Taming my Wild Horse Mind

A classic Zen story:

A man is riding on top of a horse that is galloping by frantically, as if he has to be somewhere important, as soon as possible. A bystander sees this and asks the man, “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” the rider replies, “ask the horse!”

Sometimes I feel like such a slave to my brain and the thoughts it perpetually secretes. It’s as if someone inside my head is randomly changing radio stations and I’m left to deal with whatever noisy static, music, or cheesy talk radio bantor is blaring on in the background at any given moment.

For most of my life, I’d mistake this background noise for reality—that is, I’d believe that whatever I was thinking at the time was terribly important, real, and urgent. I’d be certain that the way some stranger looked at me on the street was a clear sign of disapproval or defiance, or that comment a friend made at dinner two days ago was nothing more than a thinly veiled sign of disrespect, hostility, or jealousy.

Very often, my mind still tosses and turns and flails about like an untamed horse or an unruly child. It would be ridiculous of me to just sit on a mustang and let it gallop around wildly without pulling the reins in, or to allow a child to run around and cause whatever chaos s/he wants to. Yet for many years I allowed my brain to dictate how I should feel and behave, pretty much all the time. And that got really tired for me a few years ago so I turned to practice.

One of the most striking byproducts of meditating regularly has been my newfound ability to discern that what’s happening internally is not necessarily in sync with what is happening externally. That is, the way in which I perceive and experience circumstances, people, and events usually gets filtered through a variety of elements within me that are constantly in flux. None of them are set in stone yet I frequently allow them to color the way in which I take in whatever is happening around me.

It’s sort of like looking at one’s self in a mirror covered by layers and layers of dust and dirt—you just don’t get a clear view of whatever happens to be in front of it. Everything gets distorted based on the many years of grime and gook that’s accumulated on the glass. Meditation means gradually cleaning the mirror so that we can see things more clearly and accurately.

By sitting regularly, and by learning to pause whenever strong thoughts and emotions come up, I’m better equipped to deal with the day-to-day stuff of my life. I can notice what’s happening and what the quality of that experience is like instead of getting carried away with my thoughts and opinions about that experience. I’m much more likely to catch myself whenever my thoughts are going off in some tangent that has nothing to do with what needs to be done at that particular time. So if I’m walking down the street, I can simply walk without using that in-between time to replay old conversations, or to plot and plan how to become some better version of myself.

I understand that just because I feel angry or elated or annoyed or ignored, it doesn’t mean it’s entirely the fault of the person or circumstances before me. I can take some responsibility and use the experience as an opportunity to get better acquainted with how my mind works and to learn about people and this very interesting world I live in.

What my Father Taught Me

For Father's Day I'm reposting this (originally added here in November 2010)

Three and a half years ago my father was in a hospital undergoing a grueling cycle blood tests, poking and prodding, infections, antibiotic treatments, recovery, more poking and prodding, reinfection, and more tests. He weaved in and out of consciousness and once even called out for his brother who had died some twenty years earlier. His personality would quickly disappear and then suddenly return again. He had fragmented into pieces, some of which I recognized, most of which I did not.

In just three weeks he dropped to ninety pounds, just half his regular body weight. The man I used to blame for the bulk of my personality flaws was rapidly regressing to a vulnerable, childlike state. I was suddenly caring for him in ways I never thought I would--feeding him, helping a nurse give him a sponge bath, holding him up when he cried and could no longer stand on his own, and eventually giving him regular doses of liquid morphine during his last few days to help alleviate what I imagine was excruciating pain.

Very late that last night, his breathing pattern had changed significantly, which we knew from the hospice literature meant that he was about to leave us. He’d been completely unconscious for the previous two days, and while his body had functioned in a mechanical sense, there was little to no sign of life underneath it all. He was there but he wasn’t there. For the previous two days his breathing had the perfunctory quality of a respirator machine. He was still my father yet it felt as if my “real” father had already left and his body just had to catch up, like he and his body were slightly out of sync.

Being there by his side as he took his last few breaths was one of the most important things I’ve ever done. He co-created me and was there just after I was born, and I got to be there with him just as he was ready to die. He raised me and taught me how to ride a bike and wash a car and how to make my work environment as comfortable as possible so I could work more efficiently. He taught me things he hadn’t intended to teach me, like how to be patient (as he often was not) and the importance of not jumping to conclusions too quickly (as he often did).

The process of caring for my father transformed my selfish, habitual anger towards him into a desire to alleviate his suffering and make him as comfortable as possible. In just a few days I’d managed to accomplish what many years of therapy could not--I was able to forgive him for all of those things I’d spent years blaming him for and resenting and whining about. All of the blame and anger I’d attributed to his inadequate parenting quickly unraveled when I revisited it from this very different perspective.

I used to blame my father for my inability to be fully intimate with other people and through his death I learned how to cut through that. Whenever I sense some sort of block between me and someone else, whenever I feel anger or hostility or insecurity in relation to other people, I bring to mind an image of that person as an infant and an image of them at the moment of their death. All of the stuff that happens in between shouldn’t be confused with the underlying reality that binds us all together.

Most of us have very complicated relationships with our parents and I’m not claiming that their influence and behavior towards us during our formative years doesn’t have any sort of impact. Of course it does. I am saying that what we do with the circumstances and conditions of our lives is our choice, regardless of who or what contributed to their creation. All we can do is to work with whatever we’re given and wherever we are at any given moment. We can choose not to let those things fester and turn into sources of self-pity and blame, or we can use those same things as an excuse to engage in destructive behavior and to build walls around our hearts.

It’s up to us.

To use our wounds as some sort of protective armor is to be fearful and weak. It’s when we recognize the transformative ability of our pain and those feelings of loss that we’re being courageous enough to step outside of ourselves and our inner psycho-dramas long enough to be of service to someone else.

In the end my father left me with a huge gift: the realization that this life of ours is temporary, tenuous, and precious. There is something there before we are born and something there after we die, and we’d be wise to spend at least a portion of our lives getting acquainted with what that is.

Thanks, Dad.

Something Special-Thank you, Charlotte Joko Beck

Charlotte Joko Beck died yesterday. She was 94 years old.

She wrote two of the first books I ever read about Zen: Nothing Special: Living Zen and Everyday Zen: Love and Work.

Hers was a no-frills, bare bones approach to practice and her voice will be missed.

The Lie of Certainty

The phrase “You can achieve anything you want if you just want it badly enough” is a dangerous lie. Politicians and pop stars often love to recite sayings like this to the jazzed up, adoring throngs of people before them because it gives people a false sense of hope that life can be just the way they want it to be. According to some, if you work hard enough you can be president of the United States, earn millions of dollars, or at least have your album go platinum.

The truth is, we never know what’s just around the corner, or what twists and turns our life will take, and how our priorities might shift from one year to the next. And if we’re being too rigid and clinging to what we think we need in life, it’s like we’re trapped in a wooden barrel at the highest edge of a waterfall.

Our fixed ideas and narrow requirements for happiness keep us stuck.

It’s wonderful to have aspirations and to nurture them with consistency, focus, and hard work. But it’s very dangerous to think that we can control and manipulate life so that it can turn us into the precise version of ourselves that we think we ought to be, or offer us the very specific lifestyle we thing we need to be happy. This kind of thinking keeps our attention constantly out there, like a horse chasing after the carrot dangling right in front of his head.

All of the wishing and creative visualizing in the world can’t ever guarantee us a specific outcome. Our condition is one of constant change. Things arise and fall away, and then other things pop up and then turn into something else. No form of mind mastery or magical thinking is going to reverse the very nature of things.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to force things to happen a certain way and I’m now just learning to appreciate the value of watching all of my plans fall apart before my eyes. I’m learning how to just settle into the space created by that sudden void instead of trying to fill it with something new and “better.”

What opens up when our plans fail is very potent and something we can really work with. Having exactly what we want all the time doesn’t offer us much room for growth at all.

Recently someone who heard about my recent and very public withdrawal from the Taego Order seminary asked me if I was “ok.” When I considered her question carefully I was surprised to discover that I actually feel more liberated than devastated, more excited than angry. Had things worked out just the way I planned for them to, that might have been just fine. But what I’m experiencing right now is so unique and unexpected and I’m getting to learn all kinds of cool stuff about people, myself, and the world in general.

What I’ve wanted throughout my life has changed and evolved many, many times. If I were the kind of person today that I dreamt of being ten years ago, I’d most likely be surrounded by people and circumstances that have nothing to do with where my heart is right now.

The more I think I know what’s going on, the more I eventually realize I have no idea what’s going on. That used to scare the bejeezus out of me, but now I just find it comforting.

The only ground we can actually depend on in life is that there really is no ground at all.

And this is very, very good news.

Sweeping Zen Podcast about Discrimination in Zen and Buddhism

Last night I participated in a round table discussion about discrimination in the Zen and Buddhist Community.

Adam Tebbe of Sweeping Zen arranged this after reading my blog posts about my public withdrawal from the Taego Order's seminary program once I learned about their discriminatory policies towards gay and lesbian ordainees, women, people over 55, and the physically challenged.

You can listen to the podcast HERE.

Gardening the Mind

Meditation is a lot like weeding; we’re just clearing stuff away so that what’s really underneath it all has a chance to show itself.

Each time we practice we’re starting the process of working with our fertile minds, just as a gardener works with the soil. We plant seeds of intention to develop clarity, cultivate more kindness and compassion, or simply to learn to be aware enough of what’s going on in our thought process so that we no longer have to be so bound by it.

This process of investigating our minds requires that we get dirty in order to eventually reap the benefits. When pulling weeds a gardener occasionally encounters a worm crawling around or a mouse scurrying by, just as we have to face some mind rodents during our practice that we might just as soon ignore.

While these aspects of our experience might seem daunting, if we just look at them objectively we can realize they aren’t all that terrible. In fact, it’s all pretty manageable.

So by sitting on a regular basis we’re gradually creating an environment and set of conditions that allows for our inherent sanity and dignity to eventually emerge. The seeds are already there, our environment is always rich enough, and there’s always plenty of rain that will help feed those seeds as they gradually develop.

It would be ludicrous to stand over a flower and wait for it grow, but sometimes we get impatient and want to see results from all of our efforts right now. We see signs of progress and that’s encouraging, but we realize we must keep doing the work to foster this growth. It’s not something we can ever say is finished.

We just have to do our part and not obsess over a result. We don’t have to be so intense about it, and we can have faith that our underlying goodness will be more apparent if we’re diligent and patient and persistent.

What is the Meaning of Doing Practice?

Seung Sahn gives a good answer: