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Guided Meditation: Aimless Love

Good morning, welcome all of you from all these places. Wherever you are, I'm at Green Gulch Farm in Marin County, California. I want to welcome you, however, to the Insight Meditation Center, where I am a guest of your teacher Gil Fronsdal, my good Dharma friend. I'm Fu Schroeder, and Gil, myself, and another good friend Paul Haller have been enjoying three weeks of an intensive called the Harmony of Zen and Vipassana.

During this first half hour, I'm going to offer a brief meditation instruction for about 20 minutes, just silent sitting, which is a kind of hallmark of Soto Zen. Then I'm going to talk a bit about the Buddha's teaching of right conduct, which is the primary focus of our conversation during this week. The first week of our intensive, Gil, Paul, and I discussed meditation, jhāna^[1], and pāramitā^[2]. Last week, the Buddhist wisdom teachings. And tomorrow, the last day of our intensive, we are going to talk a little more about the inconceivable vow to save all beings from suffering.

The pāramitās in the Mahayana tradition are seen as the basis for training for those who seek to realize the full, complete, perfect enlightenment of a Buddha: anuttarā-samyak-saṃbodhi^[3].

So when you all feel ready, please settle yourselves into a comfortable seated position while I give a few reminders about how to best care for your body as you do so.

Begin by bringing your attention to your ankles and your knees, your thighs and your hips, in order to create a stable base to support your upper body. As you begin to settle into a comfortable position, explore whatever might be blocking you from a restful and yet energetic, upright posture. And if you're able, then let whatever it is go.

Sitting practice is the mainstay of both Zen and Vipassana traditions. When we sit, we are making the same shape with our bodies that the young prince made with his. The shoulders are relaxed, the spine is elongated upward toward the top of the head. The back of the head is in alignment with the base of the spine. In the Zen tradition, we keep our eyes open with our gaze downward, allowing the breath to flow naturally from deep in our belly, out through the nose, and then back in again.

It helps to begin with a couple of very deep breaths through the mouth, taking in as much air as you can, kind of exaggerating the inhalation, filling your chest and your abdomen like a bellows, and then exhaling again with some energy, letting all that air go. Do that a couple of times, and then after that, just go back to breathing naturally through your nose.

One simple instruction—it's quite basic and I think common to all Buddhist traditions—is the practice of counting your breathing from one to ten. If you choose to do so, you're welcome to try. I usually begin counting from the impulse to inhale, which I find in my abdomen. That kind of mysterious impulse to take a breath on the inhalation is a one. Exhaling, and then inhaling again is two. Exhaling, and so on to ten if you can. It's not so easy, actually. As it turns out, we often go off course from counting and find ourselves in the past or in our plans for tomorrow. So when you do, when you see that, come back to your breathing. Back to one.

When we take this posture like the Buddha-to-be, we are opening ourselves to the silence and the stillness that is at the core of our human life, to a world of deep connection and mutual support. The earth upholding our weight, the sky upholding our breath, and the land and the water upholding the animals and the plants that we depend on to survive.

As we enter ever more deeply into the roots of that connection, the living roots of an unbroken line through time and space, we find ourselves right here. Where this exact moment, this exact breath, becomes this exact wish to let go completely of every loss, every pain, and everything other than this. Just this. This is a gift that has been given to you, to me, to each of us alone. We didn't earn it, we can't pay for it, and we can't make it ourselves. It's given to us, and all we need to do is say thank you.

Here is a poem for this occasion by Billy Collins, from a book called The Poetry of Impermanence, Mindfulness, and Joy. This poem is called Aimless Love:

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor's window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door—
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening showers,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor—
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water,
or for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

(Silent Meditation)

The Inconceivable Vow

[Applause]

I was having a little trouble unmuting myself right then, so I'm sorry if you were wondering what I was doing. I've gathered a few thoughts to share with you for the next few minutes.

These last three days, I've been talking about some practices that have been given to us by the Buddha in support of an ethical life. In the Buddhist tradition, a person who is devoted to the welfare of others is called a bodhisattva, or an awakening being. As I've been mentioning to those of you who've been joining for the last few days, the guidance system for an awakening being is called the sixteen bodhisattva precepts. Among the sixteen precepts, the first three are the refuges: I take refuge in Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha. The next three are called the pure precepts, and those are basically a summary of the whole thing, of all sixteen. The pure precepts are: do good, avoid evil or unwholesome conduct, and purify the mind.

That's what I'm going to talk about this morning, beginning with a story about a Zen master by the name of Bird's Nest Roshi^[4]. Bird's Nest Roshi, as he came to be called, was famous for sitting meditation high up in a tree. When a monk came to visit, he called up to the teacher and asked, "What is the secret of Buddhist practice?" The roshi replied, "Do good, avoid evil, and purify the mind." The monk then said, "Well, that's easy. Even a three-year-old child can understand that." To which Bird's Nest replied, "A child of three may understand it, but a person of eighty years may not be able to practice it."

Many years ago, I took a number of Zen students with me on a field trip to the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco. As we entered into the beautiful collection of Chinese Buddhist art, I saw this wonderful trio of standing figures. In the center was Shakyamuni Buddha. On one side of him was Ananda, known as the guardian of the Dharma. On the other side was Mahakashyapa, known as the foremost in ascetic practices. Later on, I was reflecting on these standing figures, and I thought that together they very nicely represent the three pure precepts: Mahakashyapa avoiding evil or unwholesome conduct, Ananda doing good, and Shakyamuni Buddha purifying the mind. And then, as a trio, saving all beings from suffering.

This first pure precept, avoiding evil, often connected to the idea of asceticism, basically refers to a wise and at times severe restraint regarding the actions of our body, of our speech, and of our minds. Asceticism basically supports us in not getting carried away by the extremes of what the Dalai Lama calls the three pathological emotions. The pathology of attachment, or greed: I have got to have it. The pathology of revulsion, or hatred: I have got to get rid of it. Both of which are grounded in the pathology of delusion about the true nature of reality.

In his very first sermon, the Buddha mentions the extremes of asceticism, many of them familiar to us because of the practices that the Buddha himself, as a young prince, had undertaken in his initial quest for freedom from suffering. He nearly starved himself to death. He lived outside without shelter, he didn't bathe, he held his breath so long that he got a terrible headache, and he engaged in long hours of meditative trance. And yet it was through such severe practices that Siddhartha came to realize what he called the Middle Way, a path between extremes of asceticism on one hand and indulgence in sensory pleasure on the other, such as the childhood that he had spent in the palace.

Because of that insight—what is called his darshana^[5]—the Buddha declared in his first sermon that the Middle Way, avoiding the extremes, is the most beneficial path for the development of a truly mature human being. A being who is awakened moment after moment by this very life, a life that is filled with mysteries, with wonder, and of service to others. And yet asceticism, as represented by Mahakashyapa, has remained an important part of the Buddhist training program, as it does here at Zen Center.

But the question is: to what degree, and to what end? It's always a good question for us, and it's been a question throughout the history of not only Buddhism but I would say of all other religious traditions as well. How far do we humans need to go? And more importantly perhaps, go where? The song asks Fayan, "Where are you going?" Fayan said, "Around on pilgrimage." Dizang said, "What is the purpose of pilgrimage?" Fayan said, "I don't know." Dizang said, "Not knowing is nearest."^[6]

For those who go too far, there's Ananda standing on the other side of the Buddha. Ananda was the Buddha's cousin and lifelong attendant, whose name means joy or bliss. He is characterized in the earliest teachings as kind, unselfish, thoughtful towards others, and also as very popular. Ananda enjoyed playing with children and spending time with women. He was also portrayed as a large-bodied person, unlike Mahakashyapa who was as thin as a rail. Ananda, for the most part, was a happy man. He too is a perfect model for a spiritually satisfying life, and the second pure precept as well: doing all good.

Ananda also became famous for beseeching the Buddha to allow women, such as his aunt, his mother, and his sisters, to enter and train in the sangha as fully ordained nuns—albeit with a few extra regulations to contend with, which they still contend with to this very day. Following the Buddha's death, Ananda was severely criticized by his new teacher, Mahakashyapa, not only for speaking on behalf of women but for a great number of other things relating to play.

For me, these two—Mahakashyapa representing asceticism and Ananda representing pleasure—are simply the guardrails on the path to awakening. Each one personifies the extremes by which we navigate the Middle Way. First we slide too far to one side, and then we slide too far back the other way, and so it goes. This reminds us once again that our practice is not a thing, it's a process. It's a living process, a ten-thousand-mile long iron road down which we sometimes move merrily along, and sometimes not, as the case may be.

In the Zen tradition, Mahakashyapa's transmission as Dharma successor to the Buddha is said to have occurred when the Buddha held up a white flower and twirled it in his hand. The other disciples looked on without knowing how to react, but Mahakashyapa smiled faintly, and that was it. The Dharma flower turns the Dharma flower.

I've always thought it was interesting that the Buddha, according to Zen, would pick Mahakashyapa as the first ancestor and Ananda as the second. Then as I thought about it, it occurred to me that it really is an important sequence for each of us to follow, and to understand why that's so. In my view, the first thing that we do as practitioners is to commit to a period of ascetic discipline. The first pure precept: avoiding evil, unwholesome actions, in order to remove the habit body so deeply ingrained in us through a realization of selflessness (Vipassana).

Then, the second pure precept: doing good, becoming free from selfishness, and seeing the beauty and the joy that runs through all things. Therein lies a natural wish to show that same beauty and joy to others, a wish to benefit them and the entire world. So then there's the third pure precept, by which we transform the body and the mind to whatever is needed for the welfare of all beings. Like Guan Yin^[7] with her thousands of hands and arms.

Unfortunately, our usual habit as humans is to try and capture that joy that runs through all things. We try to grasp it and possess it, and thereby we lose touch with its transient nature. We lose touch with the transiency of seasons, of hours, and of moments, without which there would be only absolute silence.

As you all have heard many times, the cause of human suffering is this futile effort of the illusory self to capture illusory things. The pursuit of the transient by the transient is the very core of human suffering. It's basically a kind of madness, and so we must practice together in order to reveal in fine detail the depth and the breadth of our insanity, and then we must stop.

Suzuki Roshi once said that practicing together is like putting unpolished stones into a tumbler. As they knock around hitting each other, their rough edges get knocked off. This is a very courageous thing to do, a very courageous service that we offer to one another, as we must. This is because none of us here at the Zen Center, or anywhere else for that matter, is lacking the emotional and psychological conditioning for becoming excessively angry, lustful, or confused. As my therapist often said to me when, as a Zen student, I would complain of some kind of personal upset: "Human first."

For this reason, human first, I do believe that all of us have come to this practice in order to face the facts of our ancient conditioning which leads us to enact our pathological emotions. We have come to consider how we might alter the outcome of our habitual response towards self-defense, self-righteousness, and worst of all, self-loathing.

So this is the third pure precept, to purify the mind, meaning, as one of my teachers once said, to save all the beings that you are. The precepts are a way of learning the truth about ourself and about our relationship to the world and to other people. Which is basically and ultimately that there is no self and there are no other people. Just as the Buddha saw on the morning of his awakening. He saw a world that was not separate or outside of himself, and he knew for the first time that he wasn't alone. That there was no thing and no one outside of himself. Not alone, only all one, and he was happy.

He was so happy he almost stayed right there under the tree, but lucky for us he changed his mind, and so can we. May all beings be happy, may they be joyous and free from suffering, and may they live in peace. Thank you very much.

Q&A

Host: Would you like to take a couple of questions?

Fu: Sure, happy to.

Host: Okay. So if anyone has questions, go ahead and put them in chat. I think there was an earlier question about the poem and the poet you read earlier.

Fu: Yeah, Billy Collins. He's wonderful, it's a wonderful book. A friend gave it to me as a gift. I think you can read it without the words being backwards. It's called The Poetry of Impermanence, Mindfulness, and Joy by John Brehm. John Brehm is a practitioner who was listening to a lot of Dharma talks and he said, "You teachers need some more poems." So he put this wonderful collection of Chinese, Japanese, and American poets together under these headings. The first section is impermanence, the second section is about mindfulness, and the third is about joy. I don't know if you can see the picture, but there's a wonderful image of an elephant standing on top of some chinaware, some teacups, and improbable... but there it is.

Host: I think there's another question... What are the two truths?

Fu: Well, there's the ultimate truth, which basically is inconceivable. The inconceivable nature of reality itself. It can't be broken into parts, you know. Reality doesn't come apart, it's just all at once right here, and we are all that. Just this is it, as a declaration of the ultimate truth.

And the relative truth is the other truth, which is the truth about our relationships. It's pretty much about language. How we, as clever little primates, have created language to take the world apart into many, many parts. In fact, I was reading this book Sapiens, which is quite fascinating about the origins of language and how with language humans were able to begin to say things that were simply not true. Like that "God up in heaven loves our people better than any others," you know? It's like, where'd that come from? But you know, we all know these things have been said. So language allows us to lie and all kinds of terrible things. So being conscious of language is the relative truth. There's a wonderful series of books by some scholars led by Jay Garfield from back East, a Tibetan teacher, called Taking the Relative Seriously.

I think all of us who come into spiritual practice are often drawn to the ultimate. We want the ultimate truth, we want to have that big bang experience of enlightenment once and for all. However, the ultimate truth is that there is no ultimate truth. Everything shows up for us in relative terms. These truths are about this one reality, it's not about two separate realities. It's really the truth about the one thing, you know, about each object. It's a fascinating study. I highly recommend all of you—you can even just Wikipedia it. There's a really good description of the two truths if you want to read a little bit about it.

Host: Okay, thank you, Fu. And what was the name of the book again that you showed with the elephant?

Fu: Yeah, The Poetry of Impermanence, Mindfulness, and Joy, John Brehm (B-R-E-H-M).

Host: And we'll take one question from YouTube. There was a question: "Please explain 'think of no thoughts.' Is it a koan^[8]?"

Fu: Definitely, that's the question. You know, Dogen says—he's quoting some other teacher previously—"Think not-thinking." This is the dualistic proposition. The relative truth comes in twos, you know. Is/isn't, me/you, right/wrong, that's dualistic thinking based in language. So we think in twos, but there's no twos. You can't find the two.

So, "think not-thinking." How do you think not-thinking? Non-thinking. Together, this is the essential art of zazen: not splitting the world into half, into twos, the big one being self and other. That's the one that hurts us the most. Think not-thinking. How do you think not-thinking? Non-thinking. The essential art of life, really, of zazen. We say zazen, but that just means everything.

Host: Okay, Fu, thank you very much.

Fu: Yeah, thank you all. Thank you so much, and please have a good day, a safe day, and take care.