Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva


Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva

Ventures so bravely

Against the stream of

Longing, anger, and ignorance,

Overcoming fear until

Kindness and compassion are all that remain.

I wonder if it’s all true,

These mind chimes that ring

“Ego keeps you bound,” nothing more or less, like

Shattering the glass crutch yet again.

Heaven knows how many times the jailer can

Validate his own existence.

Anybody else in here feel the way I do?

Round after round



Outside conditions

Determine inner


I drift like a moth toward the

Seductive notion that

Against all evidence to the contrary

The problem is

The solution.

Venture so bravely

Against the stream.

Truth By Any Other Name


I was preparing to facilitate an addiction recovery group at the outpatient clinic where I work, and I decided to reference Kevin Griffin’s One Breath at a Time.  While this book was instrumental to me in my early recovery, I hadn’t read it in a long time.  Exactly how long became apparent when a folded sheet of paper fell out as I pulled it from the shelf.  The short essay was from a reading and talk that I gave at Open Meadow Zen Center several years ago, most likely eight or nine years judging from the date reference it contains.  Being that my humble little blog has been foundering a bit over the past half year or so, I decided to seize this serendipitous event and print it here as a means of re-dedicating myself to the endeavor of sharing musings from the world of Buddhist informed recovery.

What follows is an unedited reprint of the talk I gave that evening:

After sharing the poem “Inscription on Trust in the Mind” by Tseng Ts’an back in September, I was gently yet sternly informed that I wouldn’t again be allowed to slide by without offering a personal commentary on the reading, as the purpose of the weekly reading wasn’t merely to share insight, but to allow the other members of the group to get to know us.  Interestingly, this passage by Kevin Griffin was the other reading I’d considered sharing back in September, but apparently I wasn’t in much of a self-revelatory mood.  Tonight I’ll take the opposite tack and identify myself as a member of a 12 Step recovery program.  Usually when I offer commentary, I just sort of wing it off of phrases underlined in the text and notes jotted down in the margins, but this time I’ve taken the time to write out my thoughts, as this is pretty important stuff.

Founded in 1935, Alcoholics Anonymous is probably the most important spiritual movement of the 20th century.  Despite the insistence in the AA Preamble that “AA is not a religion,” that’s pretty much exactly what it is…  an organized system of beliefs, complete with literature, regular meetings, and rituals designed to offer its adherents a better, more fulfilling way of life through the dissolution of the ego.

What separates both Alcoholics Anonymous and Buddhism from other religions is the emphasis on direct personal experience over beliefs.  While we’re contin ually offered the guidance and support of those who have walked the path before us, we’re encouraged to apply these teachings and practices to our own lives on a daily basis.  In both traditions, the basid understanding underlying the teachings is “don’t take our word for it… do what we do, trust your own experience, and see what happens.”  The adoption of this attitude is facilitated immeasurably by the profound realization that there’s nothing to lose.

After staying in recovery for extended periods, there is a tendency for people to open to wider spiritual paths or to reconnect with the religion of their youth.  The relationship between my spiritual life and my recovery from alcohol and drug addiction grew a little bit differently.  Like Kevin Griffin, I began my study of Buddhism some time before I arrived at my first AA meeting.  I’m not sure when my interest in Eastern Philosophy began… probably as something far-out and esoteric to groove on while getting stoned in college.  George Harrison probably had something to do with it.

At any rate, after finding myself in a drug and alcohol rehab in the fall of 1995, my first reading of a piece of AA literature called The Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions was punctuated by many “A-ha” moments… those flashed of insight followed by a sense of deja-vu… a feeling of “wait a minute, didn’t I already know that?”  I was so astounded by the parallels between AA and Buddhism that, for a while, I was convinced that AA co-founders Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob had deliberately re-drafted the dharma to make it more palatable to a Depression-era American audience.

The reality, of course, is that they were two hopeless drunks trying desperately to conquer their alcohol problem and lead normal, productive lives.  They proceeded to outline their own personal experiences for the benefit of others, just as the Buddha had offered us the Eightfold Path as a means of achieving liberation from what is known in 12 Step parlance as the “bondage of self.”

When people in recovery ask me what Buddhism is all about, I tell them, “it’s like AA.” When Buddhist practitioners ask me about 12 /step recovery, I tell them, “it’s like Buddhism without all the bSanskrit and Pali words.”  The connection between the two traditions is clear:  They present basic human truths arrived at by different means, in different times, for different reasons.  But truth by any other name is just as urgent.

Alcoholics and addicts aren’t unique; we don’t have the mearket cornered on suffering.  We find ourselves plagued by an exaggeration of the human condition, which Albert Einstein described as an “optical illusion of consciousness” in which we percieve ourselves to be seperate in space and time from all other beings.  And we’re the only ones who can save ourselves from this condition.  There is no externam savior.  That’s the bad news.

The good news is that we’re already saved.  To attain this truth, just as to achieve sobriety, isn’t a matter of learning anything new, but rather of unlearning mental habits and false information, or, as Kevin Griffin puts it, “shedding limiting concepts until nothing remains.”

One of the greatest things about Alcoholics Anonymous, and the reason that the fellowship has been able to survive for 75 years, is that the Boddhisattva Vow is built into the program.  Step 12 reads, “Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.”  We can only keep what we’ve attained by giving it away.  In this spirit, I hope I’ve done some 12th Step work here tonight.


And I hope, as well, that I’ve done a little more 12th Step work by sharing these thoughts with a wider audience here.  Zen Master Seung Sahn said that our job as humans is to transform our experience into wisdom for the benefit of others.  The preamble of Alcoholics Anonymous states that “we share our experience, strength, and hope with each other that we may solve our common problem…”  None of us does this work alone, and I’m deeply grateful to all you bloggers whose words have helped me.


Author making offering outside of temple, Phitsanalouk

May this be of benefit.



Man Up A Tree


Prayer flags and pilgrims beneath a tree.  Mayadevi Temple, Lumbini, Nepal


Eventually we understand that all solutions come to us by themselves, if only we stop trying to control.  – Stephen Mitchell

I’m no good at koans.  Which is as it should be.  I tend to live most of my life in my head rather than fully centered in my situation, and a correctly answered koan is basically an indicator of someone who is completely present in the moment.  Every now and then, the zen master will lob me a softball, and if I’m having a good day, I might be able to clip it off the corner of the bat.  During the ten years I’ve been practicing, I’ve learned to take heart in the humble honesty of demonstrating exactly where I’m at, and after leaving a koan session, I no longer slink back into the dharma room with my tail between my legs and my head full of “I should have saids.”  I’ve attained enough to understand that this is not an intellectual exercise; if I’m trying to “come up with an answer,” then I’ve already missed the ball.  And yet I keep trying to think my way out of koans…

I recently stopped into a new independent bookstore in my town.  In the “Spirituality/Philosophy/Religion” section, I happened upon an enticing volume titled “Zen Koans With Answers.”  I opened to the page titled “Man Up a Tree,” a classic koan that I’ve been wrestling with for years.  As I’d suspected, there was no answer, just a couple of things that clever students could do or say to try to fool the teacher into thinking that they were not clever students.  Things that I’ve already tried, only to be met with a response of “No, thank you” by the zen master.  The one thing that I haven’t done in a while is sitting meditation… not on a regular basis, anyway, and that is most likely the key to “solving” the koan.  Of course, a koan is not a riddle to be solved, but a situation to be held in the cradle of “don’t know” mind.

What does it mean to hold a koan? It does not mean to search for an answer, but to wait for a response to appear, which, for me in most cases, means sitting in that “don’t know” space and becoming comfortable with it.  When I approach a certain anonymous friend of mine seeking help with a problem, he’ll often say “that’s your koan for the week” as he reflects that problem back to me in the form of a question.  This does not mean that he is expecting to hear an answer to the question, or a  solution to the problem, next time we speak, although that might happen.  As Zen Master Bon Haeng puts it, “if an answer appears, then an answer appears.”  If not, then we become more curious about this “don’t know.”  This is good practice.  If I’m actively searching for answers, then I’m in trouble.  As Zen Master Seung Sahn would say, “Big mistake.”  When I remember that my job is to stay present, then I’m in good shape.  If an answer appears, I’ll be there with a cup of tea saying “nice to see you.”

Master Hyang Eom said, “It is like a man up a tree who is hanging from a branch by his teeth.  His limbs are tied and bound, so his hands cannot grasp a bough, and his feet cannot touch the tree.  Another man standing under the tree asks him, ‘Why did Bodhidharma come from China?’  If he opens his mouth to answer, he will lose his life.  If he does not answer, he evades his duty and will be killed.”  If you are in the tree, how do you stay alive?

from The Whole World is a Single Flower, by Zen Master Seung Sahn

Knowing Ourselves


In New Hampshire, we know ourselves by winter.  – Robert Frost

I don’t live in New Hampshire.  I did, for a long time many years ago, but I have since moved back to my native Massachusetts, just south of the Granite State.  Not so far south, however, that we’re not given occasion to slow down for two or three months every year, to go inward, to reflect, to take stock, and, in the words of local hero Henry David Thoreau, “to front only the essential facts of life.”  I would amend Frost‘s words, if I may be so audacious, to read “in New England, we know ourselves by winter.”  And this year, in this corner of the United States, winter is not going softly into that proverbial good night.  Though the calendar tells us that spring is a week away, as I sit here now looking out my window at the woods outside of Boston, snow has been steadily falling for the past twelve hours and is expected to continue for another twelve, and the view is nothing short of sublime.  Practically everything in my field of vision is white save for the flashes of crimson, black, and muted gold of the cardinals, chickadees, and goldfinches that jockey for position at the thistle seed feeder hanging from the cherry tree outside the window.  Except for the snowflakes and the birds, there is no movement; time has stopped, and I’m left with the simple silent beauty of a forest snowfall.

The meditation comes easily, effortlessly.  Awareness becomes whittled down to only this moment as the cosmos so generously hands us what we endeavor so diligently to create in the Dharma Room: a sparse and calm environment free of distraction where the mind is ultimately left to itself.  It occurs to me that I’m in the same space of quiet expansiveness that I was blessed with seven years ago when I sat a week-long silent retreat at Diamond Hill Monastery on the grounds of Providence Zen Center, the international headquarters of the Kwan Um School of Zen.  Snow had just started to fall as I drove down there with Sung, a sangha member from Open Meadow Zen.  It was beginning to accumulate as we walked up the dirt road to Diamond Hill.  “If you have anything to say to me, say it now,” she half-jokingly said, “because we won’t be talking for a long time.”  And with that, we disappeared into the silence and routine of Korean-style practice.

It snowed every day for the entire week.  We began each day sitting in the 4 a.m. darkness of the large Dharma Hall, and my fondest memory of that week was opening my eyes as the chukpi was sounded to signal the end of the morning sitting period.  As breakfast was brought into the hall to be eaten temple-style, while still seated on our cushions, the light of false dawn illuminated the surrounding woods just enough to show us freshly fallen or still-falling snow.  I felt the awe, excitement, and happiness of a child waking up on Christmas morning.  During periods of outdoor walking meditation, the temple became the world, fresh and new, each step an act of creation, every wooded path untrodden.

That’s the hook of the snowfall:  the freshness, the unfamiliarity, the profound sense of interest I feel in looking out of this window I’ve looked out of a thousand times.  Gone is the false belief that I’ve seen this moment before.  I never tire of watching the snow fall.  With awareness, there is no boredom.  How do I hold this awareness, this appreciation, this sense of interest in this present moment when the skies clear, when the snow melts, when the flowers bloom, and when the air is full of activity and distraction?  Perhaps this is the question that Frost alluded to with his observation that “we know ourselves by winter.”  He didn’t say “we know ourselves in winter;” he said “we know ourselves by winter.”  To know myself by winter doesn’t mean that the snow has to be falling for a day straight in order for me to find this sacred center.  Having experienced this, it is available to me at any time of year, and at any point on the globe.  As Black Elk said of his Vision Quest, “Then I was standing on the highest mountain of them all, and round about beneath me was the hoop of the world.”  John G. Neihardt, Black Elk’s biographer, offers the following footnote: “Black Elk said the mountain he stood upon in his vision was Harney Peak in the Black Hills. ‘But anywhere is the center of the world,’ he added.” [1]             Joseph Campbell remarked that this gives us an indication that Black Elk had a clear understanding of the relationship between symbolic reference and direct experience.

To borrow a phrase from Campbell, the epic snowstorm that I’m in the middle of right now is a “reference point,” meaning that it has deep intrinsic value that is not limited to the experience itself.  Peak experiences are called “peak experiences” because we don’t get to stay there.  We have to come back down sooner or later; that’s Impermanence.  A true practitioner develops the innate capacity to incorporate those experiences into his or her daily existence when the snow stops, when the silent retreat is over, or when the Vision Quest ends.  Very easy to write.  Not so easy to do.

The good news about impermanence?  I won’t have to shovel my car out for another nine months.



The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

– Robert Frost, “Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening”

[1] Neihardt, John G., Black Elk Speaks. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska         Press, 1932, p.43.


The Only Thing You Need to Know…


20141005_114106“The only thing you need to know about God is that you’re not Him.”  – Anonymous

This time-tested battle cry of the old-timers of Alcoholics Anonymous echoes down through the ages, reverberating off of the painted cinder block walls of floor wax and bad coffee-scented church basements across New England and beyond.  I’ve heard it so many times over the years that I stopped hearing it for a while, relegating it to the status of a trite, folksy cliche, of which there are so many in AA.  Upon entering more deeply into zen practice and 12 Step practice, however, I’ve come to appreciate and embrace a more boots-on-the-ground, head-where-my-ass-is approach to the whole “spiritual component” of AA, as it is so frequently and oxymoronically referred to.  Spirituality, of course, is not a “component” of anything, but rather the totality of everything.  This notion that spirituality can somehow be compartmentalized is simply a sleight of hand that the ego employs in order to substantiate its own existence and keep itself in control of things.

The “you’re not him” platitude isn’t simply a call to humility; at its best interpretation, which, for the moment, I’ll assume that I’m making,  it is a call to action and an admonition against launching a flight of fancy into the world of concepts.  How easy, how comfortable, how convenient it is to think about God, to ponder Greater Meaning and Higher Power from within the safety of my own intellectual framework, as was so often done during those late nights in the conversation pit, a drug-addled tradition immortalized long before my time by the characters of Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums, who so often stayed up late into the night talking – wild! – and drinking wine – great!  How useful was that endeavor in my own journey some thirty years after Ray Smith and Japhy Rider graced the bungalows of Berkeley?  To be honest, it was extremely useful insofar as it informed my process of cycling through the seductive labyrinth of ideas and substances to land on the meditation cushion and in the aforementioned church basements.

Buddhism is, to my understanding, less of a philosophy or a religion, and more of a psychology.  It offers us nothing more or less than the opportunity to develop the capacity to look at our own minds.  Not a promise, just an opportunity, an opportunity that holds the key to ending our own suffering,  not forever, but moment to moment. Also known as Forever.  The Buddha offered sort of a bottom-up approach to this problem of being human, rather that the top-down approach that was on the table prior to his enlightenment under the bodhi tree.  The practice isn’t so much about connecting to a Higher Power as it is about connecting to our own experience.  In other words, our heads tend to already be in the clouds, so to speak.  Our work consists of coming back into our bodies.

It comes as a shock to many of us that we create the overwhelming majority of our own suffering.  We seem to believe that we have no agency in that suffering, lacking, as so many of us do, the understanding that it isn’t the circumstances or events of our lives that create suffering, but rather our response to them.  “Pain is inevitable,” I’ve heard echo off of the painted cinder block walls.  “Suffering is optional.”  In other words, it’s how we relate to the pain of our lives that determines our degree of suffering.  It’s our job to decide how we relate to our pain.  The world is full of others who can help us make that decision, but no one else is in a position to take away our suffering.

What is problematic about the “Higher Power” approach to the “spiritual component” is that it feeds the illusion of duality and sets us up to search for a solution outside of ourselves, which is the hallmark of addiction.  Our suffering arises out of this idea of separation, which creates the notion that something outside of me will fix me, fill me, heal me, or complete me.  It’s a fools game, of course, because there’s really nothing “out there.”  The self is looking for itself outside of itself, and guess what?  There’s nothing to be found.

There’s nothing to “get,” which is good news, because both Buddhism and Recovery (which, in this writer’s humble opinion, aren’t different) aren’t about getting things; they’re about getting rid of things.  Getting rid of all the stuff that stands between me and the direct perception of reality as it is in this moment.  And the biggest chunk of stuff that stands between me and the direct perception of this world?  The unfounded belief that “me” and “this world” are two.  Ego will do everything within its power to substantiate this belief.  It’s this desperate attempt to control our experience that gives rise to what the old-timers call “playing God.”

So I can take it as read that I’m not God.  What, then, am I?  Zen Master Seung Sahn referred to this as Great Question.  The first time I sat down for a koan interview with his student, Zen Master Bon Haeng, he asked me, “What are you?”  It’s a no-brainer , I thought.  He’s starting me off with the easy ones.

“I’m a human being.”

He hit me with a stick.

There is nothing to grasp…

p.s. please excuse the gender bias of the old-timers. They are, after all, old-timers.

top photo: summer reflections on a pond, Pisgah State Park, Hinsdale NH


Stoplight Mystic

20171126_142929The veil seems to lift at the unlikeliest of times.

It was only a stoplight, a pause at an intersection towards the end of my morning commute, one that I’ve stopped at a dozen times this month alone… The guy in the Range Rover in front of me, who’d been driving like more or less of an asshole for several blocks, tried to beat the light then changed his mind; the car came to a lurching halt halfway across the stop line.  I could see his face reflected in the driver’s side rear-view mirror of the Range Rover.  He looked less than pleased.  In fact, he looked irate, banging his fist on the steering wheel and yelling at the windshield.  I have no idea what he was yelling, but I know that there was no one else in the car for him to yell it to, or to yell it at… he was the very picture of rage.

Perhaps it was because I was overtired from working long hours and sleeping short hours, which always leaves me a little unguarded, but as I watched the scene unfold inside the vehicle in front of mine, my heart melted into what I can only call pure compassion.  Not sadness, mind you, or pity, and certainly not the derision that I’m prone to feel toward one in the throes of a public tantrum, just a deep sense of non-judgmental empathy with this fellow human being who was experiencing whatever he happened to be experiencing in the moment.  Turning my gaze to the left, I saw a young man wearing a backpack and a baseball cap whose broad smile seemed to indicate that he really enjoyed standing at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change; whatever he was thinking about, it was good.  The tone of my emotional response to him was identical to what I felt toward the road rage case in front of me.  The same was true of my feeling toward the woman who jaywalked – or jay ran – across the opposite crosswalk; would she  stop running when she reached the sidewalk?  She didn’t.  Was she running for exercise or because she was late?  Don’t know.  Just watching the scene unfold with curiosity, with love, but without judgment or attachment.  These three characters, who I would ordinarily regard with aversion, attraction, and neutrality, respectively, were regarded with simple, unadulterated compassion.  I say “were regarded” because there wasn’t a whole lot of “I” in the equation, and there was no overwhelming need to go searching for my concept of self.

It’s easy to be here, there’s no pressure, no responsibility, only witnessing,  The weight of the subtle and insidious need to conceptualize has somehow been lifted, and the fascinating thing is that I didn’t ask for that to happen.  All I did was show up at an intersection on the heels of years of zen practice and a lifetime of moments that culminated, as they always do, in the present moment.  It’s easy to forget the role of Grace in spiritual progress; I tend to think that I’m making something happen, when, in reality, I’m just creating conditions, just preparing myself to receive a gift that may or may not come.  There’s no guarantee; nothing is owed to me.  There is no earning Grace.  It’s a gift, not a paycheck, and that becomes abundantly clear when that unmerited gift is received.

Apparently, this is the way the world looks when I’m up before my preferences are, when I’m too tired or too lazy to be bothered with pounding my experience into the pigeon holes of my preconceived notions.  This is the flavor of the universe when I drop out of my head and into my body simply because I’m not up to the task of thinking up things to think about.  Zen Master Bon Haeng once told me that “we begin to become present when we stop preferring our fantasy to reality.”  I’d add that I sometimes begin to become present when I’m a little off my game and I forget to pay attention to my fantasy.  Unfortunately, I’m generally pretty good at paying attention to my fantasy.

The interesting question is, what is it that I find so compelling about the Great Filter, about the web of likes, dislikes, and concepts that I constantly and unconsciously throw over a Reality that needs no interference from me?  It’s really a control thing, isn’t it?Perhaps the more appropriate question is, why do I fear unadulterated Reality?  What is it that’s safer about the fabrication and deception of my fantasy?  An anonymous friend of mine likes to say that when we lie, it’s because we’re protecting something.  I would offer that when we cling to our delusion we’re also protecting something, and, in this context, it seems pretty clear that I’m protecting nothing less than my ego.  What would happen if I just let go, if I shattered all of my precious pigeonholes with one great, sweeping swing of the sledgehammer of complete and unflinching Trust and gratefully accepted whatever wild and unforeseen consequences that might entail?

A little too much to glean from a minute and a half at a traffic light?  Probably.  I’ll try to get some more sleep tonight and we’ll see how things go tomorrow…


view from art installation at Frederick Church’s estate, Olana.


view of said art installation, Penetrable, by Jesus Rafael Soto, Hudson, NY

Awake Awhile…


SAM_0544Awake Awhile
It does not have to be Forever,
Right Now.
One Step upon the Sky’s soft skirt
Would be enough.

Stuck to my freezer by a souvenir magnet at eye level, this short quote serves as a reminder to do two things: to have the audacity to step up and claim the unfettered awareness that is my birthright, and to relax. Ultimately, these are both the same thing. What a relief it is to know that “it does not have to be Forever,” just “Right Now.” Ultimately, these are both the same thing. How easy it is to forget that Forever refers not to the infinite future, but to the boundless present.

It is also easy to forget that what is most helpful to for me to ask of myself is not a definitive and permanent shift in consciousness, but rather the capacity to appreciate those moments in which the filter of my perceptions, of my prejudices, fears, doubts, and insecurities, falls away for whatever reason and however briefly. It does not have to be Forever, and, more importantly, it can not be Forever. Such moments show up in the linear narrative of my life as points of reference, as proof positive that the thing which I seek is both real and attainable.

One such point of reference came into my experience several years ago as I sat a weekend retreat at Cambridge Zen Center. Meals there are taken in the Dharma Room in formal Korean temple style. At the end of the meal, retreatants rinse their bowl with tea, then drink the tea to leave a clean, empty bowl. As I drank my bowl of tea, I saw the light of a paper lantern reflected on the surface of the liquid as a car passed by on the street outside. In that instant, something fell away. Somehow, there was no separation between the taste of the tea, the sight of the lantern, and the sound of the car. Nothing existed outside of that moment, yet in contained the entire universe. It was as if I’d been walking along a precipice holding on to the railing of who I thought I was, only to let go of the railing and fall fearlessly over the edge. Two seconds… three, maybe?… until I thought, “wow, this is cool!”… and that insidious shadow of the belief that I am Someone having an Experience was tantamount to grabbing hold of that railing and hoisting myself back to the “safety” of my conditional existence as an individual, separate self. Thinking creates duality, or, as Zen Master Seung Sahn put it, “When my thinking stops and your thinking stops, our minds are the same.”

What is instructive about that meditative experience is that it happened when I wasn’t looking, so to speak, when I wasn’t trying to make anything happen. My practice consists of nothing more or less than creating conditions that allow those moments of purer awareness to occur, conditions that bring the “Sky’s soft skirt” within reach of “One Step…”

Walk of Life


Turning prayer wheels while walking the grounds of Mahabodhi Temple, Bodh Gaya, India


Over the weekend, I got a very strong dose of the “Together Action” that I feared was missing from the Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) Program at the UMass School of Medicine.  Close to 100 participants sat a day-long retreat together at the Stress Reduction Clinic.  The experience was different from any of the retreats I’ve done in the Kwan Um School of Zen.  As with Zen retreats, the retreatants all spent the day in silence, but the five women leading the retreat spoke extensively, guiding us through all of the practices that we’ve been learning over the past eight weeks: body scans, standing yoga, lying down postures, sitting meditation, and walking meditation.  My favorite of these by far was the walking meditation. I’ve tried it by myself at home, and it’s never really grabbed me.  This practice seems to come alive only in the company of other practitioners, and to engage in this activity with so many people was truly a singular experience.

Walking meditation as practiced in the context of MBSR is rather different than the traditional Zen walking that typically punctuates periods of sitting meditation on long retreats.  Here, it was presented as a much longer practice, free-form in nature, different from the in-step, single-file Zen style.  We were invited to walk at a pace that felt natural and comfortable, in a pattern or direction that suited us, and even to leave the room and walk through the lobby and adjacent spaces if we so desired.  The overall effect looked rather like a school of fish moving more or less intuitively as a unit, yet not in unison.  The motion could only be described as “organic,” and what little thinking mind I still paid attention to marveled at the fact that no one bumped into each other despite the fact that most eyes seemed to be cast downward.  This was truly Together Action: I felt not only completely in body, but completely in collective body.  I’m wondering if the prescribed ritual of Zen-style walking meditation frees the mind up to do some thinking while the body does some walking… if perhaps engaging in a more spontaneous, symbiotic experience of group walking meditation more effectively invites the synthesis of mind and body…

I had originally enrolled in the MBSR course in order to see first-hand how meditation instruction was presented in a clinical setting, detached from its association with Eastern spiritual beliefs and from the strong sense of form and ritual that is the backbone of the Korean Zen tradition.  In the past, I’ve helped to facilitate prison meditation groups in the Kwan Um style, but we had a captive audience… literally.  The inmates weren’t deterred by a little bit of chanting or by the grey robes that we wore.  Now that I’m working as an addictions counselor in an outpatient program, it’s imperative that I present mindfulness as a possible tool for the clients’ own recovery without the bias of my own spiritual leanings.  Admittedly, this feels like a betrayal of the tradition I’ve been practicing in for close to ten years.  It felt good to walk into a prison, don the robe and kasa of the Chogye Order, and lead traditional Korean chanting in a place of such confusion and suffering; but a different situation calls for different action.  True mindfulness is recognizing this and responding appropriately.

Together Action is the hallmark of sustained recovery.  As I write, I’m envisioning my clients in the outpatient program mindfully meandering about a room like a school of fish with a single intention and many bodies, and it makes me smile.  It’s a tall order, I know, but I witnessed a huge group of people from all walks of life doing exactly that last weekend, so stranger things have happened…


Footprints of the Buddha, Mahabodhi Temple

Ever Mindful


Detail of the Birth of Siddhartha, mural at Korean Monastery, Lumbini, Nepal


“I haven’t seen you in a while, ” said Zen Master Bon Haeng as I sat down for a koan interview at the zen center the other night.

It was true.  I haven’t been sitting with the Open Meadow sangha since I enrolled in a Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction course at the University of Massachusetts School of Medicine, about half an hour away from my home.

“Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction, huh?  Jon Kabat-Zinn started that.”

This was also true.  Kabat-Zinn began the Stress Reduction Program at the UMass medical school  in 1979 based on the premise that meditation could be an effective tool to help patients manage chronic pain.  A meditator and student of Buddhism for several years at that point, Kabat-Zinn understood that human beings create much of their own suffering.  He had a hunch that by allowing people to become aware of their response to pain moment to moment, they would have an opportunity to change their relationship to their experience.  Decades of research have confirmed that hunch.

“He used to practice here, didn’t he?” I asked the zen master, referring to Jon Kabat-Zinn and the Kwan Um School of Zen, respectively.

“Yes, ” he replied, continuing our streak of saying true things to each other.  He then went on to recall how he and Kabat-Zinn, or “Jonny,” as he referred to him, were students of Zen Master Seung Sahn in the early Seventies, along with another youngster named Larry Rosenberg.  As Bon Haeng explained it, Jonny and Larry had traveled to Asia and decided that “zen was dead there.”  They returned disillusioned, determined that a new, “American zen” needed to evolve from the teachings that had migrated from the East with traditional teachers like Zen Master Seung Sahn.  While they respected his teaching, they no longer saw the point of practicing the rigid, formal, and very foreign forms and rituals that he had brought with him from Korea in 1972.

When they approached Zen Master Seung Sahn with their desire to strike out on their own, he responded that once they had finished their training with him, they were free to do as they wished; to leave before their training was complete, however, would be irresponsible.  The Dharma they passed on to their own students could be misguided, perverted, or, at the very least, incomplete.  They parted ways with Zen Master Seung Sahn anyway, and the trails they blazed have profoundly impacted the spiritual landscape of America for the past 40 years.  Larry Rosenberg joined with Joseph Goldstein, Sharon Salzberg, and Jack Kornfield to found the Insight Meditation Society, and Jon Kabat-Zinn took the practice of mindfulness out of meditation halls and into the mainstream institutions of America.

It’s mindboggling how much a part of the popular consciousness the practice of mindfulness has become, but what is lost when we separate the practice from the Dharma?  Three things, according to Zen Master Bon Haeng: the concept of No Self, the idea of Impermanence, and what Zen Master Seung Sahn called Together Action.  Practicing only for ourselves, both Zen Masters insist, is incomplete practice…

Together Action


school children in Kushinagar, India

Last weekend, I attended a workshop on practice forms at the Cambridge Zen Center.  It struck me as an unfortunate waste of time on such an unseasonably warm, spring-like February day; I’d rather have been outside enjoying the weather or inside the Zen Center doing actual practice rather than simply talking about it… Somehow, though, knowing that it’s important to both learn and teach the myriad rules and customs that govern our formal practice, I put my preferences aside and sat in the dharma room as the forms were described and demonstrated one by one.

The forms that govern formal practice in the Kwan Um School of Zen were brought to the United States by Zen Master Seung Sahn in 1972, having been adapted from the temple rituals of the Chogye Monastic Order of Korea.  They’ve since been codified as the Dharma Mirror, which serves as the practice manual for the entire Kwan Um School.  It’s edited and updated periodically, and is currently being overhauled by a teacher in the school, and this workshop, which included at least one Zen Master, was a way for that teacher to get some input and get us all on the same page before it goes to press.  In this sense, the Dharma Mirror is sort of a living document, open to amendment and interpretation as time, geography and culture might dictate.

As heartening as it is to be part of this tradition, it’s still tough to sit through extended discussion on such minutia as whether candles should be lit from left or right or from right to left when opening the altar (it’s right to left, I think… our right, not the Buddha’s), whether an offertory bowl of water should be open or closed during special chanting verses normal chanting, and what to do with our feet during full prostrations (the left foot should be crossed over the right; in Korea, it’s considered an insult to show the soles of your feet to another person, so I guess it’s the best we can do to at least cover up one).  As soon as I found myself wondering “what the hell’s the difference?” I knew that this question was at the heart of my practice in that particular moment.  The practice forms themselves aren’t as important as my relationship to them.

Somewhat limited in his English ability when he arrived here, Zen Master Seung Sahn’s slogan was “Just Do It” long before some ad man spun it into gold for Nike.  He gave this brutally simple, straight-to-the-point instruction to his students not only because his linguistic disadvantage precluded more extensive explanations, but because he immensely valued practice, or action, over speech and concepts.  There are always reasons and rationalizations for the things that we do in practice, but it’s all pretty much just ego food.  The real point is to do what Seung Sahn called “together action” with others, free of individual preferences and opinions.

Zen Master Seung Sahn was often asked by students why we chant in Korean if we have no idea what the words mean… He’d answer that the meaning is irrelevant, but the spirit of the chanting is extremely relevant.  We can chant “Coca Cola, Coca Cola” as long as we do it wholeheartedly and with a clear mind, without like or dislike, and without attachment.  He famously said, “When your thinking stops and my thinking stops, our minds are the same.”  This is the point of chanting, and the point of all our practice: together action to attain One Mind.

As I was sitting a week-long retreat at Providence Zen Center a few years ago, I was struck by the realization that the practice forms and rituals of our school are like a vessel that contains the teachings, in much the same way that the Twelve Traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous create the framework that recovery takes place within.  Like the Twelve Traditions, however, the practice forms not only contain the teachings, they are the teachings.  Through these simple, deliberate, together actions, we have the opportunity to get our minds out of the way and let our hearts do what they were born to do…