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Practicing with Imperfections

Hello. Today I want to talk about perfection and imperfection in relationship to this practice that we do. One of the takeaways I hope you take with you is a little slogan: it's better to be righted than it is to be right.

This is a nautical reference. When a strong tempest or wind comes and pushes a sailboat over toward the side, it can tip quite far. But because the keel is quite heavy, the more the boat gets tipped, the more the keel counters the force of the wind or the waves. The keel rights the boat, and the boat comes back to standing. A righted boat is one where the mast is vertical again. Sailboats are tossed around in the sea, but they're constantly being righted, and therefore they usually don't capsize.

This wonderful expression, "to be righted," means to come back into balance, to come back and to be upright. So the slogan is: it's better to be righted than to be right. Being "right" means that you know you are right with your opinions, you're right with what you do, you are justified, and you defend yourself. You have an opinion that you feel is the true opinion, and everyone else should know it, or you're going to defend it at all costs. Ideas come and go. But being righted has to do with your disposition—how you actually are, as opposed to what you believe and what you think.

The practice is to help right us. Practice provides a keel, a ballast that can help keep us coming back up. We will get tossed around by the waves of life all the time, but if we have a keel, we will become righted. That's partly the function of mindfulness. Just the clarity of knowing what's happening begins that movement to be righted, to come back up straight.

The Shadow Side of Perfection

The theme of perfection and imperfection is that the Buddhist tradition—if you listen to teachers and read the ancient texts—lends itself to a shadow side regarding this idea of perfection. There is this idea that you are trying to attain something perfectly.

I think it's most represented by the idea that someone is "fully enlightened." The Buddha was said to be perfectly enlightened. If someone gets fully enlightened, they have overcome all suffering. There is no room for suffering; they are perfectly free of it. They have perfectly freed themselves from all their defilements and attachments.

Well short of this kind of perfection is the idea that there are perfect meditation experiences. For mindfulness practitioners, you can supposedly be completely in the present moment without the mind wavering whatsoever—perfectly present. Or, for people who do concentration practice, you can enter into a deep state of concentration where the mind does not get distracted, and you can be perfectly there.

I believe it is possible to attain all these things, but it sets up a big shadow side, or downside, where people measure themselves against a perfect standard. They think, "I'm supposed to be perfect. I'm supposed to manage and not have any problems. I'm not supposed to waver, I'm not supposed to be distracted, and I'm not supposed to have any attachment." Heaven forbid that I come to a Buddhist center and show anger, because that's not being kind.

The shadow side of Buddhist organizations like ours is that people sometimes hold their anger in check because they are supposed to be kind. People don't admit that they're angry, or they hold it back. We have this imperfect side that we deny, hide, and push away because we're trying to hold ourselves up perfectly.

When I was a Zen student, there was this idea that there was some way of being—an "it" that was never defined. If you knew "it," then everything was good. Some people knew it, and some people didn't. I never knew it. There was this strange mythic thing held in the community, and I don't know how many people—even the teachers—understood how much people were measuring themselves against this undefined ideal.

Some people have felt the same thing with the Vipassana^[1] tradition that we're in. There is this mythic idea of Nirvana, this great attainment, but they don't quite understand what it is. They think, "I don't have it, so I'm not really up to snuff. Somehow I'm lesser than."

When there's an ideal of perfection, there's also a projection of perfection onto others. We think, "Certainly that person, that teacher, that practitioner must have it all together. That's the perfect example of how it's supposed to be." And yeah, that teacher picks his nose, but mostly it's pretty good. [Laughter]

This whole perfection thing can be a headache and a problem, but it can also be inspiring. Some people are motivated by it as a kind of North Star: "This is possible, and this is the direction I'm going."

It's part and parcel of this Buddhist tradition that we're a part of. In the centuries after the Buddha lived, his perfection kept growing. If you read the historical literature produced in ancient India, you see how he began more or less as a human being, and slowly became something closer to a deified, perfect being with greater and greater powers.

Part of my interpretation of this is that in the culture of ancient India, it was required that no one could be second best to a spiritual founder. If another teacher had an ability greater than the Buddha's, then the Buddha wasn't so great. Whenever there was a new person in town who had a special ability, the Buddhist texts would describe how the Buddha was even better. This grandiosity grew until he would visit heavens and fly through the air.

My favorite little story, from a thousand years after the Buddha, is written in a famous text called the Path of Purification^[2]. Ancient texts talk about the Buddha going into the river to bathe. This presented a big problem, because a Buddha, by his very nature, never gets dirty. So why was the Buddha bathing? They explained it by saying, "Well, it's just for the sake of other people, to help them understand that it's useful to bathe." The Buddha wasn't even allowed to be human, walking around in the dusty Indian hot season getting dirty.

Celebrating Imperfection

On the other end of the spectrum, we have imperfection. Which is us. Well, a few of us—I don't want to speak for all of you!

There's a famous story of Suzuki Roshi, the founder of the San Francisco Zen Center. He talked to his students and said, "When I look upon you, I see all of you as perfect, but there's room for improvement." That was a very generous way of looking at people.

We have ways in which we're wounded psychologically in our hearts. We have attachments, fears, and desires that catch us. We're caught in resentments, and our minds function in many diverse ways. Now we call some people neurodiverse, rather than saying they have an illness or deficiency. We recognize that people have different ways of operating. This is much more generous than how it used to be. I saw this wonderfully in my kids' elementary school classes. I got to see all these diverse kids in a way I'd never seen human beings before. They stood out in their differences, sensitivities, and uniqueness. Luckily, in that school, they all had a place and were well cared for. When I was growing up, they would have been sent to detention or expelled.

Rather than seeing people as imperfect, now we see there are many different ways of being a human being. Maybe you're more perfect than you realize. Maybe you're unique in how things operate for you. Rather than thinking of yourself as imperfect against an external standard, you just get to be yourself. Wouldn't that be nice?

Still, we have shortcomings. That was my favorite word when I was a new practitioner: "I have these shortcomings." One of the challenges for me as a Zen student was that the practice was presented as radical acceptance of the moment, without trying to attain any goal except to just be here. In some ways it was a wonderful practice. At the same time, I saw I had these shortcomings.

At some point, I became the gardener of the monastery. As a gardener, I would pull out weeds so that other things could grow. I thought, "Wait a minute. If I do this for the garden, isn't it natural to do that for my mind as well? Don't I have weeds in my mind, and isn't it natural to take those weeds out?" I struggled because the teaching seemed to not make room for that. Eventually, I came to the understanding that removing weeds in the mind was fine. For me, the primary issue was anger. I wondered, "Do I just let it simmer, or do I find a way to practice with it?"

I came to appreciate that I had a lot of shortcomings. Every time I noticed one, I would be happy—not because I had it, but because I had a practice to meet it. This was the compost, the fertilizer for the practice. If I had been perfect, I wouldn't have had any fertilizer. I learned to take refuge in the practice. Sometimes my fears and attachments were difficult, but I knew I had a practice, and I trusted it.

Many people hide their shortcomings, even from themselves, because they feel they aren't living up to some ideal. But it's okay to have a shortcoming if you practice with it.

Many years ago, we had a meeting here of the most senior Zen teachers in the San Francisco area. Some of them had been practicing for forty years. When asked, "What are your challenges these days?" they went around the circle and listed ordinary challenges that beginning meditators have—fear, nervousness, anxiety. What was remarkable was that they were completely at ease and relaxed about having their shortcomings. It was clear they were sincere in trying their best, but they would just smile and say, "Oh, you know, when I give Dharma talks, I get so anxious."

Awful and Excellent People

Part of the inspiration for this talk was a sutta^[3] discourse where the Buddha distinguishes two kinds of people: awful people and excellent people. Exactly how these two Pali^[4] words are supposed to be translated is controversial. "Awful" and "excellent" are closer to the literal meaning.

You might think that the people who have a blemish are the awful people, and those with no blemish are the excellent people. But that's not what the Buddha says. He says the people who have a blemish and don't know it are the awful people. The people who have a blemish and know they have it are the excellent people.

Clearly, the ideal is not to be free of a blemish, but rather to know how you are. That's what is excellent. Here, you are allowed by the Buddha to have a blemish, because if you know it, you can practice. If you don't have a blemish and don't know it, you can easily slip into delusion again. But if you know you don't have a blemish, you can appreciate that state and grow in it.

I am delighted by this idea of knowing that you have blemishes and imperfections. At the center of American culture is baseball—a sport that mostly involves failure. A player who fails two-thirds of the time at bat is considered excellent. They are mostly failing, but they just come up to bat again and again. With our blemishes, maybe we don't have to take them so seriously if we engage with them.

One of the ways to practice is to know that our shortcomings are present. That knowing is mindfulness. That knowing is how the ship rights itself. The clarity of knowing means we're not participating in the shortcoming. If we say, "Oh wow, there's anger here right now," that's very different from ruminating about all the reasons you're angry and planning revenge. Stepping back and saying, "Oh, this is anger," makes space for something else to operate. It rights the ship.

As soon as you say, "I'm a bad person because I'm angry," we pile wind upon the sails and push the boat over. We add second or third arrows, adding more suffering. The way to not add suffering is to appreciate the simplicity of knowing. Just be mindful: "Oh, this is how it is." Let me feel it. Let me name it. This self-honesty allows us to hold our challenges with kindness rather than resentment. "This is a part of me, but it's not who I am. I'm not going to be held hostage by it."

Naming Our Shortcomings

Oftentimes, a shortcoming becomes a bigger deal than it actually is because we judge ourselves. Instead, just smile and say, "Hey, today I have a shortcoming. Isn't that great?"

[Laughter]

Someone asks you, "Why are you smiling a lot today?" "Because I'm so anxious!" "You're anxious and you're smiling?" "Yes, because I know I'm anxious and I have this practice."

It is a shift of perspective in how we hold ourselves. The practice of mindfulness is so valuable, even when we do it imperfectly. We used to go skiing when I was a kid. My father would joke, "Well, I almost fell today on the ski slopes." Of course, he fell! But it was like, "Oh, you almost had a shortcoming."

You might consider what nice word you have for your own oddities. I used to call them shortcomings. What do you want to call it that is kinder and more supportive than a "fault" or a "problem"?

"Mistakes." Mistakes, okay. Call it a mistake rather than calling it wrong. "Idiosyncrasies." You have some of those! What other good words are there? "Delusion." Some people like that, great. "My way." Yes. "Habits." My habits.

[Laughter]

"Wabi-sabi." "Eccentricities." All of the above! This is life, the full catastrophe.

It's a wonderful thing to have a practice. It allows us to have a whole different perspective. Life itself is a challenge, with tragedies, losses, and aging. It's not a mistake; it's how we're built. We meet everything with practice. Taking refuge in the practice means finding your freedom in the midst of everything. If you have that kind of refuge, there's no need to complain, because you can just practice with it.

May you take refuge in the practice. If that's too high a bar, take refuge in your sincere effort. Your practice might not be perfect, but your sincerity can be. Sincerely do your best.

Thank you, everyone. If you'd like, we can go out to the parking lot to have a little discussion. Bring a folding chair, and we'll make a circle in a few minutes. I look forward to being with any of you who want to start the day like this. Thank you.