process, finally exhaling through the nostrils until the lungs are empty. This description, and its visualization, is also provisional in the larger context of reverting to the natural breath. Eventually, the breath will take care of itself, like a gate swinging in the breeze. Until then, it does not hurt to follow the approximation developed by our teachers, as a model.

So we should not ignore, nor should we get too attached to, the specific style of meditation or the instructions for doing it “right.” Understanding that the method of Zen has been highly refined over the centuries, we can imagine what it would be like if there were no legacy, no instructions recorded, and no support system for learning it, as represented by the infrastructure of Zen monasteries and temples. We would all have to sit down and invent, or discover, Zen for ourselves. This is a most startling aspect of the method as handed down to us. It is pointing to something primordial, a process that predates Buddhism itself. It is the most natural response to waking up to the profound and inconceivable problem of existence itself. This may be a problem without a solution. In which case the problem becomes how to live with this irreconcilable conflict. Zazen is not the solution itself, but is the method for arriving at it.

Next time we will take a different tack in defining this problem, and Zen’s unique approach to penetrating it. It is a koan, a gordian knot of universal proportions, yet not subject to intellectual solution. Don’t give up.