When I began my Zen training (too many years to almost recall), my first instruction was not to stare and to set my tea cup down without making any noise. The staring part was a shock to me. I was unaware that I stared so much. I was told that it was like turning on the lights without a lightbulb! I can also remember many attempts trying not to stare; trying to keep engaged with the immediate world around me.
As time went on, learning not to stare got easier. When sensei (Jp., teacher) asked me to clean out the Japanese style garden I could generally keep my focus up without staring. Three months later I was aware that I didn’t stare at all. Fixing the roof, hauling stones, or the simple act of sweeping the front of the temple was all done without staring.
Then one day sensei asked me to tell him what I was thinking about at this exact moment. Oops! It was a girl whom I knew in high school. In my mind she wasn’t wearing anything. I was so embarrased to have to confess this, but I did. After this episode, I watched my mind like a starving hawk. I watched my mind so carefully that I could begin to allow certain thoughts and push back others. I had no idea what a crazy place the inside of my head was. I soon found out. I noticed that much of the time my mind was not engaged. It was like the problem with staring. My mind was bored.
After this kind of practice, by which I came to view the inner part of myself, I was better able to get a grasp on Zen’s methodology. But the reader must know, it was only a baby’s grasp. After forty years, I have a lot better grasp. It is very much like reading a very difficult book when you were a teenager; then reading the same book again at fifty. You know so much more.
It is easy to learn a lot of facts, but it is not easy to become spiritually mature. Learning not to stare, being aware of what is going on in your mind, are aspects of this maturation process. Still, it was only the beginning. I had many more baby steps to take. The most difficult one was to become aware of the mysterious animative power which gave my body its life. This path began when, one evening, alone in my cabin with a small kersone lamp by which to read, the Lankavatara Sutra began to glow. I rubbed my eyes. “No way!” I said to myself. “This can’t be real.” Yet, no matter what I said or did, the Sutra continued to glow for a few minutes. I knew this meant something important. I realized that I’d better study this Sutra.
My discursive monkey mindis always running and clinging to thoughts but I notice when I question "what is that is thinking this thought?" I immediately come back to the present and the "I" goes away.
Posted by: timmer | June 09, 2007 at 02:25 PM