Flee(t)ing Thoughts

As I never seem to tire of mentioning, my attraction to Zen practice is its simplicity, or more precisely, its lack of distracting frills and ornaments, and its directness.

Whether we're off the cushion chopping wood or interviewing a client, or on the cushion following the breath, sitting with a koan, or just sitting, our brains naturally churn out unbidden thoughts. A constant part of practice is dealing with them in order to be fully present.

In Opening the Hand of Thought, Kosho Uchiyama Roshi (successor to Homeless Kodo Sawaki) describes the process like this:

Briefly, our attitude in zazen is aiming at maintaining the posture of zazen with our flesh and bones, and with our mind letting go of thoughts.

What is letting go of thoughts? Well, when we think, we think of something. Thinking of something means grasping that something with thought. However, during zazen we open the hand of thought that is trying to grasp something, and simply refrain from grasping. This is letting go of thoughts.

When a thought of something does actually arise, as long as the thought does not grasp that something, nothing will be formed. For example, even if thought A (“a flower ") occurs, as long as it is not followed by thought B (“is beautiful"), no meaning such as AB (“a flower is beautiful") is formed. … So, even if thought A does occur, as long as the thought does not continue, A occurs prior to the formation of a meaningful sequence. It is not measurable in terms of meaning, and it will disappear as consciousness flows on.

Our encounter with thoughts during practice seems to fall into two categories: after daydreaming and before daydreaming.

The first happens when we have grasped a thought, chased it with others, and find ourselves in a daydream. Here we simply notice that our attention has wandered, let go of the thought, and return to being present. If it’s gentle, effortless and non-judgmental, the process of letting go doesn't itself become a distraction, as it can otherwise trigger its own train of thoughts.

The second happens when we become aware of a thought as it begins to take form, but before it takes hold.

Dealing with these nascent thoughts requires even less effort - just returning the attention to the matter at hand without, literally, giving them a second thought, allowing them to 'disappear as consciousness flows on.'

Of course there are times when we need to pay attention to thoughts as they arise. Making thoughts disappear while trying to write a list of things to buy at the store would be a little, er, off the mark.

The title of this post comes from the realization that opening the hand of thought is a skill that, perhaps because it's so easy, can be used wrongly. I've been catching myself allowing thoughts to disappear not because they distract me from being present, but because they're uncomfortable: generally thoughts that remind me I'm avoiding something. (Hopefully I'm just noticing this more, rather than doing it more.)

Either way, more practice required.

Related Post: Stage Fright

Photo © 2013 Marjon Hollander, with kind permission.

Too Bad for You, Buddy!

Or words to similar effect, form in my head from time to time, and occasionally, I'm not happy to report, escape my lips. Each time, it's a variation on a theme: my less than compassionate response to someone else's misfortune.

Unless we're arhats or saints with permanent halos, as night follows day, when we learn about (or imagine) unpleasant things befalling someone who 'had it coming', uncharitable thoughts follow. Such persons include, but are not limited to - I seem to be lapsing into legalese here - individuals whom we deem arrogant, unkind, unfair, critical, proud, pompous, selfish, cruel, and generally anyone who has, or is imagined to have, slighted us, or has stupidly disregarded our advice. And of course, those who have the effrontery to think it's OK to judge us.

An extreme example is the outbreak of jubilation and festivities that erupted after the killing of Osama Bin Laden.

When the misfortunes that befall these folks are only embarrassing, it's just funny. A lot of slapstick comedy relies on this - the haughty character's flamboyant exit, followed by his sheepish reappearance when he realizes that he has just stormed into a closet.

When something they value, besides their pride, gets damaged, as when we hear of a bullfighter getting gored in an important place, we get a jolt of guilty pleasure - jolt because it comes out of the blue and is usually short-lived, and guilty because deep down, it really doesn't feel good.

Lately, I've noticed this happening quite a bit. Since I'm pretty sure I'm not becoming a nastier person, I think I'm probably just catching myself in the act more often. I let the little ones come and go without much mental comment, but when I catch myself in a doozy, I get a good chuckle out of it.

Perhaps the little squirt of endorphin our brain gives us when someone else stumbles used to have some value in the distant past when our survival depended on besting others. Perhaps it's similar to the pleasure we get from eating sweet fatty foods or the adrenalin 'fight or flight' rush - the one useful if we are going to spend a cold winter without much food, and the other useful if our house catches fire, but in general, both doing more harm than good.

Regardless of whether it's an instinct or just a deeply ingrained mental habit that we learned as little children, it continues to be strongly and widely reinforced by society - for example, in business, when the wealthy are ruined, in sports, when the bullies are beaten, and in theatre, when the villains suffer painful retribution.

But there is a world of difference between having unkind thoughts and harbouring them.

In zazen and mindfulness practice, we can treat our thoughts as part of our ever-changing mental scenery - whether they be mean thoughts or thoughts of elephants eating popcorn - and we neither try to push them out of our minds nor pursue them. When we realize we have taken off on a train of thought, we just get off and return to being present. If we deliberately pursue a thought, then we are no longer doing zazen or mindfulness. We’re just thinking.

If one moment in practice can be said to have more value than another, then I would say it's that moment when we become aware that we are no longer present, let go of the thought that was distracting us, and return to the present. Kosho Uchiyama Roshi has referred to this process as 'vow and repentence'. And a quote from Samuel Beckett comes to mind: "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better." It is coming home.

So we need have no remorse or shame about uninvited unkind thoughts, no matter how out of character they may seem. They simply remind us that we're human. If we find we are not letting these thoughts go, but brooding on them and nurturing them, or even trying to cultivate them in others, then we may need to take a long, honest but compassionate look at ourselves and try again. Fail again. Fail better.

Image: detail from Christ Carrying the Cross (Heironymus Bosch) - Wikimedia Commons

Blowing in the Mind

I feel a little thrill whenever I see flags flapping in the wind. I usually gaze and listen for a while and then come back to earth, noticing that my feet are plodding along the pavement as usual and that some litter has blown up against a fence.

This is the 29^th koan of the Mumonkan:

Two monks were arguing about a flag. One said, "The flag is moving."

The other said, "The wind is moving."

The Sixth Patriarch happened to be passing by. He told them, "Not the wind, not the flag; mind is moving."

Their habitual way of thinking about flags in the wind was stripped away, leaving – something else.

About two hundred years later, some monks were debating the koan. Zen master Miaoxin overheard them and said,

It's not the wind moving, it's not the flag moving, it's not the mind moving.

Something else was stripped away, leaving – what?

This progression reminds me of the first few times I attended our Zen centre. The first time I went, the abbot gave a dharma talk during the second sit, which I thought was pretty profound. The same thing happened the second time I was there. The third time I went, he just sat in silence. I remember thinking to myself, what could be more profound than that? Well, the next time I went, he wasn’t there at all…

I suspect “mind” is one of the most difficult words to define. There is mind meaning thought; there is the subconscious mind; there is no-mind and there is mindfulness; there is little mind and there is big Mind; there is original mind and everyday mind and there is beginner’s mind and there is don’t know mind.

Then there are the Three Minds (sanshin):

Magnanimous Mind (daishin) is like an ocean or a mountain: calm and steady, yet accepting and nourishing countless beings and situations without differentiation. The ocean is serene because it accepts the many rivers without resisting.

Nurturing Mind (roshin), literally "old mind", is akin to the attitude of a kindly grandmother or parent who delights in caring for others. It is the spirit of the bodhisattva, the fully mature person.

Joyful Mind (kishin) is the joy that comes from deep in our hearts even in the midst of difficulty. It arises from the insight of zazen, that we live together with all beings and are not separate.

(These originated with Dogen Zenji and were propounded by Kosho Uchiyama Roshi (Opening the Hand of Thought) and subsequently by his successor, Shohaku Okumura Roshi (Realizing Genjokoan), founder of the Sanshin Zen Community, from where the above quote was taken.)

Rational thought insists on trying to compartmentalize and categorize mind in order to comprehend it, as it does with the rest of the world. Except it can't. The best it can do is ask interminable questions.

If it would only shut up and pay attention, it might notice something important.

I don't know much, but I know enough not to vex my brain or anyone else's by trying to think up - or worse, suggest - answers to these questions.

What is it that flaps in the wind? What is it that watches the flag through my eyes? What thinks about the flag with my brain? What is asking this question? What wants to know the answer? What opens and unfolds, withers and dies all at the same time? What suffers and at the same time seeks out and relieves suffering? What is both nowhere and everywhere? What is neither one nor more than one? Neither nothing nor something? What is writing these words? What is reading them? Wouldn't a cup of tea be nice?

It occurs to me that I may have overstepped my bounds. I don't want my aimless musings / infantile burblings to be mistaken for teachings. As an unordained layman with no qualifications, verification, rank, transmission or lineage, I'm not really anything. If I must be something, perhaps the litter blown against the fence.

Mental Fractals: Thinking About Thinking About Thinking

Thinking about thinking about thinking

Ripples on the pond

Where the frog jumped in

I think too much.  At least I think I think too much.  Or maybe I just think I think I think too much…..  OK - I think too much!!

In my job, I have to think a lot – analyzing clients’ problems, poring over documents and statutes looking for loopholes, combing the internet for similar cases, writing briefs, editing and more editing, all the time scheming, scheming, scheming.  Going to court is like a breath of fresh air.

There is no question that thinking is a vital part of my life.  I couldn’t do my job without using my brain, and the microcircuits inside the contraption I’m staring at are the product of some serious brainwork.

But an old saying comes to mind: just as the eye can't see itself, the intellect can't comprehend itself.  Thinking about thinking just goes around and around like a fractal pattern.

In Zen, intellect is a two edged sword. Thinking about logical problems is fine, however discovering what our essential nature does, and how it operates, is not an intellectual exercise.  Thinking about it is like boarding a locomotive headed in the wrong direction.  Attempting to say more would be offering free rides to the train station.

When I walk to work, I intend to be mindful, but invariably catch myself scheming.  When I walk home, I catch myself replaying the day's scenarios.

So lately, the emphasis in my Zen practice is just to be present when I’m not taking action, and when I am, to just act.  At least that’s the theory.  My brain takes the position that zazen is a splendid opportunity for more scheming and scenario replaying.

One of the things that seems to help at work is to take a deep breath and be present for a moment before picking up the phone.

Another is to perform frequent micro tea ceremonies throughout the day.  I keep a carafe of green tea far enough away from my desk that I have to get up and walk over to it, and I use a small cup that needs refilling often.

If there’s time, the icing on the cake is a stroll in the nearby forest, where scheming and replaying seem to fade into the rushing sounds of the creek.

Like the hallucinations in the final scene of A Beautiful Mind, I don’t imagine random thoughts will ever go away, but with practice, I’ll pay less attention to them.

So c’mon, Monkey Mind, give me a hug and then run off and play!

Point of No Return

It’s like trying to stuff a flower back into a bud.

After catching a glimpse of your dad putting on a Santa costume, or a glimpse of your original face, you can never see your world the same way again, no matter how much you may want to.  Even if you try to drown the awareness with distraction, or other drugs, you never permanently forget.

A thought persists, “I have no idea why, but I must keep sitting, no matter what.”  And maybe once in a while, you remember why.  Other times, forgetful, alone and afraid.

If there are miracles, one is surely the sangha.

I wrote a couple of poems:

My cowardice is in vain.
There is nowhere
To hide.

~~~

Round cushions,
Square mats,
Kind hearts.

The Middle Way – Should I Speak Up?

When to take action and speak up and when to do nothing and shut up?

Instant action is no problem.  Shouting “look out!” or grabbing someone about to fall requires no thought.  It’s the deliberate choices that are the problem.  Doing zazen or going to bed.  Commuting to the Zen Centre or staying home and watching a movie.  It seems the more I think about these choices, the more likely I am to talk myself into the easy alternatives.  If I can let my thinking drop, I’m more likely to find myself sitting on my zafu or out the door and down the steps heading for the bus.

I tend to keep my mouth shut – I think, out of fear of being thought of as an idiot.  So when I do get going, the same dilemma follows me:  should I shut up now, or keep babbling on and be thought of as an idiot?

Reading Point of Contact on the Sweep the dust, Push the dirt blog got me exploring the question again.   How to find “a point of contact between wisdom and compassion; between action and still; between the heart and the mind; between this moment and the next.”  Then I re-visited “Interdependence and the Middle Way” in Opening the Hand of Thought by Kosho Uchiyama.

My concept of my individual self feels “real” (whatever that means).  So does everything else I can see and touch.  I would be an idiot to say none of this exists.

“Truly seeing the aggregation of the world, the thought of nonexistence does not arise.”

But they say every cell in our bodies is replaced within seven years.  So my “self”, and every other particular thing, is more like a candle flame, or a whirlpool in a river – having apparent independent existence, but completely changing every moment.

“Truly seeing the nonsubstantiality of the world, the thought of existence does not arise.”

On the other hand, this particular whirlpool I call me, and every other particular thing, came into being, exists, and will eventually stop existing.  Some things die sooner than others – mountains generally last longer than mayflies – but they/we all go through this process as a result of the unimaginably complex interaction between every “thing” and every other “thing”.

“The view that all things exist is one extreme; the view that nothing exists is the other extreme.  Being apart from these two extremes, the Buddha teaches the dharma of the Middle Way: because this exists, that exists; because this arises, that arises.”

The Middle Way isn’t a compromise between two extremes.  When thoughts of existence and nonexistence are released from our intellectual grasp, the Middle Way is nothing other than this very moment.

Which is why zazen is priceless: doing nothing but sitting and letting go of thoughts, including thoughts like this one.  And having faith – not having faith that something is going to happen as a result of doing zazen, or having faith in anything else – just having faith, period.

Getting back to the question of when to shut up, I guess I need to stop thinking and just do it.

Before I’m thought of as an idiot. 

But it’s probably too late for that.