Bija Andrew’s Zen Blog � Blog Archive � A Mountain of Cocaine (August 19, 2007)

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Bija Andrew’s Zen Blog � Blog Archive � A Mountain of Cocaine (August 19, 2007)

A Buddhist blogger I read used this term a few weeks ago as a symbol of attachment and craving, two concepts that are very important to Buddhist thought.  “A mountain of cocaine” means that if you are addicted to cocaine, no limited amount of it is ever going to be enough.  You’ll always want more.  If there’s a limited amount, you’ll start to feel unsatisfied even before you run out, because you know that you eventually will run out.

This image works for me because it applies to all sorts of cravings.  A limited amount is never enough.  Even if the thing we’re addicted to is not a drug, the concept still applies.  For instance, the makers of the TV show Battlestar Galactica announced their decision that next season will be the final season.  They’re ready to tell the end of the story.  And on the Sci-Fi fan forums there has been much weeping and wailing over the demise of the show.  And I just want to remind them, there’s still one season left–twenty-two episodes, over sixteen hours of the show that we haven’t even gotten to see yet.  And when it’s over, when the final episode has aired, then we’ll find something else to watch, or we’ll re-watch the whole show on DVD, or we’ll just not watch TV at all.  But that prospect isn’t satisfying.  We want a whole mountain of Battlestar Galactica.

A lot of people resist the Buddhist teaching on attachment and craving because they think about the kinds of attachments that are generally considered positive, like love.  And I won’t argue with that–it is a good thing for you to feel boundless love for your partner, or for your children.  Yet that can become a mountain too.  Not the love itself but the attachments that come with it.  “I love my partner” also encompasses “I love the feeling I get when my partner says he/she loves me.”  “I love my children” might encompass “I love the feeling of pride I get when my children get good grades in school.”  These things can become a mountain as well.  A limited amount of this reinforcement is not enough.

This symbol of the mountain of cocaine led me to realize: I am addicted to the Internet.  Whenever I’ve read articles about “Internet addiction” I’ve always been skeptical; it seems like some people assume a new way of communicating is scary and unnatural.  I don’t think there’s any reason we need to limit the amount we learn from and communicate through this new medium.  And yet, I realize that I have a constant craving for more information and communication.  I am always wondering if someone’s emailed me in the last few minutes.  I have access to an amazingly efficient, fast, widespread source of knowledge, but it’s not enough.  I’m addicted to it.

Kevin Griffin’s book One Breath at a Time: Buddhism and the Twelve Steps uses the Buddhist teachings on craving and attachment and connects them to the steps used in addiction recovery programs.  I wouldn’t say that Buddhism and twelve-step programs are exactly the same thing, and if you want to be part of both there will be some need to reconcile the difference in teaching–but Griffin’s book really points out that, at their core, both sets of teaching are about alleviating the mental problems we create for ourselves based on our cravings.  The first two of the Four Noble Truths are: All life contains suffering (dukkha).   Suffering is caused by desire (tanha).  The first step of a twelve-step program is, “We admitted that we were powerless over our addictions; that our lives had become unmanageable.”

Griffin writes:  Some people rebel against the First Noble Truth.  “Everything’s not suffering!  That’s a negative view of the world.”  And, of course, it’s true that the world is filled with delights.  But the Buddha saw that even in our moments of triumph and job there remains a grasping toward more.  My favorite example of this is the traditional commercial at the end of the Super Bowl, where the newly chosen MVP is asked, “What are you going to do now?”  And this man, who has just reached the pinnacle of his profession turns to the camera and says, “I’m going to Disneyland.”  For me, this sums up dukkha: you’ve got it all but you want more, and since you’ve got everything possible in the real world, the only place left to go is to a fantasy world, a place where dreams are made.

So we can sometimes deal with these addictions by going cold turkey.  As I wrote about in my book, there are different approaches to this in the two traditions of Buddhism, Theravada and Mahayana.  Theravada monks and nuns go cold turkey from almost all of the things that might be addictive.  They never touch money.  They only wear robes, never choosing other clothes.  They never date or marry.  If you follow a Theravada monk or nun as a teacher, you can be confident that your teacher won’t be addicted to these things.  And a Theravada teacher can show followers that it’s possible to live well without indulging in addictions.  When we’re addicted sometimes we say, “I couldn’t survive without it.”  But it certainly is possible–many people survive without coffee, without a car, without air conditioning.

In the Mahayana tradition, on the other hand, teachers sometimes go into these realms to help other beings.  This is the tradition that includes Zen, which is my tradition.  In some way, the choices I make in my life all help me to be a better Dharma teacher.  It certainly may be more helpful to you if you hear from a Buddhist teacher who goes to movies, who lives with a partner, who has a MySpace page.  One who drives a car to the temple, and stops at Dunkin Donuts on the way there.  (I brought some.)  I can use these elements in my life to make myself a better messenger of the Dharma.  A Theravada teacher generally wouldn’t do any of these things.

And yet, you know I’m not doing all of this for saintly reasons.  I stopped at Dunkin Donuts because I like sweets.  I watch movies because I like them.  You could certainly say that I’m addicted to these transient pleasures.

My brother just completed his degree in counseling, and he told me that the current theory about addiction is that there’s no such thing as “an addictive personality,” as many people believe they have.  People might believe that addiction is an abnormality, a faulty personality that most people don’t have.  The fact is, just about everyone does have addictions in some ways, and everyone has resistance to some addictions.  Addiction is what normally happens to people when they have easy access to high amounts of pleasure.  When the human race was made up of primitive hunter-gatherers, we learned to find and celebrate food that is sweet, because it was rare to find.  Now, it’s not that unusual, so many of us are addicted to it.  Still, there are some people who can smoke one cigarette and not feel the urge for another.  There are also people who can watch one episode of Battlestar Galactica and not feel the urge to watch another.  There are also people who can play a slot machine for five minutes, then walk away.  There are also people who can solve one sudoku puzzle then walk away.

Of course, there are addictions that are unwise to quit cold turkey.  Addiction to food is a problem–but stopping eating entirely is not the solution.  And sometimes you want to manage an addiction rather than eradicating it.  I acknowledge that I’m addicted to the Internet, but I also want to keep it in my life.  What can I do?

There’s one solution that I find really unsatisfying, and that’s enforced conditional moderation.  I find that some Buddhists bring up the rhetoric of “The Middle Path” in relation to this.  For instance, someone on the online Buddhists community asks, “Is it okay for a Buddhist to smoke pot?” and someone will reply, “Take the Middle Path, and don’t smoke too much pot, but don’t give it up entirely.”  The rhetoric bothers me because it doesn’t ask the important question, the middle of what?  What’s the middle path between robbing no banks at all and robbing lots of banks?  What’s the middle path between wearing underwear every day and never wearing underwear at all?

We think that we’ll solve the problem of craving and attachment by settling on a reasonable limit and sticking to it.  But conditional moderation just doesn’t work.  It can work conditionally, but it doesn’t address the deeper problem.  Perhaps you’ll eat a little better if you limit yourself to two donuts a week, but if you’re still craving a mountain of donuts, you’ve still got the addiction.

These things are often designed to make you crave more.  The best episodes of Battlestar Galactica are the ones that make me say, “I can’t WAIT to see what happens next week!”  Likewise, casinos are set up so that you want to play more–when you win, you think you might be on a streak, so you keep playing.  When you lose, you want to win back your losses, so you keep playing.  Is there a way to take the simple enjoyment of these things without falling for the unmanageable addiction?

I think there is.  Most world cultures have a ritual of gratitude for food and drink.  People take a moment with each meal to remember that they are lucky to have what they have, and remember not to crave more.  In our current culture, we might forget this, when we’re eating out of a paper bag while driving and listening to the radio.  In that mindset, it’s easy to crave without being satisfied.

So we can practice gratitude for anything.  I’m not sure how many people shut down their computers and think, “You know, I had a great day on the Internet today.  I saw some funny videos, chatted with my friends, got an interesting email from Nigeria and found out the ending to the last Harry Potter book.  I’m glad I got on the computer today.”  When it’s wise to quit cold turkey, of course, we should quit, but when it’s wise to continue in moderation, we can lessen the craving by being grateful for what we get.

At this point in the talk at the temple, I handed out slips of paper with the words, “NOW IS A GOOD TIME TO STOP AND BE GRATEFUL.”  You could keep this note anywhere that you tend to fall into craving.  Put it on your refrigerator.  Stick it in your wallet with your credit card.  Tape it to your TV’s remote.  Hand it to your favorite Starbucks barista and say, “Show me this when you give me my caramel macchiato.”  And then, when you get a little bit of pleasure, say thanks.

http://www.tricycle.com/insights_outtakes/3813-1.html

Bad Reputation

The Dalai Lama reflects on praise and blame in his commentary on lines from Longchen Rabjam's Finding Comfort and Ease in Meditation on the Great Perfection.

By The Dalai Lama

See the equality of praise and blame,

approval and disapproval, good

and bad reputation,

For they are just like illusions or

dreams and have no true existence.

THIS VERSE REFERS to the Eight Worldly Concerns: wanting to be praised and not wanting to be criticized, wanting happiness and not wanting suffering, wanting gain and not wanting loss, and wanting fame and approval and not wanting rejection and disgrace. We all experience these, don't we? Even animals probably have them in some slight measure.

I think all of us are concerned in particular about maintaining a good reputation. For example, when I am up here on this throne teaching, from time to time, somewhere in the back of my mind, there appears the thought: How am I doing? How are people going to react to this? Are they going to praise me? Maybe not . . . Oh! That did not go well. Will people criticize me? Whenever this happens I need to catch myself and say, Look, now that I am here on this throne transmitting the dharma teachings, I should not allow myself to be affected like this by the eight worldly concerns.

However, we will find that hopes, fears, and discursive thoughts of every description will come into our minds. Even very pure monks might sometimes harbor a concern in the back of their mind about whether or not people give them a few words of praise. Even worse, they might start trying to impress others in order to receive offerings or be invited to perform rituals. Thoughts like these are really dreadful. The Eight Worldly Concerns can creep up on us, quite stealthily and sneakily, and even when we do something virtuous, they will try to find a way to slip in.

As it says in The Way of the Bodhisattva, praise and a good reputation do nothing to increase our longevity or good health. Maybe if lots of people praised us we might get a bit richer! But apart from that, praise does not make us live longer or in better health or help us in any other way. If people criticize us, it does not make us sick or unhealthy and nor does it shorten our lives. It does not affect us in any substantial way at all.

If we really stop to think about praise and criticism, we will see they do not have the least importance. Whether we receive praise or criticism is of no account. The only important thing is that we have a pure motivation, and let the law of cause and effect be our witness. If we are really honest, we can see that it makes no difference whether we receive praise and acclaim. The whole world might sing our praises, but if we have done something wrong, then we will still have to suffer the consequences for ourselves, and we cannot escape them. If we act only out of a pure motivation, all the beings of the three realms can criticize and rebuke us, but none of them will be able to cause us to suffer. According to the law of karma, each and every one of us must answer individually for our actions.

This is how we can put a stop to these kinds of thoughts altogether, by seeing how they are completely insubstantial, like dreams or magical illusions. When people praise us and we glow with delight, it is because we think that being praised is beneficial. But that is like thinking that there is some substance to a rainbow or a dream. However much benefit appears to accrue from praise and acclaim, actually there's none at all. However convincing it seems, it is as unreal as a magician's illusion. And so Longchen advises:

Learn to bear them patiently, as if

they were mere echoes.

In exactly the same way, when somebody says something unpleasant or hurtful to us, we need to learn to be patient and forbearing and remind ourselves that their words are just like the sounds of an echo, equally insubstantial and unreal.

From Mind in Comfort and Ease, © 2007 by H.H. the Dalai Lama. Reprinted by arrangement with Wisdom Publications, Inc., wisdompubs.org

Image: © Don Farber

Interview taken from http://www.tricycle.com/dharma-talk/realizing-guiltlessness?offer=dharma

Realizing Guiltlessness

The Venerable Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche speaks with Pema Chodron.

Pema Chödrön, an American nun in the Shambhala lineage of Tibetan Buddhism and the author of several books, including the best-selling When Things Fall Apartand The Places that Scare You, currently practices under the guidance of the Venerable Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche, a teacher in the Nyingma lineage of Tibetan Buddhism. Dzigar Kongtrul established the mountain retreat center Longchen Jigme Samten Ling, in southern Colorado. He spends much of his time there guiding students, with particular emphasis on long-term retreat practice. At his retreat center last spring, Pema Chödrön spoke with Dzigar Kongtrul about a primary obstacle Westerners face in their practice: guilt.

Pema Chödrön: Rinpoche, since you’ve been living in North America for some time and know Western mind and culture well—what do you think is the most beneficial advice you can give to dharma students here?

Ven. Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche: The most important thing that I see Western students needing to realize is guiltlessness.

PC:  Guiltlessness?

VDKR:  Yes, guiltlessness. They need to realize that the person or the mind is, by its very nature, innocent.

PC: Could you explain what you mean by “innocent”?

VDKR: I mean that from the Buddhist point of view we can understand that all the things we do to harm ourselves and others come from deep-rooted confusions and ignorance but that the mind is by its very nature pure and enlightened. When we feel a tremendous amount of guilt, we forget this view.

PC: I think sometimes Western students have trouble believing this view.

VDKR: The fact that all sentient beings long for happiness and freedom proves that the nature of their mind is pure and innocent.

PC: But it seems that we identify more with “bad me” than with pure and innocent.

VDKR: This sense of “bad me” comes from not understanding the view of selflessness that is so central to the Buddhist path. Understanding that there is no solid, singular, or permanent “me” makes it possible to accommodate whatever arises in life without feeling so intimidated by our experience, without rolling over like a defeated dog in a dogfight. We can see that things arise due to our karma playing itself out and that it does not necessarily have to be so personal. In this way we can identify with something greater—which is our nature itself. From this perspective, since there is no solid, singular, permanent self, there’s not going to be a “bad” self to feel guilty about. Mind is innocent but influenced by ignorance and wrong conceptual beliefs that project a self. But there is no self.

PC: So how do we realize selflessness?

VDKR: Mind has an innate intelligence, and this intelligence can be cultivated—so that one can realize selflessness—which is the opposite of this projected “me.” This is our true nature.

PC: With this in mind, how do we approach that deep-rooted tendency of feeling guilty?

VDKR: First, just on a basic level, we can remind ourselves that guilt has no benefit of any sort and only increases our neurotic attachment to the self. But, more importantly, we can see that guilt is actually the way we try to escape responsibility for our actions and circumstances. We feel guilty when we don’t fully accept our circumstances. Instead, we continually try to protect and cherish this imaginary self. When we feel guilty, we are actually substantiating this “self” even further, rather than honestly looking at the situation in front of us. If we remember that the mind is innocent, even though we so often act out of ignorance we can distance ourselves from the situation enough to actually look at it honestly. Guilt, on the other hand, is a sidetrack with no resolution—it’s endless. You may feel like you are facing something because you are steeped in it—kind of rubbing your nose in how very bad it is—but actually you are not accepting it.

PC: Rinpoche, if I’ve done something harmful and I’m not to feel guilty about it, then how can I come to terms with what I’ve done? How can I completely acknowledge what I’ve done and yet not feel guilt?

VDKR: Through means of regret. Regret is a function of mind’s intelligence. We can see what we’ve done to cause suffering to ourselves and others. We acknowledge what we’ve done and also resolve not to do it again. This is very helpful. We see it clearly and acknowledge it so it does not remain in our mind stream. To be able to self-reflect in this way brings tremendous freedom. It’s like you stop fighting your circumstances and look honestly. Because your view of self is not so tightly knit, you can look without intimidation. We do this practice of acknowledging and purifying, with deep regret about what we’ve done to cause harm. We expose it to ourselves.

PC: Rinpoche, I don’t really see the difference between regret and guilt. There’s still the sense that one has done something bad.

VDKR: The difference between guilt and regret is that guilt never faces the wrongdoing straightforwardly. There’s just this strong emotion of “I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish I didn’t do it. I wish I had never gotten angry” or “I wish I didn’t do that embarrassing thing,” and so on. Regret is the opposite of guilt. We acknowledge it, we expose to ourselves that we have done something harmful and how it came about from our ignorance, but we don’t get caught in emotions and story lines. The sense of remorse is not anywhere near as heavy as the “bad me” that guilt produces. As a matter of fact, the sensation of wholehearted remorse is freeing. By applying the view of selflessness, we can see how unhelpful guilty feelings freeze us in our perception of ourselves as “bad me.” When one feels room to open and can see that out of ignorance, not out of an intrinsic “bad me,” one has done something to trouble others, then there’s no hesitation to see that. And there is no hesitation, if it seems beneficial, to apologize.

PC: Thank you. That certainly clarifies a lot for me. Are there other benefits that come from reflecting on guiltlessness?

VDKR: When one realizes guiltlessness within oneself, one feels freer and lighter. The attachment to the self, which we all have, lifts. We also start to work with our minds better. The mind is more agile and flexible, because our intelligence becomes the reference point instead of this self we so desperately grasp onto. Then we can break down our actions more precisely and work with our actions in more creative ways in the future, with more wisdom. In the case of relating to the wrongdoings of others, we see that the nature of their mind is also innocent, guiltless. Ignorance has influenced them and they are blinded and vulnerable. And because they are helpless under the power of ignorance, it is easier for us to generate compassion for them and forgive them as well. It is much easier to do all this when we see the person as innocent rather than guilty and intrinsically bad.

PC: One of the most important aspects of being a teacher is to point out the student’s blind spots. How do you work with this when students have so much trouble seeing their faults?

VDKR: This is a good question. Ultimately, nothing significant can really take place within the practice or within the student-teacher relationship until the student is ready to see his or her faults without heavy guilt. To the extent that a student wants to do this, he or she is a practitioner. When a teacher points out these dark hidden areas, the ignorance is being addressed and exposed for the student’s benefit, rather than in order to increase a sense of an intrinsic bad self. But a teacher also needs to maintain an awareness of the true identity of the student. The teacher also points out the student’s basic nature so that he or she can identify with his or her own goodness, and not with guilt or defensiveness. Then there is plenty of room to look at the hidden corners that really are fleeting and temporary. Both student and teacher must have an awareness of the student’s blind spots and his or her Buddha-nature.

PC: So the readiness to self-reflect seems to be the key here.

VDKR: The readiness to self-reflect coupled with the greater view of selflessness, which really makes it possible to look. When we are able to do this, all in all, we will become much more carefree, free of struggle.

PC: Struggle?

VDKR: Yes, the struggle is the guilt—not wanting to look. With the view of guiltlessness we can work with wrong or right, did or didn’t. It doesn’t matter. We can feel free to work with that situation without struggle. The mind is more agile because there is more space—space to look without feeling threatened. Once guilt has awakened, it has this extra-strength feeling of intrinsically “bad me.” This is not helpful and not true and not in accord with the way things are. If we bring the view of egolessness to our guilt, it will pop the deep part of our emotional attachment to this intrinsic “bad me.” I feel certain that realizing guiltlessness and selflessness is very helpful for all practitioners.

The Long Learning Curve

Taken from http://www.tricycle.com/interview/1803-1.html?offer=dharma

The Long Learning Curve: An Interview With Richard Baker Roshi

Zen teacher Richard Baker was born in Maine in 1936. He studied architecture and history at Harvard College and in 1960 left the East Coast for San Francisco. A year later he began studying Zen with Shunryu Suzuki Roshi. In 1962, Suzuki Roshi established San Francisco Zen Center {SFZC}, the first residential Zen center in the West. In 1966, SFZC expanded to include the Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, where Zen practice adhered to the traditional modes of a Japanese Soto monastery. Shortly before his death in November 1971, Suzuki Roshi installed Richard Baker as the abbot of the extended community. Over the next twelve years, Baker Roshi's work included the founding of the Green Gulch Zen Practice Community in Marin County, the Tassajara Bread Bakery, and Greens Restaurant. In 1983, under pressure from senior members of the community, and amid accusations and subsequent denials of sexual and financial misconduct, Baker Roshi resigned .from his position as abbot. The rift between Baker Roshi and SFZC remained bitter for many years and still lacks resolution. After leaving San Francisco, Baker Roshi started the Dharma Sangha, with centers in Germany, Austria, and Crestone, Colorado. For the past six years, Baker Roshi and his companion, Ulrike Greenway, have divided their time between the United States and Europe. His forthcoming book, Original Mind: The Practice of Zen in the West, will be published by Riverhead Books {Putnam}. The following interview, parts of which first appeared in German earlier this year in the May and July issues of the bimonthly magazine connection, was conducted in Germany by connection's editor and publisher, Sugata Schneider, following a workshop-seminar that Baker Roshi led on the Heart Sutra. Photographs of Richard Baker and Ulrike Greenway were taken in New York by Sally Boon.

Sugata: 1 would like to ask you about the Heart Sutrathe topic of this weekend's workshop. Why did you choose it? Baker Roshi: I didn't. Actually, I had some reservations about it, but Martin Kremer, who organized the seminar, kept asking me to speak on it.

Sugata: What were your reservations? Baker Roshi: Although the Heart Sutra is the most commonly chanted Buddhist sutra in the world, it is a deep, difficult teaching. Hard to approach on a weekend, especially when some people are new to Buddhism.

Sugata: What is so special about the Heart Sutra?

Baker Roshi: It is really a kind of prescription for-and description of-the mind taught by the buddhas. The Prajnaparamita [literally, "Sutra of the Wisdom that Reaches the Other Shore"] is a series of about forty sutras from two thousand years ago. The Heart Sutra is often considered to be their essence. These teachings address the two worlds of the relative and the absolute, form and emptiness, and so forth. What is especially interesting about the Heart Sutra is that it emphasizes the experiential knowing of the mind of emptiness and compassion. It is a very beautiful and effective-and literally memorable-mantric presentation of the source of the Buddha as compassion and wisdom. The Heart Sutra represents a shift from the lineage of a historical teacher, the Buddha, to the lineage of realized Mind-the Mind that taught the Buddha. It changes the idea of lineage and of practice. This is a shift from early Buddhism to late Buddhism. And it is understood that practice and the mantra can implant and awaken this realized Big Mind of the Heart Sutra.

Sugata: Then who is the teacher?

Baker Roshi: What teaches us is a particular state of mind, a present mind which we already have but don't know how to enter. It is not only a mind of the buddhas of the past, a vertical lineage—but a present mind, a horizontal lineage. So the teacher doesn't teach us, so much as shows us how to realize and cultivate this state of mind and then this state of mind teaches us. The present Mind—the present ancient Mind—teaches us, if we know how to embed ourselves in it. One way to do that is to turn dead words into living words. Ordinary life into the living Path.

Sugata: How do we use ordinary lift?

Baker Roshi: The words can be from our life. It could be "Why do I relate to my spouse in a certain way?" or it could be "How do I find myself more at ease with myself?" You might repeat, "More at ease with myself." Or just, "at ease." Or "ease." Or "Arriving in the present." Or "Already arrived!" And when you repeat that or any phrase or word that can reach into you-it enters into the fibers of the present Mind. Sugata: What have you created for yourself

Baker Roshi: In the first year or two of practice, the main phrase I stuck to was "There's no place to go, and there's nothing to do." While I went to places I said, "There's no place to go," and while I did things I repeated in my mind, "There's nothing to do." These two phrases actually came together in me partially from the Heart Sutra mantras: "Form is emptiness, emptiness is form," and "Gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate." Gone, gone, gone beyond, completely gone beyond.

Sugata: Does "Form is emptiness, emptiness is form" correspond to the relative and the absolute levels of reality?

Baker Roshi: To comprehend "relative" and "absolute" means to know that the world is neither permanent nor inherent, that it is interdependent, and that it is simultaneously empty. When we emphasize emptiness, we call it the "absolute." When we emphasize interdependence, we call it the "relative." When the world is seen as having an inherent or predictable permanent nature or seen even as interdependent but with an unchanging ground, we call it the "conventional" world. Through practices based on understanding the relative and absolute, we come to know a mind that is always present, but not permanent. This Mind is also called the "absolute."

Sugata: There seems to be a tendency among Zen students to privilege the absolute. Baker Roshi: We don't want to dismiss the "conventional" as only ignorance and a delusion to be done away with. It is where most people live. It is the territory of compassion, of ignorance, of realization. Even when we practice meditation and mindfulness, we are still drawn, through our habits and a love for the world and our friends, back again and again into the delusion of the conventional world. This movement back and forth between the recognition of the relative and the habits of the conventional-if we continue practicing-is actually a source of energy. It builds up in us and often gives us the burst of insight and surrender that releases us into enlightenment.

Sugata: Is absolute the same as the "oneness" in the Zen texts?

Baker Roshi: Yes, to some extent, but really no. The "absolute" is not oneness. We do not say "oneness"; we say, "not one, not two." And "not-twoness" is not the same as oneness. Oneness is sometimes an experience-a very convincing experience; but it is not an outside reality, something permanent, or a ground of being. "Relative" is not "twoness," but the pulse of twoness and nottwoness. So truly the idea of the relative arises when we see not only interdependence, but the condition of interdependence-which is emptiness, the absolute. As a Zen koan says, "Hold to the moment before thought arises (dividing the world), and you'll see not-seeing. Then put that to one side." This is to know the "unstruck sound" (an ancient Indian phrase). The "sound of one hand"! But we shouldn't forget that the elbow doesn't bend backward.

Sugata: On several occasions, I have heard you say that Buddhism in its thinking and craft is positioned somewhere between physics and psychology. Could you talk about this?

Baker Roshi: When Western physicists, biologists, psychologists, psychotherapists, and some philosophers think through things very carefully and practically without avoiding the mysteries and the perplexities then it turns out that what they come up with overlaps considerably with Buddhism and with the way Buddhism is remapping itself in the West. This is true to such an extent that much contemporary science, philosophy, and art are functioning, unintentionally, as disguised forms of Buddhism-in effect, giving us permission to accept Buddhism and to some extent preparing us to understand it. They also are fertilizing Buddhist thought and practice. This is affecting the way people think in a very fundamental way.

Sugata: Where does "religion "fit in?

Baker Roshi: First, just because Buddhism is called a religion and Christianity is called a religion, and so forth, one cannot assume that they occupy the same territory in a culture. For example, Buddhism offers no contradiction to science, it has no problem with science at all, so the deep and fundamental split between science and the humanities that we've known in the West simply doesn't exist with Buddhism.

Sugata: You mean the fear that science would displace God, or jeopardize the construction of who we think God is?

Baker Roshi: Yes, that just doesn't exist in Buddhism. Also, going back to India before Buddhism, the basic conceptual position that Buddhism grew out of is that the exterior world and the interior world are the same share the same reality or actuality. Whatever reality is, that's what we are. We don't live in the world as in a house. The house is us, and the house is in us. Nowadays, contemporary physicists are asking a similar question: If this is the way physics describes the world, then how should this affect my life? And Buddhists are saying, If this is the way the world is, then this must be the way we are too. So that's why it overlaps with science. So many of these processes of studying ourselves and others are drawing on Buddhism because it offers the most developed technique of studying consciousness especially our own. And it certainly has the most developed meditation techniques. Every place where people are looking for practical methods of working with themselves, Buddhism is coming in. Not just in physics and psychology, but in painting, poetry, theater, movies, music, and in many personal lives.

Sugata: Are you-like many Buddhist teachers-trying to integrate Buddhism and psychology?

Baker Roshi: No. I am trying to relate them, of course, but not to blend them or mix them up. A lot of people are trying to see Buddhism as a form of psychology or trying to make Buddhism into psychology. What I am always pointing out is that psychology is very different, that there is no psyche in Buddhism. The practice of perfecting your personality comes very late in Buddhism and even then is not concerned with maturing your personal story-something very important and necessary in our Western identity, our Western individuality, growth, and stability. Buddhism is more of a mind-ology than a psych-ology. So I am not trying to make a synthesis of Buddhism and psychology. I am trying to show that they work well together when they are seen as separate complementary approaches to our life.

Sugata: Will you say more about the difference?

Baker Roshi: Buddhism does not work with identity being organized through your story. It's important to see that. Buddhism is concerned with developing an interior consciousness, developing your own consciousness-and understanding yourself, others, and the world through that. And that's a different process than using Western psychology to deconstruct and reconstruct your story line. I want to emphasize that Buddhism is badly taught in the West when it doesn't account for the fact that we Westerners really do need to recognize and mature our personal story-and from the beginning of practice, not late in the game. We do great damage to ourselves and to others when offhand and unstudied Buddhist phrases like "don't think," "clear the mind," and "no self' are used to repress our identity and deny relevant thinking. Of course, I feel Buddhism is also badly taught when it is inaccurately turned into a form of psychology or reductionistically framed by current dicta and mandates of psychology. Zen Buddhism in the West must be a path of discovery and exploration of the mystery of being and the world.

Sugata: How do you handle psychological problems that are presented to you by students?

Baker Roshi: I send them to a psychotherapist.

Sugata: But a lot of times students come into dokusan [formal interview with a Zen teacher} with their story line.

Baker Roshi: What I used to do is to listen to everybody and, basically, play back what they said to me. Now I am willing to discuss it with the students, but it is better that it not be part of practice. It is like being a friend, and as a mature friend and person, I am willing to discuss anything. But boy there is a fine line. If a person has gotten their practice mixed up with their story, then I definitely suggest a therapist, or that they talk to someone else. It is so so easy to read into playback or commonsense advice the dictums of a "teacher."

Sugata: Where do you see the most exciting development in the practice of Buddhism? Baker Roshi: I don't know. I'm pretty traditional. No one who knew me in my early days of looking at Buddhism would have thought that I would end up being essentially very traditional in my understanding of the teaching and in my conception and practice of the process of teaching. It is possible and even likely that new forms of Buddhism-and positive developments of various kinds-will come forth from this "axial" (to use Karl Jaspers' term) meeting that is going on with the West. But at this stage we understand Buddhism and the cultures that have produced and nourished it so little-and we understand our own culture so little-that most changes that take place in the guise of development are dilutions, and often outright distortions, in the service of contemporary convenience and our own mental habits. I am not so interested in adaptation but I am certainly interested in developing greater accessibility to practice. This does not mean simply translating things into our Western languages, for translation is always interpretation. The way to "transport" Buddhism into the West is mostly not through translation, but by imitation and through remapping, into our own experience, culture, and language, the experiences, deep philosophy, views, and yogic insights that are at the root of Buddhist attitudes and practices. I want to help people, and I want Buddhism to be available and useful. But more than that, I want to present Buddhism as accurately and responsibly as I can and if people understand it, that is good, and if they don't, well, I just have to keep trying to be as true to my understanding and experience as I can.

Sugata: How do you present the traditional teachings of Zen? Baker Roshi: At Crestone Mountain Zen Center we have a very traditional zendo. We do the ancient practice of sitting together for three months-ninety days. It is called ango, which in Japanese means "dwelling in peace." And if this form has been good enough for a thousand years in conception it goes back to the way Buddha taught summer retreats in the mountains out of the heat and rain then it is good enough for me.

Sugata: That does sound very conservative-that its value is established by the past.

Baker Roshi: Well, this form of practice was developed over many centuries by the best minds in those generations. And I find it is so subtle, deep, and revelatory, that I am simply in awe of it. Physical stabilization can be developed through daily zazen. But mental stabilization and the weaving together of body and mind is the practice of the three-month practice period. Three months is not very long for such a great ease. And of course, three months is only the seed and the first taste.

Sugata: And you also do shorter practice periods? Baker Roshi: If! do a sesshin, it is for seven days. Sesshin means a "gathering of the mind." And that is a process that takes time-for entry into meditation, abandonment and release of yourself, and two or three days for integration and then for return into our usual mind. There is no such thing as a "one-day" sesshin. Shorter durations of practice are valid, but they have to be conceived and implemented differently from a sesshin.

Sugata: How has your role as teacher changed in the last ten years? Baker Roshi: One of the big differences is that at San Francisco Zen Center I never said that I was the teacher. I always said that everyone was a Zen Center student. I felt that was modest and accurate and so forth. But the fact is, if I had said, "Hey, I am the teacher, and these people are my students," I would have then concluded that I can't have four hundred dokusan students-and eventually hundreds more. I would not have had more than twenty-or certainly less than I did. Also, I didn't deal with the projections or the responsibility that comes when you are teaching, when the students are relating to you as a teacher.

Sugata: And now?

Baker Roshi: Now I make clear that I am the teacher. Before I never would do that. And I don't encourage peopie to become students the way I used to. At one time I accepted nearly everybody who asked. I had a kind of idealistic, pure idea that everybody can become enlightened, everyone should have a chance, that Buddhism can be made to work for everyone-at least almost everyone. I had a kind of American, democratic idealism that was, in fact, pretty naive and simplistic. Now I am more tired, or a bit more realistic, so if somebody comes up to me and says, "Oh, I loved your seminar, and I'm ready to give up my job and my spouse and all. . ." I say, "Oh no, please, don't give up anything" [laughter], because I know now that their expectations will in part be measured-often exponentially-by what they think they gave up. Too many expectations is not good for practice.

Sugata: It's been ten years now since you left San Francisco Zen Center. What's your perspective on that situation now?

Baker Roshi: I don't think that the gossipy or official versions of what happened are right, bur I feel definitely that if I were back in the situation again as the person I am now, it wouldn't have happened. Which means it's basically my fault. I had a kind of insecurity and self-importance, which I didn't see for a long time, that was a bad dynamic in the community. I have much more feeling now for what it must have been like to be a student at Zen Center when I was the head, and how difficult that was for some people. I didn't have a feeling for it before because I only saw my own motivations and I only trusted my motivations. The problem with that is, I didn't see how that affected others. So I didn't really have sympathy for people. Or empathy.

Sugata: What did you learn ftom that experience?

Baker Roshi: The Zen Center situation in San Francisco is so complex, still complex-that's why people are mixed up-that it's not easy to say what I learned, because what I learned is also complex. It is as hard to say what I have learned as it is to say what happened. But I definitely haven't stopped working on integrating what happened. I have never tried to heal it, patch it over.

Sugata: Aren't patching it over and healing quite different? Baker Roshi: Well, sometimes the attitude is to put it aside. Sometimes the psychological model of healing which doesn't really exist in Buddhism the same way is like healing a wound. You heal a wound but you don't heal a garden. You cultivate a garden. For me, t heal it would be to put it aside and say, Eventually its going to be all mended and there will be little scar, and that's all. I don't ever want to get healed. I want to stay open and ray to that situation and to the present. Although I don't always live there - in that wound.

Sugata: You don't want it resolved?

Baker Roshi: Resolved, yes, but not healed over in he sense of not feeling it anymore. The outer situation can be solved In reconciliation and healing. That would be great. But inside me I'm not trying to get rid of the pain or suffering there. I just don't live in it all the time. The fact is, I committed myself to those people as deeply as to my own family. In many ways I sacrificed my personal family to the practice and development of the community. And that commitment was for twenty years or more. There is no way I can take that out of me. And so it's very painful for me to not have connections to these people and see them develop and see myself develop in relationship to them, because they are part of me, I feel part of them. I think that's part of the problem for them, that maybe that is to some extent true for me.

Sugata: You want to keep it raw?

Baker Roshi: Yes, I do.

Sugata: Why?

Baker Roshi: Because everything that has happened to me I want to remain part of my life. I don't have to live in the rawness. I can live in the various places in myself. I let it be what it is. All the stuff of my life I live in the midst of, and I live in it quite well. As well as I can, anyway.

Sugata: While there was a lot of criticism of your role at Zen Center, some people flit critical of the students as well, that they, the community, did not see the process through with you. What do you think of this? Baker Roshi: Well [laughing], I didn't make it too easy for them. I was struggling with trying to understand what was happening and unwilling to see any side but my own until I understood my own-and my own was accepted too. Then later-fairly recently-I saw I was caught in the idea of justice as a kind of vanishing point, or hierarchical projection point, that organized all my values and mental structures. A few years ago that organizing point (which I couldn't see around) shifted to acceptance. As soon as that happened, I felt an enormous relief. The material remains pretty much the same, but the way I see it has opened up. Compassion based on acceptance is very different from compassion based on justice. I said to a friend recently, "Looking back, I can see that I was pretty much a complete asshole. Sometimes I think I didn't know what was going on at all." He said, "Well, that's not true, but there must be some things you didn't see-but then, how could you see everything?" I said, "Okay, but still I had deep flaws which made me deeply inconsiderate of others. It wasn't my intention, that I know, but I was unwilling and unable to see my flaws too."

Sugata: Many Europeans think that generally in the United States students go too easily ftom one teacher to the other and don't see how truly mutual the teaching relationship is.

Baker Roshi: [laughing] What do you want me to say? It is almost always better to stay with a pretty good teacher (not a bad teacher, of course) over a long period of time than to be with ten really great teachers occasionally. And, as you imply, it is important to understand that the real teacher is not the teacher-the teacher as a separate realized person--but the relationship that is established, that can be established and sustained, between teacher and apprentice. It is not the "A" or "B," but "AB/BA" that is essential. In this, the apprentice is at least fifty percent of the relationship. No, both are one hundred percent. A friend, the writer and teacher George Leonard, says we need patience for the long, flat, sometimes declining slopes of the learning branches look pretty dead in the winter, but in the sky of spring the branches burst forth in blossoms and subtle shades? Sometimes a lineage looks dead or dormant through several generations, yet it may still be passing the entire sap of the teaching. And then in auspicious circumstances, the lineage may visibly blossom in some disciple. Well, each of us needs to be the spring for some teacher. If you nourish a lineage, if you nourish the teachings, with your life, everything blossoms. It's much better to be in for this long learning curve, because so much of Buddhism is only absorbed through incubation. You learn it over a period of time with somebody, maturing the conditions for enlightening states of mind and being. Suzuki Roshi is still the main companion I have today. What is important is doing things one hundred percent-not containing them in "correctness" or measured states of mind. We should just do our relationship with our teacher one hundred percent, that's all. Do everything as if it were the best. At this moment. As it is. This is to practice completeness. In that way, we hold up our end of the teachings. And somebody else will do something else-and hold up their end. That's the only thing to do.

Who Moved My Cheese?

A nice video based on the classic book . The impermanent nature of this world require us to pay attention every moment and notice the changes and act accordingly. May everyone be prompted to look deeper into our lives, and re-examine the conditions that influence our actions.

Enjoy the video! 

Generosity

Nice quotes taken from http://www.tricycle.com/special-section/generosity-and-greed-introduction?offer=dharma

My own experience of generosity is that it is the acceptance of the feeling of lack that we always feel and recognizing that this feeling is felt in every living being.

Whether it is conditional or unconditional, the act of giving and accepting what is given are very powerful. In our practice, it is unconditional giving and receiving that can alter our very perception of living, and through this happiness can be experienced.

Just a simple giving of kind words to anyone is good enough. May all be well and happy!

Enjoy the quotes:

Generosity (and Greed) Introduction

When you are practicing generosity, you should feel a little pinch when you give something away. That pinch is your stinginess protesting. If you give away your old, worn-out coat that you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing, that is not generosity. There is no pinch. You are doing nothing to overcome your stinginess; you’re just cleaning out your closet and calling it something else. Giving away your coat might keep someone warm, but it does not address the problem we face as spiritual practitioners: to free ourselves from self-cherishing and self-grasping. 
—Gelek Rinpoche

Buddhist teachings emphasize that the manner in which we give is as important as what we give—we should give with respect, with happiness, and with joy. When we are practicing generosity, and it does not bring happiness and joy, we should pay close attention to our motivations for giving, and perhaps even reevaluate whether to give at all. 
—Gil Fronsdal

Greed is the salty water consumed by those who thirst for self-centered gratification. This kind of thirst can never be quenched and becomes the source of increasing torment. 
—Matthieu Ricard

“You can measure the depth of a person’s awakening by how they serve others” 
—Kobo Daishi (774–835 CE)

Shakyamuni Buddha and his monks and nuns based their survival—day-to-day food, clothing, and shelter—on the layperson’s giving practice, dana. Today in our Western Buddhist world, we give generously to our own places of practice. We help support the center or temple, the teacher, and the sangha, and in return we get retreats, scheduled meditation, teachings, and a Buddhist community. What we still don’t see is the Buddhist equivalent of Catholic Charities, Jewish Federation, and the American Friends Service Committee—organizations founded on Buddhist study and practice, relying on Buddhist constituencies to serve the unmet needs of individuals and communities around the world, whatever their race, color, creed, gender, or sexual orientation. We haven’t yet established our own Buddhist Community Chest to encourage and oversee donations and become a visible Buddhist presence in the world of social action and philanthropy. Only a few private foundations hold this larger vision.

Regardless of our resources, I think our generosity should benefit ourselves and our family, our dharma center or temple, and the world. This will really expand our hearts and practice from self-concern to Self-concern, and serve all beings.
—Roshi Bernie Glassman

‘Generosity is revolutionary, counter-instinctual. Our survival instinct is to care only for ourselves and our loved ones. But we can transform our relationship to that survival instinct by constantly asking ourselves, “How can I use my life’s energy to benefit all living beings?” 
—Noah Levine

Generosity is not limited to the giving of material things. We can be generous with our kindness and our receptivity. Generosity can mean the simple giving of a smile or extending ourselves to really listen to a friend. Paradoxically, even being willing to receive the generosity of others can be a form of generosity. 
—Gil Fronsdal

When we give, we need to do so with the awareness that our gift will be both appropriate and helpful. It is not an act of generosity, for example, to give money to a wealthy person or alcohol to a child. We also give what we can afford; we don’t jeopardize our own health or well-being. At the same time, we can give what is precious to us, what is difficult to give, because of our attachment to it. 
—Dzogchen Ponlop Rinpoche

Meditation is one of the keys to unlocking the natural generosity of the heart. Underneath the greedy and selfish thoughts and feelings that are part of the human condition lies a pure desire to help. We experience this in our mindfulness practice; when we let go, there is a natural acceptance and feeling of care. 
—Noah Levine

Phototgraph by Gyorgy Kepes, "Juliet's Shadow Caged," 1939. Courtesy of Joel Soroka Gallery

Good article taken from http://www.tricycle.com/dharma-talk/our-one-and-only-commandment?offer=dharma

Our One and Only Commandment

By Maurine Stuart

Before the time of Hui-neng, who lived in the seventh century in T’ang China, it was thought that the experience of enlightenment could be attained only after one had practiced and attained some depth in dhyana, meditation. Perhaps some of us still think that. Hui-neng, however, maintained that prajna, transcendental wisdom, is inseparable from dhyana. Neither can be understood without the other.

There are three forms of discipline in our practice. The first is shila, moral precepts against stealing, gossiping, coveting, and so on. The second is dhyana, or Zen, and the third is prajna. Hui-neng said that for true understanding, we must know that dhyana is not different from prajna, and that prajna is not something attained after practicing Zen. When we are practicing, in this very moment of practicing, prajna is unfolding itself in every single aspect of our lives: sweeping the floor, washing the dishes, cooking the food, everything we do.

This was the very original teaching of Hui-neng, and it marked the beginning of true Zen Buddhism. Everything is teaching us, everything is showing us this wonderful dharma light. All we have to do is open our eyes, open our hearts. While we are doing, thinking, and feeling, Zen is there, prajna is there. This intuitive mind infuses everything we do. But this is not something about which we can have discursive knowledge. We cannot attain realization of this in that way. This intuitive knowledge comes from our body and our mind. We don’t sit here and think about what enlightenment is. To think “I must get enlightened” is the greatest impediment. To have some degree of enlightenment is wonderful; to think about it is terrible. “No-knowing” is what we do, as in the famous phrase of Bodhidharma. When the emperor of China asked, “Who is this who stands before me?” Bodhidharma replied, “No-knowing.” No-knowing. There is no way that we can take this intuitive mind and quantify it. We can’t say, “Here it is, I’m going to give you one month’s worth, or two months’ worth, and now your course is finished.” That’s not it. We may see it in an instant, or it may take several lifetimes. This is a practice of endurance and patience. Forgetting all about gaining anything, we are simply trying to see clearly.

What does seeing clearly mean? It doesn’t mean that you look at something and analyze it, noting all its composite parts; no. When you see clearly, when you look at a flower and really see it, the flower sees you. It’s not that the flower has eyes, of course. It’s that the flower is no longer just a flower, and you are no longer just you. Flower and you have dissolved into something way beyond what we can even say, but we can experience this. This kind of seeing, this kind of understanding is “as-it-is-ness.” This wonderful intuitive wisdom infuses everything we do, if we just open ourselves up to it, and forget about all our selfish, petty concerns, forget about what we want, what we must get, whether this is doing something for us. Forget it. We are here for the sake of all sentient beings, and we are one with all sentient beings when we come to see this as-it-is-ness. Meister Eckhart, a thirteenth-century Christian mystic who really understood this, said, “The eye with which I see God is the same eye with which God sees me.”

We all see things through the conceptualizing of color and form, and yet we do not see them in their true essence, because we separate ourselves from what we see. When we think of something as good or bad, it is our own habit of thought. It is because we have so much attachment to this discriminating mind that we do not experience Mu. Our attachment even shows in our bodies. We have something blocked somewhere, something that refuses to let go. We’re so attached, even to pain. “That is my pain!” Whose pain? When you hear the han struck, do you feel the pain of the wood? Can you let go of your own pain, give up this imagined individual self, and just dissolve into Muuuuu?

Each of us is sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, and we are endlessly thinking of things. What about paying attention to what it is that makes us think and feel this way? We train our minds by looking into them. We just look in, not allowing ourselves to be carried away by our perceptions; we just look into what is going on, and ask, “Where does this come from?” We are training ourselves in the practice and study of Buddhism so that our thoughts and emotions do not disturb our true-nature mind, so that we can sit imperturbably no matter what.

Hui-neng had an awakening when he heard the words from the Diamond Sutra, “Depending on nothing, realize your own mind.” We are so often depending on this religion or that, this “ism” or that. Don’t even think about Buddhism. The true Buddhist never says, “I am a Buddhist.” We are people who are practicing this universal principle with everybody in the whole cosmos. There is no label, no separation, no statement like “I am a Buddhist, he is a Christian.” True Buddhism embraces the whole universe, without a single label. You must have your own experience of the study and practice of Buddhism, not think thoughts that have been given to you by anyone else, including myself. Forget everything I have said. Depend on yourself. Your own experience of your inner self is what this is about.

Through clarifying our minds we can abandon our delusions and enlighten ourselves. Realizing we are a part of the whole universe, not separate, our minds become as clear as crystal, and all the dharma is revealed. So let us see clearly; let us put all the past aside and go deeply into this, moment after moment. How do we do it? Just by our own natural breathing. If we try to slow the breath down, it becomes awkward and uncomfortable. Instead, we can narrow the breath. When we exhale, we narrow the exhalation, in what is called “bamboo breath.” When we inhale, we don’t take in a great gulp of air, but just a little, just enough. By breathing like this, more air is retained in the lungs, and quite naturally the breathing slows down. The transition from inhalation to exhalation becomes smoother; sitting becomes joyful. It is an immeasurable pleasure just to breathe in zazen.

Just to breathe, just to see clearly: this is the real meaning of the precepts. To keep the precepts does not mean following a set of rules. It is giving ourselves to a way of life, a path of compassionate action that expresses itself in everything we do. Our practice of zazen purifies and warms the mind so that the precepts are not really necessary. We have certain rules of behavior, of course. We get up in the morning; we wash, we dress mindfully; we straighten our cushions, we pay attention to our posture and our breath. Zazen practice itself is a precept—one of them, and at the same time, all of them. Dhyana is prajna. Everything is contained in what we are doing. This is our zazen, and this is our everyday life, every minute. So the power of this practice we are engaged in helps us keep the precepts without self-consciously trying to follow a set of rules. If we try to do it, if we think about it, if we read the list of precepts every morning and say, “Now, I mustn’t do this, and I mustn’t do that,” it doesn’t work. If it comes from the hara, from the intuitive wisdom mind, then it can be done. We can control ourselves very well when we are without any idea of controlling at all. There is nothing to do; there is nothing to control, nothing to follow. Without trying to do something, we simply practice, in the same way as when we are hungry, we eat; when we are tired, we rest. The precepts are not some rigid formulation outside ourselves.

There are a few Buddhists sects in which very strict precepts are observed. Some Buddhist monks could not come here because I am a woman. They could not come hear a woman, let alone shake hands with her. I respect them, and they should not violate their commandments; if they find some meaning in them, that’s fine. But in our practice, our one and only commandment is the intuitive response to our lives, and if we pay absolute attention to this, it is really difficult to violate.

From Subtle Sound: The Zen Teachings of Maurine Stuart, forthcoming from Shambhala Publications, Inc. in December 1996.