The Zen tradition has passed through patriarchal cultures, in China, Korea, Japan, and now in the West. Yet, somehow it has maintained a strong yin character, a connection to the fertile, receptive aspect of things. In his book “China on the Mind,” Christopher Bollas says that Eastern thinking is based on the “maternal order,” while Western thinking tends to privilege the “paternal order.” The maternal order is experiential, receptive, and pre-verbal. It is strongly present in the relationship with the early mother. In the maternal order are felt experiences of being an embryo and fetus, being born, being an infant, and the mother-infant bond. It tends to not be expressed in language, but rather it is presentational in nature. That is to say, it can best be expressed by gesture, body, breath, rhythm, coherence, and patterning. The patriarchal order, on the other hand, is based in words, logic, discursive thinking, and evaluation. So I’m setting out to explore the maternal order of the Zen tradition. I’m starting with Prajnaparamita, the Mother of all Buddhas. Prajnaparamita is, in one incarnation, a goddess who embodies perfect wisdom. She offers clarity of view, transcendent insight into the way things are. But don’t think this means she is pointing to some kind of ideal. Her kind of perfection isn’t something we have to strive to attain. Rather, it’s the nature of things inherently, just as they are. Prajnaparamita is also the Great Mother, the source of everything, who was worshipped and venerated in the early Ch'an tradition. She is Mother, matrix, guide, gestational body, original love and care. In the sutras, at times she is adored for her generosity, beauty, and fecundity. In another manifestation, Prajnaparamita is also a group of very important early Buddhist sutras that marked the turn to the Mahayana tradition. The Heart Sutra is a distillation of these teachings, and is chanted in Buddhist gatherings around the world. These sutras are understood as coming from the understanding of the goddess Prajnaparamita; this is her wisdom, her care. Traditionally, Prajnaparamita is the locus of the tathagarbha, the womb of being. It is from her womb that all things are born. She is the loom of origins, the source. And because she is marked by perfect wisdom, so everything that comes from her womb is marked by Buddha nature. Everything (even you) is whole and complete just as they are. This is the opposite of original sin; it is original perfection, even amid the difficulty and imperfections of life. We are born of Prajnaparamita, and we always have the potential to realize our Buddha nature, in any moment. Because Prajnaparamita can be powerfully apprehended by her presentation, it’s important to describe her attributes. She is often depicted seated on a lotus throne. The lotus represents the beauty and perfection inherent even in our muddy everyday experience. She carries a sword to cut away delusion. The sword is not used aggressively or violently, but rather to clear away confusion and mistaken views and attachments that obscure our access to her wisdom. She has a sharp quality in a way that can be helpful, to release delusions that keep us small and stuck. Finally, she is beautiful, adorned with jewels, and with a lovely face and body. In this way she allows us to fall in love with her, to gaze upon her with adoration, and also to bring this quality of devotion to other aspects of experience. When we step outside and feel in awe of a tree or flower, we have the same experience of appreciation for the beauty of the world. I recommend getting an image or statue of Prajnaparamita and allowing yourself to meditate in her company. Finally, we come to Prajnaparamita’s mantra. Mantras aren’t used much in Zen, but this one is an exception. We find it at the end of the Heart Sutra, and it’s a powerful invocation of the Great Mother. Like all mantras, the power is not so much in the meaning, but rather in the energy of the sound itself. Chanting Prajnaparamita’s mantra will invoke her into your practice, and may connect you to her capacities to give and receive love and comfort, to offer a gestational body, and to give nurturance and guidance. Try reciting the Prajnaparamita mantra 108 times and see what happens. Here it is. Gate gate paragate parasam gate bodhi svaha Zen is not usually seen as a devotional practice, but invoking the wisdom and generosity of Prajnaparamita can be a source of immense comfort and support.
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This week we begin a new year, just days after we began the lunar year at the winter solstice. It is a time of darkness, and also a time where there is a promise of light slowly returning. We may find that we are pulled to spiritual life in the quiet of winter, as it is naturally a season of rest and reflection. It’s a time for making friends with the darkness, and for making space for what is to come. These are two of our important spiritual practices for the new year: accepting the invitation of the dark, and making space for the gathering of the light. Practices of the Dark Yinyuan Longqi, and old Chinese teacher, expressed the invitation to step into the darkness this way: “You can’t light a lamp—there’s no oil in the house. It’s a shame to want a light. I have a way to bless this poverty: Just feel your way along the wall.” To take up this invitation, we step from the well-worn certainties of everyday life, into the dark forest of what we don’t yet know, and even what scares us. We find that if we are willing to step into the dark, into the unknown, our practice is there to greet us, and to support us. This doesn’t happen because it illuminates our lives for us right away, but rather it gives us a way to discover what is possible when we sit awhile in the dark, and feel our way along the wall. We find we can get comfortable with relinquishing all the activity of our daylit minds, and take deep rest in the fertile darkness. Nourishing the Spiritual Embryo This is a season for resolutions, which so often seem to lose steam by mid-January. Rather than engaging in our usual self-improvement project, a more fruitful spiritual task at this time of year is to practice making space for what is to come, which is already conceived in us, yet which is largely unknown. When we practice meditation, we are offering breath, attention, and a field of awareness for what is gestating in us, which we very well may not consciously be aware of. Here’s how a Zen nun described this to her teacher: Master Shiche asked his student, the nun Qiyuan Xinggang, “Buddha nature is not illusory. What was it like when you were nourishing the spiritual embryo?” Qiyuan replied, “It felt congealed, deep, and solitary.” Shiche said, “When you gave birth to the embryo, what was it like?” Qiyuan replied, “It was like being completely stripped bare.” Shiche said, “When you met with the Buddha, what was it like?” Qiyuan said, “I took advantage of the opportunity to meet him face to face.” Shiche said, “Good! Good! You will be a model for those in the future.” The new year is a good time to allow for congealing, deep and solitary, without a rush to engineer change. Luckily, we can do these practices together, and support each other’s rest in the dark, and developing spiritual embryos. In our tradition we are fortunate to have a wall to feel our way along, in the teachings and koans, as well as midwives for our spiritual embryos, in our sangha and teachers. Happy New Year! We inevitably bring hopes and fears into a relationship with a teacher. Here I'm focusing on spiritual teachers, but the same dynamic can be in play with any teacher-student relationship, from your tennis coach to your yoga teacher. We project a lot onto our teachers, and many dynamics are at play beyond the conscious intention of the arrangement. In psychology, we use the term transference to describe the way in which feelings from childhood strongly unconsciously shape adult relationships. Because of the perceived similarity of the power dynamic, this is especially true between students and teachers. It's important to emphasize that transference goes both ways; both student AND teacher will inevitably bring old relational hopes and fears to the relationship. It is essential for students and teachers to have an awareness of the transferential dimensions of the relationship, and to be able to talk about it together when needed. Unaddressed problematic transference can lead to heartbreaking disruptions of whole communities, as we have seen too many times in the scandals that have plagued spiritual communities. I have also seen issues rooted in transference derail student-teacher relationships, and sour practitioners on the path of practice. Many people come to spiritual communities looking to address emotional needs. We want family, love, understanding, guidance, support, and healing. And sometimes these can be found. But the dialog of the community, and between students and teachers, needs to take up the subject of these needs, or their influence will remain unspoken and intense. On the student end, perhaps the two most common transferences to teachers are the tendency to idealize, and the tendency to rebel. I want to emphasize that I am not saying any of this is inherently bad or problematic, only that it's important to be aware of these levels of relationship, and to be able to speak about their impact Most of us idealize spiritual teachers. We imagine them to be special people, maybe even enlightened, who have the answers we seek. When we are idealizing someone, we want to see them as all-good, and imagine that they can solve our problems or give us what we are missing. On the one hand, there is something important about being able to "fall in love" with a practice and a teacher, and to find there a place to seek perfect love and perfect wisdom. I know I found it very relieving to be able to bring to my teacher all my longings and needs to rely on someone wise. However, part of the relationship with a teacher also needs to include a process of de-idealization. The teacher is not perfect, and can't magically rescue anyone. Her humanity and imperfection need to be mutually acknowledged. When idealization is fostered in spiritual communities, difficulties inevitably arise, and the climate is ripe for drama, ethical violations and abuse. The other common transference from students to teachers is that of skepticism, disappointment, and rebellion. Again, there is an important growthful and necessary dimension to this facet of the relationship. It's essential to be able to question our teachers and traditions, to compare the words of our teacher with our own experience. But, for people with childhood histories of betrayal or disappointment, rebellion can be reflexive and can erode or devalue the spiritual enterprise. Idealization and rebellion are two sides of the same coin, and tend to follow each other around. A teacher who is initially strongly idealized is well-positioned for a steep tumble into disappointment when her inevitable humanity is revealed. Teachers also bring their own unconscious needs and transferences to the relationship. Many teachers feed on the adoration of students, and don't want to question the idealizations of their students. When the student sees the teacher as perfect, the teacher may become seduced by the emotional gratification of that delusion. That teacher is then positioned to ignore her own shadow and difficulties, and to act out her needs at the expense of students. Many traumatic ruptures in spiritual communities are caused by unacknowledged and unconscious transference dynamics between students and teachers. One benefit of the contact between the dharma and Western psychology is a greater awareness of the role of transference in our communities, and more tools with which to address it. My experience is that the more we can openly discuss transferential issues in our sanghas, the more we can truly embody the wisdom of the Way. In previous blog posts, I've outlined the beginning meditation practice instructions in the Zen tradition. However, anyone who has tried to meditate for more than five minutes knows that it is not easy. And anyone who takes up the path of regular practice will find difficulties as well as joys along the way. This brings up the important question, Why practice? What are the benefits of regular meditation, what are the pitfalls, and what can we expect to change in a life of practice? What Will I Get Out of Practice? The popular media these days seems to promise meditation as a cure to all that ails you, from stress to illness to low productivity. And indeed, many people are motivated to take up meditation in response to suffering of one sort or another. But the truth is, real practice won't give you anything you don't already have. We want to make meditation into a self-improvement project. We want to become calmer, wiser, more compassionate, more focused. Over time, we do tend to stumble into these qualities. But we can't just focus on what we want to gain from meditation. The word "meditation" sounds very spiritual, but really all we are doing is sitting still and attending to our breathing. Lots of thoughts and feelings come and go, but at the core we are just sitting there. In this sense, practice is very physical, and very simple. We are just being with things as they are. Often we set out with an understandable wish to gain something from our practice. But meditation is much more about stripping away the workings of our minds that get in the way of seeing things as they are. In the course of this work, we find that we relinquish our opinions, judgments, stories about ourselves and the world, even the self-improvement project. We have to give up all our ideas about how we should be and how other people should be. We even give up our much cherished identity. This can be frightening, but it's also incredibly liberating. Mature Practice What might we hope for as spiritual practice ripens and matures? Here are a few thoughts; I'm interested in other points of view. After a year of regular practice, you will probably find that you are more compassionate toward yourself and others. You will be less emotionally reactive. And you will be more tolerant of all kinds of difficulty, in yourself and in the world. After five years of practice, you will likely be experiencing more clarity about who you are and what's important in life. You should have less angst about yourself, and more inclination to see how you can realistically be of help in the world. After a decade or two of practice, you won't struggle much with life. Your main orientation will be how to best respond to any situation you are in. Not that you will be a perfect person, personality and rough spots endure, but you will be clear and resolved enough about yourself to work with internal and external suffering skillfully. Practice Beyond Meditation: Stepping into Tradition While meditation is central to Zen, it is only one part of its method of transformation. In order to mature in our practice, we must take up other aspects of the tradition. When we enter the path of Zen, we become a part of a very old path that has many ways of teaching and supporting us. By becoming a part of a sangha (spiritual community), we find that we support each others' practice, and vividly experience the truth of interdependence. And when we take a spiritual teacher, we are able to form an intimate relationship devoted to cultivating our realization, finding our blind spots, and working with difficulties along the way. And by studying the teachings of Zen, we learn from the wisdom of our ancestors. In my experience, over years of practice I have been indelibly shaped by taking the precepts and putting them at the center of my life. I've also been fortunate to enlarge the view of practice in the midst of life by immersion in the koan tradition. These are more advanced aspects of practice for those who commit to the Way. But my experience is that the precepts and the koans are a powerful technology for challenging our habits of mind and body, and for waking us up. In order to truly reach mature stages of practice, we are best served by taking on the wisdom of the whole lineage and tradition, and allowing it to work on us. So what do we actually do when we are meditating? In our tradition, the core practice is called zazen. This is seated meditation practice that helps us settle the mind, experience whatever is happening intimately, and cultivate insight into the true nature of life. For beginning instructions on zazen, you can go here. We begin by counting our breaths, and may move on to shikantaza, or just sitting. Zazen is the practice of a lifetime, and the cornerstone to which we can return no matter the condition of our experience. Many people find that they develop a palette of meditation practices, to work with particular circumstances and difficulties or to develop spiritual insight. It's part of our skillful means in practice to discern what meditation practice is most suited to a particular time in life (a teacher comes in handy here). While there are many such practices, I'll describe some that I have found most helpful here. In times of great emotional difficulty, either our own or our experience of suffering with the world, the practice of tonglen. Tonglen doesn't get rid of our suffering, but rather helps us relate to it with less fear and aversion. The fundamental practice is that we breathe in what is difficult and painful; we breathe in the suffering . We breathe out spaciousness, ease, happiness—the things that help dispel suffering. In acting to dispel the sufferings of others, we also dispel our fear of our own suffering. For more instruction on tonglen practice, go here. If you are feeling self-critical, depressed, or exhausted, lovingkindness (metta) practice might be just the right thing. In this practice, we direct love, safety, peace, and ease toward ourselves and others. Lovingkindness practice actively cultivates a generous, gentle presence and is a great practice for all of us who could use more of these qualities. In this practice we learn that we have to be able to direct loving care and acceptance toward ourselves before we will truly be able to offer these to others. For more instruction on metta, go here. If you are somewhat stable in your meditation practice, you might consider taking up koan practice, either formally or informally. Koans help catalyze the spiritual imagination, and systematically cultivate insight into our true nature. Koans invite us to bring our whole selves into meditation practice, and offer a way of shaking up our usual way of seeing things. Koan practice is intrinsically relational, and formal koan study is done in intimate and ongoing relationship with a teacher. Form more information on koan practice, go here. There are other practices that we take up in Zen. Walking meditation, chanting sutras, sangha service, and taking the precepts are traditional and profound arenas of practice. One of the benefits of becoming committed to a sangha and a practice over time is the opportunity to immerse ourselves in these teachings. Many Zen students find that it is natural to extend the experience of zazen into a movement practice (yoga, tai chi, running, dancing, etc.), creative art practice (music, visual art, writing, etc.), or a professional or service practice (psychotherapy, community service, etc.). Indeed as our Zen practice develops we find it informs all of our activities. And, in every moment, we can always find our way back to our breath. In my next post, I'll take up the intriguing topic of the benefits of meditation. Is it worth it, and what changes for people to take up this Way? To really grow in our spiritual life, it is important for most people to establish a regular practice of meditation. But what does this actually look like, and what are its benefits? In this post and the next few to follow, I'll break it down, from a Zen point of view. In the Zen tradition, there are four pillars of practice. The first is what I call daily-ish home practice. What this means is, you find someplace in your home where you can keep a pillow or chair on which to meditate. It's good if it's a place free from too much intrusion or distraction. Maybe you can even have a little altar with figures that are important to you, and a candle. Then, you sit there every day. Regularity is more important than duration of time. If you can meditate almost every day for five or ten minutes, that's a great start. As you start to notice the impact of this practice on your life, you may find you naturally want to extend it. The second pillar of Zen practice is sangha, or community. When we sit with a group of like-minded people, we express our commitment to supporting our own and each others' practices. Many people find that practice in a group is much different from sitting alone, and offers tremendous amount of power and growth. Sangha can also mean working with a teacher to support and deepen our practice. When we meditate with others, we find out what it means to make relationships and community a core focus of our practice, instead of feeling spiritual life to be set apart from the relational world. The third pillar of practice is everyday life. At first, meditation can seem like some special state that is different from what's happening when we are doing the dishes or tending to a sick child or writing a letter to our Senator. But as our commitment to the Way grows, we find that it is everywhere, and that every moment of life is an opportunity to practice. We are always fine-tuning and expanding that, and koan practice is a way to bring the practice of inquiry into everyday living. The fourth pillar of practice is retreat practice, ranging from half-day to week-long and even longer periods of intensive meditation practice. In Zen we call these retreats sesshin, which translates to touch the heart-mind. In retreat, we have a chance to let everyday cares fall away, to settle deeply into practice, to be in community with others, and to work closely with a teacher who can support and sometimes challenge our understanding. Many practitioners find that doing a retreat or two per year is immensely rewarding. In my next post, I'll describe what we actually do in our meditation practice, and how to develop a palette of practices to be used skillfully at points of different needs. Some thoughts on a Zen koan. The Gateless Barrier #38: A Buffalo Passes Through the Window Wu-tsu said, “It’s like a buffalo that passes through a latticed window. It’s head, horns, and four legs all pass through. Why can’t the tail pass through as well?” ****************************************************************************** In Zen, the buffalo represents our essential nature. As we walk our path, many things become clarified, old karmic knots loosen, and life seems more joyous and interesting. We realize with our head, horns, and four legs, who we are in our true nature. But–there is a tail that can’t pass through. An old insecurity still gnaws at us. Or there’s an addiction that we stay with. We’re still angry and greedy and scared. And this goes against our fantasy of becoming perfected, through meditation, or psychoanalysis, or yogic living. We wanted to get rid of all those human flaws. Why won’t this tail go through? As we’re busy trying to yank that tail through, we forget that we’re in a field of play, with all our buffalo parts and a window to jump back and forth through. If we can find our play, we can get curious about this tail, instead of just hating it. We can even see that the tail has a tale–what’s yours? We all have a tale of our tail, some kind of story about how unlovable we are, or damaged, or lost. But we prefer not to really think about this, we’d rather just yank it through (or off). Some people go around perpetrating their tail/tale on others, as we’re seeing in the latest round of Zen scandals. And many people try to segregate their tail into their body or sexuality, divorced from the prajna activity of the heart/mind. But the good news is, we don’t have to get rid of our tail/tale. The point is not to wipe them away like raindrops with a windshield wiper. They keep reappearing. We can just watch them. Give them room. Look at them square on, honestly. Let the tale spin out, and listen to every word with love. The tail/tale is where we can learn the most, if we dare to fearlessly look. The publication of Acequias and Gates by Joan Sutherland is a tremendous gift to modern seekers of the Way. I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in Zen practice, or in bringing a spirit of inquiry and creativity to meditation practice. This book has two parts that fit together and complement each other. Acequias is a collection of essays by Joan Sutherland, a contemporary American koan Zen teacher (and my own beloved teacher). There are reflections on koans and the gifts they bring to meditation practice, as well as some advice for those who take up company with koans. Joan’s prose is full of the beauty and richness of the koans, and contains none of the easy formulas that often seem to be the hallmark of contemporary Buddhist writing. The Gates section of the book is a collection of the Miscellaneous Koans, which I have never seen in print before. For this reason alone the book has tremendous value. The Miscellaneous Koans are traditionally taken up after one has seen into their first koan, and are variously joyous, silly, helpful, and destabilizing. The Miscellaneous Koans have always been the part of the traditional koan curriculum in which innovation is most welcome, and Joan has made many new offerings. In 21st century Western life, most koans are taken up by people who are not monastics and who have full lives with work, family, and community, and this version of the Miscellaneous Koans speaks vividly to contemporary lives. We are finding in our tradition that koans can be very helpful to people who don’t take up the formal koan curriculum, but who find koan work adds a new dimension of vitality to meditation practice. This book is a good source book for anyone who finds the koan way intriguing, and will give you a lifetimes’ worth of companionship for practice. Koans in the West are at a crossroads. On the one hand, some of the forms of practice we received from Asia are being updated to speak to contemporary lives, including a full inclusion of women. On the other hand, we need to respect the wisdom of the tradition, and not take our innovation so far that we dilute or lose the essentials of the Way. Acequias and Gates gracefully navigates the need for innovation while also preserving the integrity of the koan tradition. Acequias and Gates offers a beautiful invitation to practicing with koans, radiant with a feeling of their beauty, creativity, and strangeness. It is also a lovely book, lushly illustrated with the art of Ciel Bergman, and designed by Piper Leigh. And I find the haunting pictograms that accompany the koans to really add another dimension to the work. This is a book that will stay on my nightstand for a very long time, a companion for any circumstance. The bright road that the ancestors knew is right in front of you, in everything you see and hear. ************************************************************************************* To order Acequias and Gates, go to http://www.blurb.com/user/store/JISutherland In the current enthusiasms for “mindfulness” and yoga, the practice of Zen can seem intimidating or foreign. It’s often not clear what it means to take the path of Zen. Our tradition offers a path of liberation, tested and refined over dozens of generations. But what does that actually look like? The practice of Zen first and foremost means zazen, seated meditation. I recommend three levels of practice. First, practice with a group that meets regularly, what we call sangha. Meditation in a group feels different than on your own, and often feels more powerful. In meditating in a group, we support each other’s practice. We also make dharma friends, and begin to develop spiritual community, which is invaluable along the Way. Second, as best you can, work toward developing a daily practice. At first, regularity is more important than the length of time. If you can only sit for five or ten minutes a day, it’s a great start. Eventually working up to twenty or thirty minutes a day is a worthy goal. First thing in the morning works best for many people, but whenever you can get on the cushion is just fine. Third, when you are ready, try out longer retreats. It’s great to check out a daylong retreat, to get a taste of what can happen in a longer stretch of meditation practice. If and when you can, try going to a sesshin, a multi-day silent retreat under the guidance of a teacher and with senior students to lead the way. Retreat practice changes lives, no joke. Many people who are starting out in meditation practice ask for book recommendations, and there are some I suggest (look here). But consider starting to practice without filling your head with words and ideas, rather just relying on your own experience. There is a time and place for reading and study, but it can be a good thing to approach practice without our usual mediation by “experts.” Finding a teacher who is a good fit for you is a tremendous blessing in this path. A teacher can help when you hit inevitable rough patches or blind alleys. She can offer encouragement and spiritual friendship. And she can help guide you through the sometimes strange landscapes we encounter in the practice. It’s possible these days to have a teacher online, or to have multiple teachers, and all kinds of arrangements can work. But finding a primary teacher who can offer guidance along the way is most helpful for most people. I recommend a teacher who is authorized in a recognized lineage; I’m suspicious of people who are authenticated only by themselves. Once you have established a regular practice with a teacher and a group, the next step is to consider taking the precepts, the Bodhisattva vows. Through our commitment to ethical living, we make sure we don’t just practice for our own peace of mind, but also to benefit others. The precepts are not prohibitions or commandments, but rather a description of how to live in order to find and spread joy. Ultimately, true practice happens in the midst of our lives, while we tend to a sick child or pay our bills or write a letter to our senator. All our practice on the cushion and with our teacher and with the precepts is in support of the practice of daily life. The real measure of our practice is in how we respond to life as it is, in our ability to be present and helpful. Our task is to show up, to allow our heart to break, over and over. To mess things up, over and over, but to keep an open heart, and to find a way to do some good in the world. IV. The Staff Dragon Dream Zen koans are a kind of dream for us to experience and begin to understand. When we work with a koan, we can’t just take it up as a problem to be solved. We must live it emotionally, relationally, socially. Each koan is a marker for a type of contact with the vastness. Of course in Zen there is nothing separate from Buddha nature, it is fully present right now. But in our human lives, we lose sight of this, and we live in the dream (or nightmare) of our lives. Working with koans helps us keep our eyes open for the dream navel present in every moment. Yunmen showed his staff to the assembly and said, “This staff has become a dragon. It has swallowed up the whole universe. The mountains, rivers and great earth, where do they come from?” In this koan-dream, Yunmen invites us along on a breathtaking, fantastical journey into the inconceivable. He shows us the swooping movement between the three kayas. We start out in the ordinary world of form, the staff. In Zen, the presentation of the staff is often seen as a complete presentation of the dharma. This is what we call tathagata, thing-in-itselfness. Before we know what hits us, the staff becomes a dragon, a swoop into the sambhogakaya, the dream. It is a fantastical beast from the big dream, the big unconscious. And then, another swoop, the dragon swallows the whole universe. Nothing left. There is a feeling of spaciousness, emptiness, and at the same time fullness. This is the feeling of tipping into the dharmakaya, the realm of the vastness. Then, with this mind of holding the three kayas as simultaneously existing, we face the mystery. The mountains, the rivers, the great earth, where do they come from? What is the source? Our practice is to sit in that mystery, to really look into this great matter with love and curiosity and fearlessness. V. Dream Navel Redux Where might we locate the dream navel of this koan? In one sense, we might find it in the action of swallowing up the universe, the movement of the dream from the dragon into the swallowed-up universe. A movement into something vast and still and beautiful. We might notice, as would Freud, that the action here is one of swallowing. It is an image of what we would call in psychoanalytic terms, incorporation, taking something in from the outside. The dragon swallows the universe. This points to a link with the early relationship with the mother, in which we might have a lived experience of swallowing the whole universe, the feeling of completeness that could be had. Here we have a feeling that something infinitely vast can be taken in and swallowed in one gulp. Then the universe and the staff and the dragon and the swallowing all disappear. In this way the dream navel is a poignant connection to the original mother, who we can swallow and take completely in. And then, swallowing even swallows itself up, folds in on itself, and disappears. In another way, this dream is full of navels, it is made of navels, nothing but navels. When we work with koans, we practice in the dream navel. We sit in the tidal zone, in the transitional zone of meditative space. We watch the dream, and that watching is always interpenetrated with an awareness of what Freud calls the unknown, the Great Mystery. We watch as we eat mangoes or make love or undergo an emergency dental procedure. We show up fully for the dream, for the beautiful and heartbreaking experience of being human. But we also feel an awareness of the navel, of the vastness from which the dream streams, and to which it returns. Zen training is fundamentally about changing our identity. Many of us live primarily in the theater of the dream of the separate self. We live as though how we feel, what we want, is the most important thing. But through practice, we begin to identify with the process of transformation from staff to dragon to universe and back again. We experience how we are always rippling in this dance between materiality and the vastness. We don’t have to get stuck in a cul-de-sac of repetitive habits of mind and heart. Instead, we know that we are just the pattern of flow swirling between form, emptiness, and dream, and our task is simply to step into the dance. |
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AuthorMegan Rundel is the resident teacher at the Crimson Gate Meditation Community in Oakland, CA.. Archives
April 2020
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