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Introduction

Good morning, and I had a little bit of technical difficulty. Please let me know if you can hear me fine; I'd appreciate something in the chat. Okay, wonderful. Let me get all set up.

I'll take a moment just to appreciate who's here right now. I started a little bit late, so I didn't get a chance to get a sense of all of you, but gosh, there are a lot of old friends and new friends. It's wonderful.

I'll go ahead and get started. The topic this week is the art of being nobody and somebody. I want to start with a very short Zen story before we go into the guided meditation.

A student asked her teacher, "What is Zen?" The teacher replied, "When hungry, eat. When tired, sleep." The student said, "But everyone does that." The teacher said, "No, when most people eat, they're thinking about a thousand things. When they sleep, they're dreaming a thousand dreams."

Sometimes when we meditate, we're also thinking about a thousand things. The teacher didn't say that, but in Zen, when hungry, eat; when tired, sleep. So, let's begin the sitting.

Guided Meditation: Nothing Extra

Taking an alert and relaxed posture. Allowing the eyes to gently close. Letting the body be supported by the chair, the cushion, or the floor. Just the hands resting easily. And beginning simply by arriving here in this body.

Just noticing the experience of being here. Putting aside any cares or concerns that might be lingering. Leaving later for later. And taking a few deep breaths. With each exhale, you might settle into your body a little bit more, relaxing a little more deeply.

And when you're ready, allowing the breath to return to normal. And taking a little time to get a global sense of your body. You might allow the attention to meander freely throughout the body. Relaxing any obvious tensions. You might notice sensations of pressure, of touch, of warmth, of movement. Just noticing. Allowing things to be as they are. Releasing anything you're holding.

And you might begin to notice the movements of the breath. Perhaps the movement in the chest, the belly, the rib cage, the throat, or the air coming in and out of the nostrils. However the breath is for you.

And allowing the attention to settle, to rest, wherever it feels most at ease. What feels easy to connect with. There's no right way. Just settling into the rhythm of the breath. However it is. Just resting in this body and this breath.

There's nothing to manage. Nothing to figure out. Sounds may come and go. Thoughts may come and go. Sensations changing moment by moment. Simply allowing experience to unfold.

Simply noticing what arises and passes away. The movements of the mind. You might notice the mind liking certain experiences: quiet, clarity, comfort. And maybe disliking other ones: restlessness, discomfort, confusion. You might notice these movements gently. Notice if there's any leaning towards what we like, any pulling away from the unpleasant. And see it all arise and pass away.

Maybe a memory appears. An image of yourself. A plan for later. A moment of comparison. A moment of concern. Just noticing how the mind creates worlds very quickly. Also notice how easily these worlds can fade. Like waking up from a dream. And just returning again to the simplicity of breathing, of this body, of sitting here.

Nothing extra is needed. Just living experience unfolding. Breathing. Hearing. Sensing. Thoughts appearing and disappearing. Nothing extra. Nothing is missing. Just this. This sound. This breath. This moment. Whatever shows up belongs. Nothing special. Mindfulness has room for everything.

And as we begin to come towards the end of the meditation, I take a few moments to again feel the body globally here, now. Allowing the attention to meander throughout the body. Sensing. Feeling.

Now you might take a few deeper breaths. Always helpful to take a little time as we come out of meditation, just like we do when we begin. Each breath filling the body. Relaxing. Feeling the vitality in your system. And when I ring the bell, gently, and when you're ready, opening your eyes.

Dharmette: Being Somebody & Nobody (1 of 5): The Action of Selfing

Thank you for sharing this wonderful sitting together. This week, I'd like to explore the interplay of self and not-self. One way to understand Buddhist practice is not that we're trying to get rid of the self, but that we're learning to understand the activity of selfing.

It's easy to think of the self as a thing, a solid entity, someone fixed inside here. But when we look carefully, we notice that the self that's doing the taxes is very different than the self that's playing with the dog. The four-year-old who's throwing a tantrum because their toy was taken away is quite different than the self giving a Dharma talk right now.

The Buddha often steered people away from rigid views about whether there's a permanent self or not a self. He called any of these metaphysical positions about what a self is, or what a soul is, a "thicket of views," a "bramble of views." Instead, he invited us into direct observation: What's happening right now? What's the mind doing? What leads to contraction, to suffering? What leads to freedom?

One of the things that we begin to notice is that the mind is constantly organizing our experience around me, mine, for me, and against me. It can be very helpful to think of self not as a noun, but as a verb. Not self as a thing, but selfing as an activity, a process, a strategy, something the mind does.

For instance, we compare ourselves to others. We might notice that somebody's taller than we are. That's just a natural thing we notice; we're observant human beings. Those of you who sit with Gil Fronsdal^[1] in the mornings might know he's 6'2", and I'm 5'6"—it's a noticeable difference when we're standing. But that difference doesn't require me to be somebody. It's just noticing a difference. It doesn't require me to say, "Oh no, he's so much taller than me. It's so much better to be taller. He can reach top shelves. People who are taller have more authority." All these ideas can create a self that wants to be somebody. But in the moment, it's just, "Oh, he's taller. I'm shorter."

Or maybe when we replay an argument or imagine what we should have said, we completely believe the self that has to justify our argument. Or when praise arises—"Boy, that Dharma talk was great"—do we inflate a little? Or criticism arrives—"That was the worst Dharma talk I ever heard"—we contract. It becomes my opinion, my meditation, my success, my failure, my reputation. We have all these ways that we create these false senses of self. And that process is easy, it's helpful to call it selfing. It's something we actively do with our minds.

This process of selfing is not inherently bad. A functional self helps us keep our appointments. If you're a parent, you're the one caring for the children. You're the one who might remember to brush your teeth, not somebody else's teeth, and respond when someone calls your name. The Buddha was not encouraging us to erase a conventional personality or healthy functioning. But he invited us to notice how easy it is for this useful self, this wonderful self, to become the clinging self. How easily self-awareness becomes self-absorption: my pain, my discomfort, my poor concentration. Or how careful attention can quickly become painful self-consciousness: "What do they think of me?" Just like that.

Often, suffering doesn't come from the experience itself as much as from the self that forms around it. A painful comment hurts, but then we add to it, "How could they say that to me?" Or a success becomes, "I need to keep being that person." As you might have noticed in meditation, "My practice is going well, this is great. I'm really doing good. Why can't I meditate like other people?" It's so easy to turn paying attention into this sense of selfing. There are two parts: the experience, and the interpretation of that experience—the way we relate to it. Do we make a self around it?

There's a story I know some of you have heard me tell before, but it had an effect on me, so I'll share it. Early in my practice, my husband and I had been discussing attachment all week. We'd listened to some talks, and I was considering giving up coffee, but I hadn't decided yet. It was a big deal for me to give up coffee; I thought it might be better for my health at the time.

The next morning, I was happily about to take my first sip of coffee. It was a beautiful morning, the sun was out, everything was quiet and crisp. I was taking that sip, and suddenly my husband grabbed the mug out of my hand and said, "You can't have this."

Instantly all three defilements^[2] appeared: wanting, aversion, and delusion. Because at that moment I really believed he meant it, I was angry. But then I saw the grin on his face. It was his way of continuing our conversation about attachment. It just struck me how quickly the mind went from enjoying the coffee to my coffee. One moment, it was a simple pleasant experience. The next, the mind crystallized ownership around it. And once the self forms around something, defensiveness, fear, and protectiveness can follow very quickly.

But then I was able to see that clinging so clearly that it just made me laugh. Humor is an important part of this path. So much suffering comes from taking this constructed self so seriously. At our retreat center, we have a little picture of the Buddha with a quote by Suzuki Roshi^[3]: "What we're doing here is so important. We better not take it too seriously."

And just so you know, I'm enjoying a sip of my coffee, which I didn't give up. [Laughter]

Mindfulness allows us to begin to see selfing happen in real time. Not as an idea, but as a direct experience. We can easily notice when we're defending ourselves, defending our idea, or when we're comparing, rehearsing, wanting to become something, wanting to get rid of something, or wanting to change something about us. The mind continuously tends to organize experience around a central point called 'me.'

When we see this clearly, something important begins to happen: we stop taking every self-state so personally. Instead of "I'm anxious," there can simply be, "Oh, this is anxiety." That small shift changes everything. "I am anxious" easily hardens into an identity, something we have to do something about. "What's wrong with me? I shouldn't be this way. I'll always be like this." But "anxiety is here" leaves room for kindness, curiosity, and compassion. "Ah, anxiety. It's uncomfortable, it's painful." And that alone changes the experience from being anxious to being compassionate.

Mindfulness does not need to judge what arises. It simply learns to discern what leads to suffering and what leads away from it. If you step on a splinter, the splinter isn't wrong for existing, but discernment says pull it out. If our shoulders hurt and are tense, we simply notice tension is here and perhaps encourage relaxation. But judgment adds, "I'm always tense. I should be better at this."

Discernment is simple and practical. Judgment always carries a sense of hostility and identity. But it's really a challenging thing to begin to ease up on our sense of identity, our sense of self this way.

Ajahn Brahm^[4] tells a story about what happened to him as a young monk building a wall. After finishing it, he noticed he had two crooked bricks in the middle. Just two. But every time he looked at that wall, he saw failure and embarrassment. This went on for years. He would walk by the wall and try not to see it.

Some years later, a visitor looked at the wall and said, "Wow, what a beautiful wall." Ajahn Brahm said, "But what about the two bad bricks right there?" The visitor said, "Yeah, but I can also see the 998 good bricks."

Ajahn Brahm realized that the mind had constructed an entire identity around two imperfect bricks.

Maybe this process is familiar to some of you. The mind selectively gathers evidence to reinforce our self-image. That's why kindness matters so much in practice. Any harshness toward ourselves strengthens selfing, whereas kindness and compassion soften it.

Mindfulness can reveal that selfing is not continuous. There are times—perhaps listening to music, sitting in nature, caring for someone else, or meditating—where the usual preoccupation with self might soften. It might disappear. Experience can continue, but the layer of "What does this mean about me?" begins to relax. With no need to defend, no need to prove or compare. Just simple presence. And often those moments can feel deeply peaceful. Not because we destroyed the self, but because the burden of constantly constructing ourselves relaxes for a while.

So, the practice isn't "How do I get rid of myself?" but rather, "Can I notice selfing with kindness? Can I recognize when the mind contracts into me and mine? Can I use the functional self wisely without becoming trapped by it?"

The process of awakening is not the destruction of the sense of self, but freedom from being trapped inside the activity of selfing. We can still be human, caring, and functioning, without contracting around me and mine. With a little more freedom, more humor, more tenderness, and ease.

I'd like to end with a quote by Dōgen^[5], the 13th-century Zen master:

"To study the Buddha way is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be enlightened by all things."

So, thank you. Tomorrow I'll continue exploring this theme. May all of you have a wonderful day without clinging to yourselves too much. May you all be happy, peaceful, and free.