"Because of your smile, you make life more beautiful."--Thich Naht Hanh
Flower of the Week:
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| The lovely, sunny Gaillardia, or Blanket Flower |
Buddhist Lesson of the Week:
Shosaimyo Kichijo Darani & Enmei Jukku Kannon Gyo
After we chant the Heart Sutra and Homage to the Perfection of Wisdom, we always sing either the Shosaimyo Kichijo Darani or the Enmei Kannon Gyo. The Shosaimyo Kichijo Darani we repeat three times, and the Enmei Kannon Gyo we repeat 7 times, with every repeat of the verses steadily picking up momentum until it feels like we're chanting not in a zendo, but in a sports stadium.
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| Looking at kitchen garden and up tot he hills around Green Gulch |
Shosaimyo Kichijo Darani
No mo san man damoto nan
oha ra chi koto sha
sono nan to ji to en
gya gya
gya ki gya ki
un nun
shifu ra shifu ra
hara shifu ra hara shifu ra
chisu sha chisu sha
chishu ri chishu ri
soha ja soha ja
sen chi gya
shiri ei so mo ko
English Translation:
Veneration to all Buddhas!The incomparable Buddha-power that banishes suffering.
Om! The Buddha of reality, wisdom, Nirvana!
Light! Light! Great light! Great light!
With no categories, this mysterious power
Saves all beings; suffering goes, happiness comes!
Enmei Jukku Kannon Gyo
Kanzeon
namu butsu
yo butsu u in
yo butsu u en
en buppo so en
jo raku ga jo
cho nen kanzeon
bo nen kanzeon
nen nen ju shin ki
nen nen fu ri shin
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| The children's garden, where the kids from our Sunday programs garden |
yo butsu u in
yo butsu u en
en buppo so en
jo raku ga jo
cho nen kanzeon
bo nen kanzeon
nen nen ju shin ki
nen nen fu ri shin
English Translation:
Kanzeon!At one with Buddha
Directly Buddha
Also indirectly Buddha
And indirectly Buddha, Dharma, Sangha
Joyful, pure eternal being!
Morning mind is Kanzeon
Evening mind is Kanzeon
Nen, nen arises from mind
Nen, nen is not separate from mind.
**Kanzeon is the Japanese form of Kuan Yin, who is the Chinese form of the Bodhisattva of Compassion Avalokiteshvara, in female form. Nen is the word used in Zen Buddhism for "thought impulses," or the initial, unconscious, raw impressions you get of your environment. Such as identifying in your mind that a chair is a chair, that your friend Bob is your friend Bob, etc.
I have still been exploring and struggling with the re-discovered deep chasm of insecurities that consistently abides in my subconscious, as brought to light a few weeks ago after a wonderfully divine evening in the city attending "Mortified." The show inspired me to look through my diary at the entries I made when I was a teenager, only to remember the disheartening truth that these fears and worries about myself and my relationships with people that have been swirling the periphery of my mind-space lately have always been there, in some shape or form.
I keep trying to connect these insecurities to the teachings I have been slowly and steadily garnering during my two months thus far here. It's…difficult. I know that I should talk to a practice leader about it, and see what sort of wisdom I can glean from them, but I keep being put-off by the thought of going to an abbess or dharma teacher with my teenage insecurities. Ultimately, I know this is silly, and that they have probably heard it all…not only that, but that they probably would not judge any insecurity as inane.
I am trying to accept, deeply, that these insecurities are not me. I recognized during a zazen a while ago that there is some part of me that identifies these insecurities as "me," and thus there is some part of me that protects them as me. This, of course, seems ridiculous, when laid out like that. They are not me. They are something that, for whatever reason, I choose to hold on to as part of my identity. I should be able to just release them, upon this realization--to just loosen my grip and let them slip back into the ether from which they came.
Ultimately, this would be the case. Practically, they did not just evolve from nothingness. They came from a series of events that left me heartbroken as I developed, and have continued to happen, in some shape or form, throughout my life, till this day. My brain takes these unhappy instances and builds them up, piles them, amasses them, aggregates them, building a wall, a fortress, with them to protect myself. Unfortunately, the wall does not serve to protect me most of the time--it just makes me hyper-sensitive to situations that bode close resemblance to my past, and then serves to differentiate me from everything and everyone else around me. This does not help anything. It makes me lonely, desperate.
Furthermore, there's a voice in my head, some awareness, that is continuously displeased with myself for feeling insecure, anxious, depressed, sad, frustrated, or any negative emotion at all. Not displeased because these are obviously unpleasant states to exist in, but because I do not really feel any real right to feel negative. I am so advantaged. I can't even believe how fortunate I am. My suffering stems from the visceral confusions of my mind. I have never suffered any real tragedy. But all that this keen awareness does is make me more miserable, more guilty, more isolated, more alone.
What needs to be done is that I need to treat all of my insecurities with love and compassion. I had a friend here remind me that everything is relative--scientifically, physically, as well as philosophically. This is something that I hold to be true but that nonetheless does not serve me a well as I would hope in my moments of sadness, frustration, or worry. In reality, I have every right to feel suffering as anybody else--it is one of the biggest understandings in Buddhism that to be alive is to suffer. I am alive, ergo, I suffer. When Miro, the three-year old who lives here, can't roll his red wagon over a rock and therefore melts into hysterics, that is real suffering. Looking at and experiencing the world through the lenses of delusion crafted from deep insecurities is real suffering. Feeling lonely is suffering. Feeling guilt for feeling suffering from loneliness, despite my plentitude of friends and loving family, is real suffering. Feeling ashamed because I complain when I have a wonderful job, live in a beautiful place, eat amazing food, am young and healthy, that is real suffering.
I think about the families and friends of those who lost someone they loved in the Orlando shootings. I think of those who love victims of suicide, homicide, rape, natural disaster, war, genocide, starvation, and disease, and I am humbled. I feel like nothing…but still a nothing just as worthy of love as anything or anybody else. Everybody in the world just wants to feel loved and worthy. So much disaster and pain would be avoided if we treated everybody like they are wonderful and important.
Anyways, this past week here was busy and full and lovely and mundane. It was Work Week, in which Green Gulch offers free shelter in our guest housing and free meals to people in exchange for them working on projects here. There were about 25 people participating in Work Week, which was quite the influx of bodies and minds into our little community. It was interesting having their energy around here for a little bit. They worked mostly with the Maintenance department, and their primary projects included clearing out a playground (I could barely even tell there was a playground, it was lost in a thick jungle of weeds…now it looks delightful! Fit for children to play in, even!) and building a new fence around the garden. We've had a temporary fence for as long as I've lived here, and the new fence will encompass more area, so soon the garden will feel far more spacious, which I'm looking forward to.
We did not have our typical dharma talk on Wednesday night, instead being treated to a Congalese dance class. It was fun. Our baker, Mik, has been a part of this Congalese drumming group for quite some time, and he brought them to Green Gulch to add a bit of silliness to the middle of the week. It was lovely seeing people dance who I had seldom seen outside of their official roles here (there were a few priests dancing, and dancing well!)
Yesterday (Saturday) there was another all-day sit, but I was not scheduled to partake in the sitting. Usually, if you're not sitting during an all-day sit, you work in the kitchen, but I guess the kitchen felt that they had enough help, and so a fair amount of us just had the day off. It was quite wonderful being outside and having the day-off with so many people in the zendo. It felt like I had the place mostly to myself, and it was sunny, hot, and enlivening weather out. I could have sat, if I wanted, but I did not particularly want to (of course, it probably would have been beneficial, considering all of the stuff that's been coming up for me, but I also just really wanted to relax in the sun for a little bit.)
Today, Reb Anderson, our senior dharma teacher, gave the public dharma talk, which usually I quite enjoy. Today, however, I found his talk to be rather esoteric. Although I greatly wanted to understand the lessons he was giving to all of us, it was really hard to follow his line of thought, he was already so many cognitive steps above where I am right now.
Just in case you were wondering, I still definitely identify as an Atheist. I keep meaning to write out something to explain how I feel I can identify as an Atheist Buddhist (but maybe I'm more a Buddhist Atheist?) but I keep not feeling particularly inspired to do so. I want to do it well. Just today Doris, a priest here, proclaimed to me that for an Atheist I sure seem engaged in Buddhism. That is definitely a true observation. I just find that so many of the ideas (and even dogmas) of Buddhism can be easily applied to my understanding of the world, even as a non-religious person. It's all psychology; It's all biology and physics, even if a lot of Buddhists don't necessarily recognize it as such.
I also definitely internally freak out pretty consistently here. I have a lot of moments where I look around at where I am and what I'm doing and I'm struck with this hyper feel of being in a cult. Which, I mean, it is. Most people here would admit that, I think. I've heard several people say that, yes, it's a cult, but it's a good cult. But I think that everybody who's in a cult would believe that it's a good cult...
But a cult is just a highly centralized, condensed, saturated culture. The ideas that this particular cult supplies are ones of interdependence and the inherent subjectivity of the universe; ones of compassion and awareness; ones of respect and virtue. Those all seem like pretty good things to me, and ones that I'm happy to absorb into my own understanding of life and the universe, as well as ones I'm happy to live out in the hopes of bringing more love to the world during my one short life.
Also all of the bowing to things I don't particularly believe in is humbling. It's good for me to pay respects to anything and everything. It's good for most everyone to do that.
I so often think that a thought I have is brilliant, only to then quickly feel oddly ashamed; but every thought I have is brilliant. To think is brilliance, in that it takes the dusty tunnels of my mind, and, as though through a prism, transforms them into light--a light that enlivens my eyes and gives perceptibility of my existence to other people as a being just as complex as they are.
People commend me for my honesty, but really all that that is is the culmination of inspiration from all who I've known to be honest.
I'm afraid that people don't love me as much as I love them. I don't think it's a silly fear.
I can't tell if it's a relief or not for me to have grown into a realization that the universe does not pay heed to my silent pleadings…unless you count the effect that my thoughts on such matters influence my actions.
Intimacy grows in space…but so does fear. A fear that nobody else yearns for closeness in that space with me as much as I do for them.
Giving people the opportunity to predictably disappoint me so that it's not unexpected and wrenching, squeezing my heart to splintered ash.
Fractal splinters of self-fulfilling disappointment.
…Better than a bottomless chasm of imploded hope.
I'd rather just have the liberated lightness of being.
It's hard to explain the fullness that comes from living in a community that encourages equilibrium, however possible and impossible that is.
Suffering from attachment to delusion.
Not accepting what is, what's lovely as is.
Desire. More. But is there enough?
Knowing that one scrap of attention will only satiate momentarily before stoking this fire.
Would have I otherwise noticed this hummingbird?
I just finished reading Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes. I love Bradbury. He is my favorite author, second only to the great, bright Kurt Vonnegut.
He writes just so, so beautifully. You can tell that he wrote during a time when writing was an art, something that people were both innately skilled at and that had to take time to perfect. Something in that was inspired but then thought about carefully before being put down on the page.
The Martian Chronicles by Bradbury is definitely one of my all-time favorite books. He also has
many splendid short stories.
Anyways, this one was about a twisted carnival that floats into a small town in Illinois and disrupts the lives of its inhabitants in a very particular manner of sordid affair. The story follows two 13-year-old boys in their attempt to fathom the events they witness and partake in, as well as what it means to grow up. The whole story is about what it means to grow up, to grow old. One of the young protagonists, Will, has a library janitor for a father, who ends up involved in the boys' shenanigans, and who offers Bradbury's philosophical musings to the story in the form of monologues directed at the boys. I found two of these to be rather poignant and rather Zen (although there are so, so many poignant and Zen sentences, paragraphs, scenes, and ideas in this book. There were many times while I was reading this that I was struck by the beauty of the thought just related to me from the page.) The passages are below, and I believe, entirely relevant to life right now as I'm experiencing it:
"What could he say that might make sense to them (about love)? Could he say love was, above all, common cause, shared experience? That was the vital cement, wasn't it? Could he say how he felt about their all being here tonight on this wild world running around a big sun which fell through a bigger space falling through yet vaster immensities of space, maybe toward and maybe away from Something? Could he say: we share this billion-mile-an-hour ride. We have common cause against the night. You start with little common causes. Why love the boy in a March field with his kite braving the sky? Because our fingers burn with the hot string singeing our hands. Why love some girl viewed from a train, bent to a country well? The tongue remembers iron water cool on some long lost noon. Why weep at strangers dead by the road? They resemble friends unseen in forty years. Why laugh when clowns are hit by pies? We taste custard, we taste life. Why love the woman who is your wife? He nose breaths in the air of a world that I know; therefore I love that nose. Her ears hear music I might sing half the night through; therefore I love her ears. Her eyes delight in seasons of the land; and so I love those eyes. Her tongue knows quince, peach, chokeberry, mint and lime; I love to hear it speaking. Because her flesh knows heat, cold, affliction, I know fire, snow, and pain. Shared and once again shared experience. Billions of prickling textures. Cut one sense away, cut part of life away. Cut two senses; life halves itself on the instant. We love what we know, we love what we are. Common cause, common cause, common cause of mouth, eye, ear, tongue, hand, nose, flesh, hear, and soul.
But…how to say it?"
"Somehow, irresistibly, the prime thing was: nothing mattered. Life in the end seems a prank of such size you could only stand off at this end of the corridor to note its meaningless length and its quite unnecessary height, a mountain built to such ridiculous immensities you were dwarfed in its shadow and mocking of its pomp. So with death this near he thought numbly but purely upon a billion vanities, arrivals, departures, idiot excursions of boy, boy-man, man and old-man goat. He had gathered and stacked all manner of foibles, devices, playthings of his egotism and now, between all the silly corridors of books, the toys of his life swayed."
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| First Dahlias of the season! |
Life at the Center:
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| Our lovely hydrangeas |
I keep trying to connect these insecurities to the teachings I have been slowly and steadily garnering during my two months thus far here. It's…difficult. I know that I should talk to a practice leader about it, and see what sort of wisdom I can glean from them, but I keep being put-off by the thought of going to an abbess or dharma teacher with my teenage insecurities. Ultimately, I know this is silly, and that they have probably heard it all…not only that, but that they probably would not judge any insecurity as inane.
I am trying to accept, deeply, that these insecurities are not me. I recognized during a zazen a while ago that there is some part of me that identifies these insecurities as "me," and thus there is some part of me that protects them as me. This, of course, seems ridiculous, when laid out like that. They are not me. They are something that, for whatever reason, I choose to hold on to as part of my identity. I should be able to just release them, upon this realization--to just loosen my grip and let them slip back into the ether from which they came.
 |
| Anise Hyssop, used to make tea. Tastes kind of like licorice |
Furthermore, there's a voice in my head, some awareness, that is continuously displeased with myself for feeling insecure, anxious, depressed, sad, frustrated, or any negative emotion at all. Not displeased because these are obviously unpleasant states to exist in, but because I do not really feel any real right to feel negative. I am so advantaged. I can't even believe how fortunate I am. My suffering stems from the visceral confusions of my mind. I have never suffered any real tragedy. But all that this keen awareness does is make me more miserable, more guilty, more isolated, more alone.
What needs to be done is that I need to treat all of my insecurities with love and compassion. I had a friend here remind me that everything is relative--scientifically, physically, as well as philosophically. This is something that I hold to be true but that nonetheless does not serve me a well as I would hope in my moments of sadness, frustration, or worry. In reality, I have every right to feel suffering as anybody else--it is one of the biggest understandings in Buddhism that to be alive is to suffer. I am alive, ergo, I suffer. When Miro, the three-year old who lives here, can't roll his red wagon over a rock and therefore melts into hysterics, that is real suffering. Looking at and experiencing the world through the lenses of delusion crafted from deep insecurities is real suffering. Feeling lonely is suffering. Feeling guilt for feeling suffering from loneliness, despite my plentitude of friends and loving family, is real suffering. Feeling ashamed because I complain when I have a wonderful job, live in a beautiful place, eat amazing food, am young and healthy, that is real suffering.
 |
| Our bed of Cosmos |
I think about the families and friends of those who lost someone they loved in the Orlando shootings. I think of those who love victims of suicide, homicide, rape, natural disaster, war, genocide, starvation, and disease, and I am humbled. I feel like nothing…but still a nothing just as worthy of love as anything or anybody else. Everybody in the world just wants to feel loved and worthy. So much disaster and pain would be avoided if we treated everybody like they are wonderful and important.
Anyways, this past week here was busy and full and lovely and mundane. It was Work Week, in which Green Gulch offers free shelter in our guest housing and free meals to people in exchange for them working on projects here. There were about 25 people participating in Work Week, which was quite the influx of bodies and minds into our little community. It was interesting having their energy around here for a little bit. They worked mostly with the Maintenance department, and their primary projects included clearing out a playground (I could barely even tell there was a playground, it was lost in a thick jungle of weeds…now it looks delightful! Fit for children to play in, even!) and building a new fence around the garden. We've had a temporary fence for as long as I've lived here, and the new fence will encompass more area, so soon the garden will feel far more spacious, which I'm looking forward to.
 |
| Dahlia |
Yesterday (Saturday) there was another all-day sit, but I was not scheduled to partake in the sitting. Usually, if you're not sitting during an all-day sit, you work in the kitchen, but I guess the kitchen felt that they had enough help, and so a fair amount of us just had the day off. It was quite wonderful being outside and having the day-off with so many people in the zendo. It felt like I had the place mostly to myself, and it was sunny, hot, and enlivening weather out. I could have sat, if I wanted, but I did not particularly want to (of course, it probably would have been beneficial, considering all of the stuff that's been coming up for me, but I also just really wanted to relax in the sun for a little bit.)
Today, Reb Anderson, our senior dharma teacher, gave the public dharma talk, which usually I quite enjoy. Today, however, I found his talk to be rather esoteric. Although I greatly wanted to understand the lessons he was giving to all of us, it was really hard to follow his line of thought, he was already so many cognitive steps above where I am right now.
 |
| Zinnias! |
I also definitely internally freak out pretty consistently here. I have a lot of moments where I look around at where I am and what I'm doing and I'm struck with this hyper feel of being in a cult. Which, I mean, it is. Most people here would admit that, I think. I've heard several people say that, yes, it's a cult, but it's a good cult. But I think that everybody who's in a cult would believe that it's a good cult...
But a cult is just a highly centralized, condensed, saturated culture. The ideas that this particular cult supplies are ones of interdependence and the inherent subjectivity of the universe; ones of compassion and awareness; ones of respect and virtue. Those all seem like pretty good things to me, and ones that I'm happy to absorb into my own understanding of life and the universe, as well as ones I'm happy to live out in the hopes of bringing more love to the world during my one short life.
Also all of the bowing to things I don't particularly believe in is humbling. It's good for me to pay respects to anything and everything. It's good for most everyone to do that.
 |
| An acre of food growing on our farm |
Some thoughts from this past week:
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| Pink Snapdragon |
People commend me for my honesty, but really all that that is is the culmination of inspiration from all who I've known to be honest.
I'm afraid that people don't love me as much as I love them. I don't think it's a silly fear.
I can't tell if it's a relief or not for me to have grown into a realization that the universe does not pay heed to my silent pleadings…unless you count the effect that my thoughts on such matters influence my actions.
Intimacy grows in space…but so does fear. A fear that nobody else yearns for closeness in that space with me as much as I do for them.
 |
| Sunflower |
Fractal splinters of self-fulfilling disappointment.
…Better than a bottomless chasm of imploded hope.
I'd rather just have the liberated lightness of being.
It's hard to explain the fullness that comes from living in a community that encourages equilibrium, however possible and impossible that is.
Suffering from attachment to delusion.
Not accepting what is, what's lovely as is.
Desire. More. But is there enough?
Knowing that one scrap of attention will only satiate momentarily before stoking this fire.
Would have I otherwise noticed this hummingbird?
 |
| Pink Jupiter's Beard |
 |
| Some crazy thistle flower that Claudia claims gets even cooler looking somehow |
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| Zinnias! |
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| Zinnias! |
Book of the Week:
I just finished reading Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes. I love Bradbury. He is my favorite author, second only to the great, bright Kurt Vonnegut. He writes just so, so beautifully. You can tell that he wrote during a time when writing was an art, something that people were both innately skilled at and that had to take time to perfect. Something in that was inspired but then thought about carefully before being put down on the page.
The Martian Chronicles by Bradbury is definitely one of my all-time favorite books. He also has
many splendid short stories.
Anyways, this one was about a twisted carnival that floats into a small town in Illinois and disrupts the lives of its inhabitants in a very particular manner of sordid affair. The story follows two 13-year-old boys in their attempt to fathom the events they witness and partake in, as well as what it means to grow up. The whole story is about what it means to grow up, to grow old. One of the young protagonists, Will, has a library janitor for a father, who ends up involved in the boys' shenanigans, and who offers Bradbury's philosophical musings to the story in the form of monologues directed at the boys. I found two of these to be rather poignant and rather Zen (although there are so, so many poignant and Zen sentences, paragraphs, scenes, and ideas in this book. There were many times while I was reading this that I was struck by the beauty of the thought just related to me from the page.) The passages are below, and I believe, entirely relevant to life right now as I'm experiencing it:
"What could he say that might make sense to them (about love)? Could he say love was, above all, common cause, shared experience? That was the vital cement, wasn't it? Could he say how he felt about their all being here tonight on this wild world running around a big sun which fell through a bigger space falling through yet vaster immensities of space, maybe toward and maybe away from Something? Could he say: we share this billion-mile-an-hour ride. We have common cause against the night. You start with little common causes. Why love the boy in a March field with his kite braving the sky? Because our fingers burn with the hot string singeing our hands. Why love some girl viewed from a train, bent to a country well? The tongue remembers iron water cool on some long lost noon. Why weep at strangers dead by the road? They resemble friends unseen in forty years. Why laugh when clowns are hit by pies? We taste custard, we taste life. Why love the woman who is your wife? He nose breaths in the air of a world that I know; therefore I love that nose. Her ears hear music I might sing half the night through; therefore I love her ears. Her eyes delight in seasons of the land; and so I love those eyes. Her tongue knows quince, peach, chokeberry, mint and lime; I love to hear it speaking. Because her flesh knows heat, cold, affliction, I know fire, snow, and pain. Shared and once again shared experience. Billions of prickling textures. Cut one sense away, cut part of life away. Cut two senses; life halves itself on the instant. We love what we know, we love what we are. Common cause, common cause, common cause of mouth, eye, ear, tongue, hand, nose, flesh, hear, and soul.
But…how to say it?"
"Somehow, irresistibly, the prime thing was: nothing mattered. Life in the end seems a prank of such size you could only stand off at this end of the corridor to note its meaningless length and its quite unnecessary height, a mountain built to such ridiculous immensities you were dwarfed in its shadow and mocking of its pomp. So with death this near he thought numbly but purely upon a billion vanities, arrivals, departures, idiot excursions of boy, boy-man, man and old-man goat. He had gathered and stacked all manner of foibles, devices, playthings of his egotism and now, between all the silly corridors of books, the toys of his life swayed."
Song of the Week:
Another one of my favorite songs. Also decently Zen...or maybe Atheist. Maybe just whole.
Everything that keeps me together is falling apart
I've got this thing that I consider my only art of fucking people over.
My boss just quit the job
Says he's goin out to find blind spots and he'll do it.
The 3rd planet is sure that they're being watched
By an eye in the sky that can't be stopped.
When you get to the promise land
Your gonna shake that eyes hand.
Your heart felt good
It was drippin' pitch and made of wood.
And your hands and knees
Felt cold and wet on the grass to me.
Well, outside naked, shiverin' looking blue, from the cold
Sunlight that's reflected off the moon.
Baby cum angels fly around you
Reminding you we used to be three and not just two.
And that's how the world began.
And that's how the world will end.
Well, a 3rd had just been made and we were swimming in the water
Didn't know then was it a son was it a daughter.
When it occurred to me that the animals are swimming
Around in the water in the oceans in our bodies
And another had been found another ocean on the planet
Given that our blood is just like the Atlantic.
And how.
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