Robe Chant, The Repentance Verse, and the Refuges

"Like all good fruit the balance of life is in the ripe and ruin"--Alt-J

Flower of the Week:

Buddleia, or Butterfly Bush

Buddhist Lesson of the Week:

Robe Chant, The Repentance Verse, and the Refuges

Field of lettuce on the farm

I thought that for this week I would begin moving away from the many, many Buddhist lists of things, and begin introducing the chants we do during service. For any of you who really like the lists, don't worry, I'm sure they'll return. The Buddhists like their lists.

The three chants I'm going to talk about now are ones that we do every morning, no matter the day. First thing after the second period of zazen ends in the morning, we repeat the robe chant twice in Japanese, and then once in English. After that we stand-up and do some rearranging (I have to move seats because I sit in the kokyo's seat, who is the person who is in charge of leading the chants every morning, a position that rotates between people every day.) After the doshi (the priest leading the zazen and service) offers incense and gets in the proper position, we rearrange again and prepare to do 9 full prostrations. I've heard that in most other Soto Zen temples around the world, they start service with only 3 full prostrations. However, Suzuki Roshi upon founding San Francisco Zen Center felt that it was important to imbue the radical hippies that composed his sangha with some extra composure and decorum, and thus had them do three-times as much bowing as the rest of the practitioners of the tradition. This unique SFZC tradition continues to this day (obviously) across the three centers.

After the 9 prostrations we immediately begin chanting The Repentance Verse, which we repeat three times, and then we head straight into chanting the Refuges in Pali. After the refuges we rearrange again, sit down seiza (kneeling on our knees with our bottoms on a cushion underneath) and prepare for the rest of service.

Robe Chant (Japanese)

dai zai ge da pu ku

mu so fu ku den e

hi bu nyo rai kyo

ko do sho shu jo

Robe Chant (English)

Great robe of liberation

Ornamental Poppy

Field far beyond form and emptiness

Wearing the Tathagata's teaching

Saving all beings

**The Tathagata=The Buddha

The Repentance Verse

All my ancient, twisted karma

From beginningless greed, hate, and delusion

Born through body, speech, and mind

I now fully avow

The Refuges (in Pali)

Buddham Saranam Gacchami

Dharman Saranam Gacchami

Sanghan Saranam Gacchami

Dutiampi Buddham Saranam Gacchami

Dutiampi Dharman Saranam Gacchami

Dutiampi Sanghan Saranam Gacchami

Tatiampi Buddham Saranam Gacchami

Tatiampi Dharman Saranam Gacchami

Tatiampi Sanghan Saranam Gacchami

The Refuges (in Engish, we don't actually chant these, just for your reference for what they mean)

I take refuge in Buddha

I take refuge in Dharma

I take refuge in Sangha

I take refuge in Buddha as the perfect teacher

I take refuge in Dharma as the perfect teaching

I take refuge in Sangha as the perfect life

Now I have completely taken refuge in the Buddha

Now I have completely taken refuge in the Dharma

Now I have completely taken refuge in the Sangha

WueWue, a Blue Heron that frequents the farm
and garden and eats our gophers and snakes

**I actually really like participating in service most of the time. I always find particular value in the Repentance Verse. Although I don't believe my particular karma is necessarily beginningless or ancient, I definitely believe that the decisions I have made in life to be rather twisted at times, and in need of reflection, acceptance, and repentance. I also like to think of "twisted" as not necessarily a nasty thing; I like to think of it more in reference to the long and winding road, that life has twists and turns, and all we can do is navigate it as nobly as we can. 

When I chant the Repentance Verse I like to actually concentrate on moments in my life or decisions that I've made when I did not have a still or compassionate mind (when I was being impatient, arrogant, rude, puffed-up, etc.) and to fully, actually, repent and avow them. To consciously and fully accept the responsibility for those actions, and to feel sorry for them, and through doing so, letting go of them a little bit. It's a short moment every morning in which I can learn from my mistakes, and then release them from my psyche (or at least begin the process of slowly prying them off of my psyche, some things are harder to let go of then others.)

When we chant the Repentance Verse and the Refuges, more than at any other point in the service, it is easy to notice that the breath of everyone in the room aligns. Sometimes, during the chanting, instead of focusing on what it is I am saying, I like to focus on that moment when every being in the room takes a breath together, in preparation for making a simultaneous promise to navigate life conscientiously. 

Life at the Center:

Lettuce field on farm

Something that I meant to talk about in last week's post, but forgot to, was the dharma talk that we received during our one-day sit last weekend (was that last weekend? It feels like it was a month ago. Time progression here is weird.) The priest who was presiding over the dharma talk is named Juryu and he is married to our director Sarah (who gave the public dharma talk last Sunday.) Juryu was sick the day we sat, and as such was sort of wonderfully vulnerable and open and honest when he gave his talk. 

Juryu talked about the importance of paying attention to our exhalations when we breathe. Most everybody is more naturally inclined to pay attention to their in-breath--it is, after all, the breath that directly proliferates our life; breathing in means we are still living. Juryu suggested that to follow our out-breath completely is actually the more zen practice. When we focus on exhalations, we feel a release---we release into the universe our love, our insecurities, our sense of self, our notions of what it is to be existing. We connect to all of everything in our exhalation through the acceptance of letting go. We do not desperately grasp at our inhalation; we do not grasp with the ego and the mind at that essential source of life. Instead, we let every moment exist as it does, with our still minds, and then, when we are done with our exhalations the inhalation will come naturally. We do not need to think about the need for us to inhale in order for it to happen; life will continue of its own accord, if it is right for it to do so. 

For me, this talk was especially pertinent in regards to my anxiety. One of the most common symptoms of my anxiety is a feeling of shortness of breath. Of course, this is all psychosomatic--my brain, for whatever reason, freaks out that it is not receiving enough oxygen (in other words, it becomes overly eager for the in-breath.) As a result, I end up breathing unevenly, often too deeply too often, and this results in a sort of mild hyperventilation throughout my days (and outright hyperventilation during attacks.) If I had always focused on simply releasing, letting-go, and living in the out-breath during such times of anxiety, and not been impatient for the inhalation, I would not have had such a hard time breathing the past 6 years. Of course, now I do know, so hopefully from here on out I can apply it.

WueWue in all his glory

This past week has been pretty low-key, event-wise. Not a lot going on, which has been actually really nice. A few of us have started playing improv games sometimes after dinner out on the pool deck, which has been really fun. We especially like a game called "In the manner of the word..." in which one person leaves the group while the rest of us debate an adverb, such as "aggressively", "passionately", "creepily", etc. Then the exiled person returns and asks two actors to act out a scene of their choosing, such as "go grocery shopping", "order a drink at the bar", "build a tree fort", etc. The actors act out their scene in the manner of the adverb chosen, and the director/exiled person has to guess what the adverb is, based on how the people are acting. We have found it entirely entertaining.

Our exercise in Catherine's writing class on Monday was to write from the perspective of an object, either sentient or non-sentient. That was it. As always, it was interesting to see what every person wrote, and what every person chose to write about. It was an interesting peek into who they are. The subjects varied from couch sections to golf balls, from turkey vultures to bees, from lightbulbs to newts. I'll post mine below.

Border of wildflowers on farm, to attract bees

I was able to give a tour to a group of third graders around the farm and garden on Tuesday, which I really enjoyed a lot. We also did an activity with them in which they harvested the seeds from some native grasses to be later planted in our restoration areas. I really enjoy being around the energy of the kids from time to time, it is an interesting mirror of my own practice. I definitely think I'm more patient and accepting than I was before I moved here, and I can see that perhaps the most clearly when I'm with a big group of 8 year olds. They also ask the most wonderful questions, and tell the most wonderful stories, and are so genuinely interested or disinterested in what they do or learn. One girl this week was entirely distraught that she didn't get to go and talk to the horses that hang out on the periphery of our property. I wanted to give her a lesson on the true nature of suffering, but felt that it was not a pertinent time (or audience, really. Hopefully she'll figure it out at some point.)

In the garden, we had a short introduction to pruning on Tuesday, and have been pruning the vibernums, camellias, and lilacs a little bit here and there. I actually really enjoy pruning, and find it to be really satisfying. Other than that, we've been weeding pretty much all day for most of the week, and next week looks like it's going to be a lot more of whole days of weeding. 

However, this upcoming Monday is Memorial Day, which is a holiday that the San Francisco Zen Center observes. The farmers can't take Monday off, as it's a big harvest day for them. The garden also harvests herbs on Mondays, but it's not necessary for the whole crew to be there to get it done, so we split it up, half of us off on Friday, the others off on Monday. I get Monday off (including zazen,) and a three-day weekend is wonderfully luxurious here. I mean they're always lovely, but here you can do just SO MUCH with three full days off (although Sundays are always only half off, because of the morning class and Dharma Talk, and I usually choose Sundays as the day I sit each weekend.) I've been reading a lot more this weekend than I have been, which has been much needed. I also just realized the other day that the word "holiday" literally means "holy day." I can't believe I had never noticed that before. I feel like I must have, but then forgot.

On Wednesday we were treated to a wonderful Dharma Talk given by Wendy Johnson (the magical sage who gave us a tour of Muir Woods all those weeks ago.) Wendy mostly focused on Alan Chadwick, a passionate gardener and complicated human being who completely transformed what it meant to be an organic gardener (and farmer) in the late 60s and early 70s in California (and thus the U.S.) He spent some time at GGF when it was first founded, and died here. All she did was tell stories of this zealous, impatient, brilliant man who had many followers but few friends. One of the moments that stands out for me during the talk was when she recited a Shakespearean sonnet by memory casually. She also shared a wonderful Chadwick quote that I personally connect to in a rather resounding way: "The gardener does not make the garden--the garden makes the gardener." That is entirely true of my experience and relationship with the garden here; it is sculpting and forming me more tangibly than I could ever sculpt and form it.

Field of lettuce on the farm

On Thursday it was our friend Dominic's birthday, and we all went out to The Pelican (a little British-style pub that's a 20 minute walk from GGF) as a group for the first time since moving here. It was so, so nice. One of the times I am most consistently happy is when a group of people I care about are all together in one place, enjoying each other's company. Anyways, that was the first time I was really able to notice such a thing happening with the people here, and it was warm and deep and lovely. 

Yesterday, a group of us went to Muir Beach for most of the day...but to the nude beach portion of it. The nude beach is slightly isolated from the more public side of Muir Beach by a tidal creek and some rocks, and thus is significantly less crowded. On weekends Muir fills right on up with the public masses, and for us zen center folks it can be quite overwhelming. However, the nude beach had only a handful of people, and it was quiet, less windy, and way more genuine. We did not get naked; most of the people over there actually were not naked. There were, of course, naked old people, who were absolutely loving it. There was a wonderful moment seared in a rather sharp but pleasant manner into my memory of two old naked guys with large white beards playing frisbee together. I enjoyed the gentle absurdity of it, and enjoyed the relaxed quietude that the presence of the nudes allowed our portion of the beach.

Ornamental Poppies

We had our last class on Basic Buddhism in regards to the Four Noble Truths with Doris today. Today we mostly just collected and synthesized all of our teachings from the past six weeks. It was an interesting reflection on our gathering of small lessons on suffering. "Being upright" is something that is mentioned to us a lot, and is the title of our Senior Dharma Teacher Reb Anderson's book. To be upright means to live a life in balance, in between the pull of desire and the push of hatred, or to live without delusion. It is what made me think of the Alt-J quote at the head of this post. To be upright is to live between the ripe and ruin.

Today the dharma talk was given by Norman Fischer, who is a rather well-known Zen practitioner (he was on Oprah!) His talk mainly consisted of him reading excerpts from some of the books he's had published. The overall theme or message of the talk was a discussion on imagination, which I found to be a very interesting topic. I have experienced during my time here that a lot of people here feel that their free-time should be spent doing very serious and intentionally fulfilling activities, which is good; I however, like to spend my free-time often just allowing myself to have inane fun (such as board games, improv games, movies, reading fiction, or Dungeons & Dragons). All of these activities involve extensive use of the imagination, and I was happy to see it getting its full due. Fischer talked about how there's an inherent use of the imagination in how we create our worlds with our minds--to experience the world is to use your imagination. Buddhists believe that reality is created from our minds, that all that we know and experience is just a manifestation of the mind...which for living beings, is true. We cannot know what we cannot perceive with our mind. Thus reality is a product of our minds, which is done subconsciously in every moment--which can be labeled as imagination.

WueWue in the kitchen garden

Fischer also talked about how both religion and art stem from the imagination. It is easy for us to see how art stems from imagination, but I was delighted in him comparing religion to art (which, of course, I do all the time). I have a whole definite understanding and interest in our species' evolution of religious thought, and I hypothesize that the selection for religiosity stems from the selection for imagination and cognitive creativity. But that's a whole thing I probably should not go into right now, or I would go for a while, and these posts are already long enough for everyone involved, I think.

I also want to address some sadness in my life and in my community at home. Eva Will, a delightful human being, chose to end her own life last week. I have known Eva for about ten years now, and went to high school with her shortly. She was beautiful, lovely, thoughtful, pensive, creative, and had a deep, profound, and raw ability to capture the beauty of pain and life in clever and moving writing and art. She will be missed dearly by many, many people.

After my friend Colt Mingledorff chose to end his own life last December, I have been thinking more and more about how to best love those around me. Colt was a childhood friend who I lost touch with, and although I attempted to reach out to him when it was clear he was struggling with his suicidal thoughts, I always have an uneasy feeling that I could have done more to help him. Similar feelings arise around Eva's passing. I was never that close to her, but I enjoyed her company, her laugh, and her thoughtful nature whenever I was around her. She is someone that many people loved, and they loved her easily and deeply. I was aware that she was unhappy a lot of the time, and yet I did not reach out to her. I am unsure what sort of impact, if any, my reaching out would have made to her, and now I will never know.

Both Colt and Eva were people who were very, very intelligent and emotional, and who saw the world with a cosmic clarity that was often larger than their place in it. They were both struggling for a long time to feel comfortable with their place in the world, and who felt very acutely the suffering of the world. Both found it more comforting to remove themselves from this painful existence than to struggle through it. I honor both of them, deeply and humbly. I feel unsure if I have any right to speak about either of them with any sort of real intensity, and yet they were delightful beings I shared moments of growth with, and so I feel I owe them some due.

So how do I, how do we, approach the deaths of those we love when it is they who chose to no longer be with us? All I can think of is that we, that I, need to make a concentrated effort to fully appreciate and love the people in my life when they are here. Everybody needs some love and attention and appreciation; everybody is deserving of such things. There are so, so many people in my life that I love, in a myriad of ways and intensities. I want them all to know how much I love them, and how much their existence adds to my own. I don't want to start listing names, because I know I would accidentally omit a fair amount, but I hope that those of you who read this who I love know that I do. I would quite literally not exist as I am today without any and all of you. Every being I encounter and love builds me and guides me. I can be kind, compassionate, thoughtful, and loving only because of you. 

I am struck by the fact that so often after someone passes is it revealed how much people truly loved them. This does not seem right to me. People should know that they are loved as they are. People should know the impact they make on people. People should know that they inspire love and beauty and art. I believe that if everybody were to be more honest and forthright with how much people impact them, when they are being impacted, the world would be less wounded, would suffer less. 

This, for me, is the essence of practice, which is the essence of life. To be compassionate and loving and accepting. To breathe in the world as it is and breathe out a keen desire to feel all of it with a passive intensity. To let all beings, to let all of those who I love, know that they are important. To spread light and breath and ease of being to others. To fully realize the interconnectedness of all of everything through appreciation and respect and admiration and reveration. To gently hold others within my heart so that they may heal and feel protected, so that they in turn are strong enough to do the same for others. 

This seems as idealistic as the Bodhisattva Vows we chant several times a week. It is, essentially, the same thing as the vows. It is impossible, and yet I feel nothing stronger in this moment than the need to try to love openly and intensely and intimately...so that we do not lose anymore poignant and complex and wonder-full wonderful people to the pain of separation.

Bed of Coreopsis

Book of the Week:

I'm still reading "The Language of Flowers." From Norman Fischer's talk, I would suggest reading his books, they sure seem neat, and he has a lot of them. The ones he talked about/read from in his talk today were: "Escape This Crazy Life of Tears" (poetry) and "Experience: Thinking, Writing, Language, and Religion". He read from some other ones too, but I can't remember them. Anyways, Oprah approves, I approve, so what more convincing do you need?

Song of the Week:

"Those to Come" by The Shins

This song is definitely one of my favorite songs by The Shins, and maybe one of my favorite songs period. The Shins' lyrics are poetry. They're pretty in the songs, but almost always wrenching when read on their own, and often portray a rather Zen understanding of the world, in my opinion. 

This song is dedicated to Eva.

Eyeless in the morning sun you were

Pale and mild, a modern girl

Taken with thought, still prone to care

Making tea in your underwear

You went out in the yard to find 

Something to eat and clear your mind 

Something bad inside me went away

Quaking leaves and broken light 

Shifting skin the coming night 

The bearers of all good things arrive 

Climb inside us, twist and cry 

A kiss on your molten eyes 

Myriad lives like blades of grass 

Yet to be realized, bow as they pass

They are cold, 

Still, 

Waiting in the ether, 

To form, 

Feel, 

Kill, 

Propagate, 

Only to die

[x2]

Dissolve 

Magically, 

Absurdly, 

They'll end, 

Leave, 

Dissipate, 

Coldly 

And strangely 

Return

WueWue in flight

Life as a Pebble:

I am a pebble, gently tumbling and tossing for eons down this ever-flowing river. The water rushes over me for eternity and slowly seeps under the sand and silt that settles beneath me. Every age brings change--when once I was trapped in the steady, rigid flow of a glacier, then I was caught in the tumultuous and erratic rhythm of a rushing current. When once I was free-falling through space and time amidst hundreds of thousands of drops of water, now I am resting in the soft flow of a meandering push of water against the countryside. Now, I can sit and listen and observe with ease and comfort the fish guiding above me, busy to quickly end their short lives. I can be still enough to watch particulates and bubbles gather on the riparian roots that form the ceiling above my head. I can doze as sunrises turn to sunsets, as moon cycles are born and then die, as the world burns and is then reborn from its ashes. The water here is shallow and soft enough for me to hear the pulse of the ocean waves promising to one day turn me into a grain of sand that will support the likes of pebbles yet to be born. My wet universe continues to gently and quietly smooth away at my rough edges until I will one day disappear into the nothingness from whence all that I have ever been and experienced was born.