Crossing Nebraska

  “Get behind me, Satan!” Is it possible to have grown up in this Christian-influenced land without hearing quoted Jesus’ rebuke of Peter’s counsel? I doubt it. Certainly even non-Christians have heard it echoed in one form or another, if only in faux reproach for having tempted a friend with a decadent dessert or something! Buddhism, similarly, is a tradition in which demonic influences tempt our hero, perhaps most notably right before he realizes enlightenment. Just as Jesus was tempted to act contrary to divine plan, so the Buddha was tempted by Mara’s efforts to foil his ultimate awakening.   Are we to take literally these struggles of good against evil, for want of a better description, or are they best interpreted figuratively? I think most Western Buddhist practitioners would lean to the latter. Largely, we’ve moved beyond the dualistic thinking that leads us to think of this thing or that person as inherently good and another as inherently evil. And yet we still sometimes

  My experience of falling away from formal Zen practice can’t be all that unique. The factors that precipitated my estrangement may have been different. And maybe my Zen practice since “the path disappeared beneath my feet” looks different than that of many others. But Zen practitioners can’t be immune from the experience of “losing one’s faith,” can they? So I write these words with at least some degree of confidence that they’ll resonate with others; not necessarily with those who know me, or even those fellow practitioners who lived through the very same spiritual turmoil as I, but with some. You see, some of my erstwhile fellow practitioners took up formal practice with other Zen teachers in fairly short order. Others diligently set about creating a new place of formal Zen practice to take the place of the old one. I even labored with them for a time on that endeavor, departing just as the bylaws of that new practice community were formally voted into being. I suppose I just w

  The disillusionment that I spoke of in my previous post left me questioning just about everything related to formal Zen practice – with the exception of the zazen, that is. I’d never had reason to doubt that. But how much of what we consider Zen practice is merely cultural artifact? How much is religious accretion? What is essential, and why? What do I really believe, and why? And what do the answers to these questions mean for how I actualize practice in my own life? Obviously, these aren’t questions that can be resolved overnight. They must be “lived into,” tested out for efficacy and authenticity.   Bowl of Green Tea I had the good fortune to practice with a number of teachers while living into these questions. One was the abbot of a Korean Seon (Zen) temple from whom I learned, along with other things, the Korean form of the tea ceremony. Over the course of some months she taught me how to arrange the various cups, bowls, and utensils, how to use the just-boiled water for w

Disillusionment is not usually spoken of in positive terms – stinging, as it does, with a sharpness commensurate with our investment in the illusion. But as the stinging subsides, and awareness of newfound truth comes to the fore, we find ourselves faced with a choice. We can keep clinging, perhaps even with self-righteous indignation, to the illusion that we were once so invested in. Or we can be grateful for the new glimpse of truth that we’ve been given.   Seated Buddha in altar cabinet I was pretty disillusioned after parting ways with the teacher from whom I’d learned so much about formal Zen practice. It was wrenching to see someone descend into narcissistic delusion who I’d previously associated with a practice of awakening. I came to realize, however, that my disillusionment went much deeper than that of just one student/teacher relationship gone sour. I began to see my personal experience within the context of a religious system that seems to foster unhealthy power relat

  When I left the big city for small town life some years ago, I had the distinct sense that my relationship with “formal” Zen practice would never be the same. Sure, there was a temple not too far away from my new home that I’d already visited with some regularity for retreats and special events. It was still too far away to attend with any great frequency, though. And so I set my sights on diligently maintaining a solitary practice still guided by the bodhisattva ideal . During one of my last visits to that big city temple where I used to practice I purchased a couple boxes of the incense that we used there. I rationed out that stock over the ensuing years, first using a stick every now and again, then a half stick, and, finally, a third. It was surely quite diminished of its finer essence by the time I lit the last partial stick not too long ago. Nonetheless, it still had the power to take me back to that zendo where I first experienced its rich scent. I’ll never forget my first

  Have you ever been walking in the woods, looking around at the trees and the sun filtering through them, perhaps admiring the subtle changes in flora that the varying light and moisture and soil conditions have given rise to, when suddenly you realize that you can’t make out the trail anymore? You peer intently at the forest floor up ahead, but the trail seems to have completely disappeared. You turn around and you’re met with the same! Where did the trail go? You’re heart begins to beat faster. You’re lost!   In a way, I hope that you’ve had such an experience. For one thing, it gives us a much needed lesson in watching for such things in the future. Mostly, though, it teaches us something primal about ourselves. How do we respond when we’re suddenly immersed in “wilderness”? Do we become fearful? Is it exhilarating? Do we have confidence in our ability to find our way, or do we find ourselves on the verge of panic? I’ve spent a fair amount of time up in the mountains of Color

   Kannon is the Japanese name for Avalokiteshvara, the Boddhisattva of Compassion. No doubt you’ve seen a representation of him or her (depictions of both genders exist). Perhaps she has a dozen heads. Perhaps he has an eye in the palm of each of a multitude of hands. These physical attributes are intended to depict a willingness and ability to help alleviate the suffering of the world. In fact, Avalokiteshvara is a Sanskrit name variously translated as “Lord Who Looks Down” or “He Who Hears the Cries of the World” (Schuhmacher & Woerner, 1994). Avalokiteshvara at the St. Louis Art Museum Kannon is also the title of one of the fascicles in Dogen Zenji’s Shobogenzo . In it Dogen speaks of the awesome and mysterious abilities of this revered being, and of our difficulty in understanding and expressing how these abilities might be used. In fact, we can learn a great deal about Avalokiteshvara, Zen, and the nature of knowledge itself by wading into this dense work. In addition to f

This post is adapted from one I wrote some years ago entitled Tending Horses as the World Warms . I wrote that one in response to the continued denial of climate change by so many in the United States, denial that keeps us from taking action to mitigate impending disaster even as massive climate change-related events threaten lives and property all over the world like never before. Since then we’ve witnessed widespread recalcitrant denial in the face of a deadly pandemic, denial that's made our nation’s suffering and death even worse. It seems that, to our detriment, we just can’t seem to agree on some very fundamental aspects of the reality in which we live. We become attached to the stories we tell ourselves about the way the world is, and we have a difficult time letting them go. Until we’re forced to, that is.    Why do we have this tendency to stay lost in our stories even when they no longer fit the reality in which we live? Is it because we have so much psychic energy inve