MILAREPA DOES HALLOWEEN

Tuesday nights we now sit @ 6:30pm. To change the pace, we're taking turns bringing Zen stories to talk about. Since one of our Tuesday regulars is my 14-year-old grandson Johnny Hollandbyrd, we make sure the stories and the discussion is not too intellectual and esoteric. That’s a good exercise all by itself. So next week is Polly's turn. But this last Tuesday night (the night before Halloween) Susan started us with a story about Milarepa--perfectly suited for Halloween!

Once upon a time, a long time ago, and very far from here, a great Tibetan poet named Milarepa studied and meditated for decades. He traveled the countryside, teaching the practice of compassion and mercy to the villagers he met. He faced many hardships, difficulties, and sorrows, and transformed them into the path of his awakening.
Finally, it was time to return to the small hut he called home. He had carried its memory in his heart through all the years of his journey. Much to his surprise, upon entering he found it filled with enemies of every kind. Terrifying, horrifying, monstrous demons that would make most people run. But Milarepa was not most people.

Inhaling and exhaling slowly three times, he turned towards the demons, fully present and aware. He looked deeply into the eyes of each, bowing in respect, and said, "You are here in my home now. I honor you and open myself to what you have to teach me."

As soon as he uttered these words, all of the enemies save five disappeared. The ones that remained were grisly, raw, huge monsters. Milarepa bowed once more and began to sing a song to them, a sweet melody resonant with caring for the ways these beasts had suffered, and curiosity about what they needed and how he could help them. As the last notes left his lips, four of the demons disappeared into thin air. 

Now only one nasty creature was left, fangs dripping evil, nostrils flaming, opened jaws revealing a dark, foul black throat. Milarepa stepped closer to this huge demon, breathed deeply into his own belly, and said with quiet compassion, "I must understand your pain and what it is you need in order to be healed." Then he put his head in the mouth of the enemy.

In that instant, the demon disappeared and Milarepa was home at last.

The Path Has Its Own Intelligence

I've been reading David Chadwick's Thank You and OK!, An American Zen Failure in Japan. Chadwick was a close student to Suzuki Roshi, and after his teacher's death, he wrote the wonderful biography Crooked Cucumber. Anyway, I came upon this wonderful quote which is for me a perfect description about what Zazen is about. An unusual description for sure, but one which ties together the history of our practice to the ongoing history of humanity. 

Hunter from the Lascaux Caves in Southern France

Sitting zazen for hours a day may seem like a lot of nothing when there’s so much to do, but it’s the Buddhist treasure hunt and the reason we still keep in this search is that the treasure is supposedly always right there waiting for us to find it. Suzuki, my old teacher, once said we find our treasure by watching and waiting. Gary Snyder, a teacher of the Buddhist hunters that prowl the Sierra Nevada in California, has suggested that hunting is one of the experiential origins of meditation. Indeed, throughout human history human hunters had to sit and wait motionless, even for days at a time. And Dutchananda, another sportsman on the track of this timeless snark, once pointed out that “marga” (aka “the Way,” “the Path”, in Sanskrit) is not a regular old trail or street, but is a word that originally meant the hunter’s path. The course is unknown is ahead of time to the hunter, who must sniff and look for signs and watch and wait. [Thank You and Okay, page 109-110]

●

This reminds me: In the 80s, I was just learning to sit and was reading, besides Zen books, all sorts of Native American books, especially about the Plains Indians. One day I was hiking in the Franklin Mountains along a creek bed. Even though the creek was dry, the rugged gash in the side of the mountain was lush with grasses, scrub oaks, all sorts of desert flowers and plants. It was easy to imagine a slow seep of water finding its way down through the cracked seams in the mountain. It was a perfect place to practice my new art of zazen. I found a nice place, bowed, straightened my back and began to sit. The breeze. The bird song. The crackle of twigs and leaves. My breath. I sat quiet for 20 minutes or so, and then I heard (or felt) a tweeting rustling in the leaves. I opened my eyes wider, and strutting quietly maybe five feet in front of me--almost close enough to touch--was a family of scaled quail The mother hen followed by six little ones. They marched right by me, paying me no nevermind. 

My best to you all.

Bobby Kankin Byrd

ROOTS OF CHANGE: A STUDY CIRCLE IN EL PASO

Sangha member Susan Feeny is starting the El Paso Roots of Change Study Group. As a steady Zen Buddhist practitioner, she's become inspired by the ideas and practical actions of the International Society for Ecology and Culture. ISEC is quite an organization. Just note its Advisory Board: Wendell Berry, Frijof Capra, Peter Matthiessen, Diana Rose, Jonathan Rose, Vandana Shiva, David Suzuki and Alice Waters. ISEC developed the outline for The Roots of Change Study Study Circles like the one Susan is developing. It's a program to help folks like Susan--like all of us--make change on the ground where we live. 

Susan, a retired high school art teacher and a long-time Zen practitioner. Her home zendo is Prajna Zendo outside Santa Fe. Just recently Susan took Jukai, taking the Buddhist Precepts and receiving her Buddhist name, Esho, Wisdom Flowering. It's an apt name, considering the project she has chosen for herself. Although Prajna Zendo is her home, she is a strong member of Both Sides / No Sides Zen Community, and a valued and steady presence in our zendo on Louisville Street.

Below is Susan's description of the El Paso Roots of Change Study Group, along with several clips from ISEC/Roots of Change films that Susan will be showing early on. You can follow the evolution of their group at their facebook page here.  

Join the El Paso Roots of Change Study Circle

Hardly a day goes by without news of accelerating ecological decline, increasing depression and anxiety, or the widening of inequality in tandem with concentration of corporate power. The present ecological, social, and economic crises are unprecedented. And yet, an equally unprecedented movement is surging from the grassroots. Across the world people are joining hands in the spirit of resistance & renewal. Millions are engaged in the urgent, though joyful and enriching process of renewing just & sustainable communities.

The process of building a better world starts by rethinking basic assumptions and exploring root causes. We’re started a Roots of Change Study Circle in the area. Please join us!



THE PROGRAM

Roots of Change is a ground-breaking study circle program. The curriculum includes voices of the world’s leading political, economic and ecological thinkers. The readings explore the origins and workings of today’s globalized economy and promote discussion of the impacts of corporate globalization on communities around the world. The emphasis is on education for action: helping participants see the big picture, unearth root causes and identify strategic positive actions.

JOIN US! 

In collaboration with the Internationals Society for Ecology and Culture (ISEC), we are setting up a study circle in this area. Study circles usually meet once or twice a month to discuss readings and forge strategies for effective local action. The program promises to be enjoyable, educational and life-affirming. Why not join us?

CONTACT US TODAY AT:
smfeeny@elp.rr.com

GOOD COFFEE. BAD COFFEE.

an essay by Bobby Byrd

Cup of Coffee (Ink on Paper) by Harvey Daiho Hilbert, Roshi

I confess. For the last several years I've become Stephen Batchelor fan (the Buddhist writer, not the field hockey player). In Living with the Devil: A Buddhist Take on Good and Evil, he says this early on:

What is striking about the Buddhist approach is that rather than positing an immortal or transcendent self that is immune to the vicissitudes of the world, Buddha insisted that salvation lies in discarding such consoling fantasies and embracing instead the very stuff of life that will destroy you. (Page 10) 

I agree totally with that. But I can also listen to, and agree, with differing points of view. When I read the Batchelor quote, I remembered at the same time this wonderful little story in the 2nd volume of Soyu Matsuoka Roshi collection of teachings Moku-Rai:

Zen Master and Catholic Priest

An American Catholic priest, who had founded a Zen Center in Japan, visited the abbot of a large Zen Monastery. The priest had studied Zen in Japan for a number of years and was known for his diligence.

The abbot asked over tea: “Even though you are a Catholic priest you practice zazen. What do you feel, when you practice?” The priest replied: “I feel God all around me. I am guided by him and I am in his power.”

Without hesitation, the abbot said: “If you continually practice zazen, God will disappear.” The abbot’s statement perplexed the priest. He was concerned over the possible loss of his supervision. The priest in response said: “God won’t disappear. I will disappear.” The abbot replied: “Whether God or you disappear, it makes no difference.” (Page 70)

The stories seem to contradict each other. But zazen is a big tent with different ways to resolve the questions before you. Each of us is different, and so we sit zazen together in our zendo (so many “z’s” we have). We don’t ask for membership cards and affiliations when a person walks into our little zendo on Louisville Street. Atheists and agnostics, Catholics and Jews, Baptists and Republicans and Democrats—they’ve all walked through the door one time or another. Some stick around, others disappear, saying they will be back soon, smiles on their faces. Most times, they don’t. That’s okay. We keep sitting and staring at the wall.

Strange how Zen gets so many different people coming through the door. Why does that happen?

We use much of the paraphernalia of religion. We have an altar with flowers, a stick of incense is usually burning, a bronze statue of the Buddha is perched atop the altar like a god, we have our prayers and chants, and we do our dance steps. But we don’t worship a God. Our practice is dharma practice, the study of the dharma, the study of the self. In other words, What is this? Why must we suffer? It’s a good question. Buddha asked the same question. And then Dogen says, when you sit, the self disappears. Poof. Because it’s contingent, second to second, it’s constantly arising as something new and different.

If you believe in God, that’s cool. We want you to come and sit with us. Sitting zazen will be your study of God and God’s relation to you. God. No God. All this is only words. We have faith in the practice of zazen—shikantaza, just sitting—and the study of ourselves through zazen.

If God is your koan, go for it.
Sit down and shut up.
Like the rest of us.

The other night I had dinner with a friend at Kiki’s Mexican Food on Piedras. My friend is a nice guy. He has a temper. He knows it. He’s troubled, but, without trouble, there’s no story. I like stories. I tell him he needs to sit zazen more, but he doesn’t have time to sit more zazen. He has more important things to do. Important things always get in the way. That’s how we are.

We were splitting a small pitcher of beer, but we talked about coffee. Good coffee. Bad coffee. He told me a story about having breakfast at an I-HOP with his girlfriend and getting pissed at the waitress. She was serving bad coffee. It was stale and burnt. He told her so. He could feel the anger in his voice and in his throat. The waitress didn’t understand why he was angry with her. It wasn’t her fault. She only worked there. He seethed for a while, his girlfriend was embarrassed and sad, he realized he had made a fool of himself, and later he apologized to the waitress. But it still pissed him off. I laughed at my friend. After a while, he laughed at himself too. He had the chicken tacos. I had a black bean burrito. We shared some guacamole and finished our beer.

The next morning Lee and I were walking up the hill on Elm, our Tuesday morning walk (other days Lee walks with her good friend Martha). October mornings in El Paso are cool and beautiful, the sun rising up out of the distant east. Tuesdays is garbage day, and the trucks rumble up the streets like ravenous animals. Their job is to pick up the useless bits and pieces of our lives. They also carry away stories and daydreams. They stop in front of the houses and, with a huge mechanical hand, grab the garbage cans and empty them head over heels into their bellies. They make a huge racket. I like that noise. It keeps me awake. I try to pay attention to my walking, sometimes counting my breaths. My mind comes and goes. Thoughts arise.

Like “good coffee / bad coffee.”

Oh, yeah. That was fun, listening to my friend talking about the waitress and her bad coffee. Then I remembered something else—“There’s no place to spit.” It’s an old Soto Zen adage. I love it. It means that everything is sacred. You spit anywhere, you’re spitting on sacred ground. Ground made sacred by our attention to it.

But sometimes I need to spit.
Where am I going to spit if there’s nowhere to spit?
Zen is littered with paradox.
Like God and No God. Like self and no self.

That’s what I like about Zen. There’s always something to do. And there’s always something to pay attention to. That’s why there’s no place to spit. Because we are asked each moment to pay attention to what we are doing—internally and externally. Driving the car. Turning on the computer. Answering the phone. Watering the yard. Making love. Spitting and shitting. The same ball of wax. It’s the dharma. We are studying the self. Every day we teach ourselves this lesson—through the practice of zazen, through taking this understanding off the zafu and lugging it happily, like old Hotei , out into the world. We want to live a balanced life—avoiding evil, doing good and bringing about abundant good for all beings. Some days we do better than other days. Some days we tip the waitress. Some days we get pissed at the waitress, but we remember to leave a tip anyway. The bad coffee really wasn’t her fault. It takes a while to understand. And we always come home to sit on our zafus. That's how we practice our faith--with effort and doubt. We sit zazen in the big tent.

Here’s a poem/story I wrote last year. It’s about good coffee and bad coffee.

McDonald’s™

"The Great Way is not difficult for those who have no preferences."

—Seng-T’san, the 3rd Chinese Patriarch  

I got a Zen friend eats a vegetarian breakfast at MacDonald’s sometimes. He likes the cheap coffee. He says, “Don’t be a snob, Bobby. What difference does it make?” And he gives me a wise Buddhist smile.

I tell my friend if I’m going to eat fast food, then I’m going to eat at some local place. Like the H&H Carwash over on Yandell. The Haddads own the place, Kenny and Maynard. 4th generation Lebanese Christian immigrants. Both right wingers, but they leave me alone.

I tell my friend that the 3rd Patriarch eats there too. He likes the spinning stools at the counter. He’s a vegetarian so he orders the chili relleno plate. Two rellenos, rice and beans. It’s way too much food of course. He wants just enough, so he takes his leftovers to the bum in the alley.

The bum’s name is Chuy, short for Jesus. Kenny doesn’t like the Chinaman feeding Chuy. It’s like attracting flies. Seng-T’san smiles at Kenny’s rant but he will do as he pleases. Chuy needs to eat. “Yeah, yeah,” Kenny says and walks away.

The rellenos are delicious as always. Likewise the refried beans and rice. A couple of tortillas de maiz. On the side a glass of water and a cup of coffee.

Seng-T’san is no dummy of course. Gloria the cook fries the rellenos and everything else in a little bit of lard. Oh well. He eats what’s set before him. Gloria is a tiny woman, a juarense and every morning she walks across the border to cook rellenos at the H&H. Sent-T’san smiles at Gloria, his hands in gassho.

Then he gives thanks to all the other many beings who have brought this food to his table. Even the pig who provided the lard. In his thanksgiving, he saves Artemisa the waitress for last. She’s his favorite and he knows he’s not supposed to have favorites. Artemisa has such a beautiful big smile.

She says “De nada” and “Quieres más?” She always pours extra coffee to keep his cup warm and makes sure everything is perfect. Then she leaves him alone while he eats. She likes gringos okay and a Chinaman is just another kind of gringo. He eats everything and always leaves a big tip.

The coffee was lousy but that’s okay.

—in memory of Artemisa Salinas (1932-2011)

Teaching Suzuki Roshi How to Swim

The Han at Tassajara

Here’s a story I lifted from David Chadwick’s Crooked Cucumber, the biography of Shunryu Suzuki Roshi. The time was sometime in the late 1960s. Although Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind would not be published for a few years, Suzuki Roshi was well-known for his accomplishments--The San Francisco Zen Center, the Tassajara Monastery and his legions of students and admirers. He was coast-to-coast famous among the Cool. The King of Enlightenment. The Johnny Appleseed of Zen. But the day this story happened Suzuki Roshi was at Tassajara, and the place was zapped alive with students earnestly sitting Zazen, studying themselves and being good Zensters. They knew the Roshi was on the premises. He brought the place energy and th\at energy radiated through their practice. No telephones, no electricity. What else can you do but be alive? The mountain flowers were blooming. And the Sierra is always so beautiful.

I’ll tell the story my own way.

● ● ●

So one day Suzuki Roshi is walking down a path with a number of his senior students. They are chatting about this and that, telling stories, laughing, but always alert in the presence of their teacher. The path follows Tassajara Creek that wanders through the rocks and forest, and around a bend is a favorite swimming hole. Hot dog! The students strip down and jump in. The mountain water is cold and it swirls around them. Suzuki, though, never learned how to swim. He climbs up on a big rock overlooking the pool and sits down to watch the merriment. The students forget all about him. After a while, one of the students looks up. The Roshi isn’t there. Where’s the Roshi, he shouts. Then they see Suzuki—such a small man—struggling in the water, gasping for air. He’s drowning. They pull him to the bank, dry him off and warm him up with their clothes. What happened, they ask him? He had gotten up to move so he could see better and he had toppled head-first into the pool. They half-carry him back to his cottage. 

That evening Suzuki Roshi gives a dharma talk. He goes to his high seat in the practice hall. The students are all quiet. The Master is in the Hall. He tells this same story, how he tumbled head-first into the water. He is afraid of water, he said, and he doesn’t know how to swim. He was sure he was going to drown, so he fought desperately to stay alive. His lungs filled up with water. He couldn’t breathe. And, of course, as he realized later, he had done everything wrong. He should have relaxed and he would have floated to the surface. If it hadn’t been for his students, he would surely have died. 

Then he said that he was disappointed in his practice. He had decided to start from the beginning again and to sit zazen counting his breaths. He asked that his students do the same. And they all went back to their zazen, counting their breaths. 

● ● ●

I love this story. I’ve told it several times during my own dharma talks. It’s a very important story for me. For me the story speaks of Suzuki’s honesty, transparency and wisdom. It’s a good reminder for personal practice. I am always thinking that maybe I've achieved this or that in my practice. Patting myself on my back. I think I understand. I think I've “evolved” (whatever that means) and then something happens (something big, like almost drowning, or something small, like stubbing my toe or getting a speeding ticket in a school zone like I did today). Well, shit on all those voices in my head (the “me,” the false self, the “Mara,” whatever)—they’ve fooled me again.

Like the other night at exactly 2:47am. I had got up to pee. (Old men always seem to be pissing at about that time. Listen in the night. You can hear us. Legions of us old men off to pee in the darkness.) Done but not empty, I lay back down. But I couldn't get to sleep. I was thrashing away. Poor Lee. I woke her up with my ups and downs and roll-overs. You gotta understand. I'm an old-time political junkie, I've walked in marches and protests, I've always voted democrat, and just that evening Romney had hammered Obama in the debate. I hadn't even seen the debate. This was all second-hand news. I tried to ignore it. I was cool. I sat zazen, I paid attention to my breath, I celebrated my daughter-in-law's birthday. My worry was a mirage, puffs of smoke.

But sleep does its own thing to our minds. I had a dream. Anxiety set in between the bathroom and my bed.  Now Romney was going to become President. The Republicans were going to take over. Poets would be hung by the neck until dead!

All silly daydreams. Pure insanity. Craving at its most comical. What could I do anyway? Send money? Make telephone calls? It was the middle of the night. None of it mattered. None of it was real. But logic didn’t help. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I tossed and turned. I got up again to pee. But I didn’t need to pee. I needed to sleep. But I got up one more time.

Then I remembered Suzuki flailing at the water, gasping for breath. I remembered his dharma talk afterwards. Another gift from the dead roshi. Oh, yeah.

I went and sat zazen 10 minutes in the darkness. I lay back down next to Lee and started counting my breaths. I got to 10 and started again. I don’t think I got to 10 again. I slept until 6am, floating on the pool of sleep. The alarm bonged. Suzuki admonished, “Get up when the bell rings.” This morning I had to listen to the old dead man. He had given me another gift in the middle of the night. I got up, made the coffee for Lee and me, fed the cats and the birds and sat zazen. The morning was beautiful. Bird song. A train whistled and echoed through the mountain. Still a bit of moonlight from a waning moon.

Lucky me. I have my practice. I have these stories. I have Zazen.

And I take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha.

—Bobby Kankin Byrd

Old Hotei Rings the Bell

Here’s an exercise we’ve done a couple of times on Tuesday nights after our zazen practice and tea has been served. We all put our cups of tea down (hot green tea again now that summer is sliding away into the wherever) and return to our full zazen posture, this time facing the center of the zendo. The Ino watches. When she feels that all of us are settled firmly into our zazen, she rings the big bell. We don’t bow, we don’t let our backs slump back, we simply keep on sitting. Shikantaza—just sitting. The bell rings and we listen closely to the ringing. We don’t want to attach any ideas, names or words onto the ringing. We just want to listen. We want our bodies—our ears, our mind, our skin—to absorb the vibrations of sound until finally it fades away into silence.

This practice is not easy. Well, that’s not true. It is easy. We just don’t let it be easy. Our mind wants to jump right in and give the exercise names, to think about it, daydream about it, analyze the experience, argue with the experiment. Whatever. Take me, for instance. (Okay, I will.) When I hear the bell, I want to bow and relax. It’s habit. Not to worry. Sometimes I just hear the bell. I just listen. Me and the bell. One experience. I can feel the vibration of sound in my ears. If you practice zazen long enough, you too will begin to hear truly the ringing of the bell, of simply being there with the ringing of the bell. You and the bell ringing become one. You are experiencing the dharma, you are awake to your Buddha nature.

Just like Dogen said.

When I first recommended this exercise, I thought I would follow the exercise by talking about that those two monks back in the day who were wasting their afternoon arguing about a flag.

One said: “The flag is moving.”
The other said: “The wind is moving.”
The sixth patriarch happened to be passing by.
He told them: “Not the wind, not the flag; mind is moving.”

The bell-ringing seemed like the perfect segue into the story about the flag and the wind. But it occurred to me during zazen practice to talk about Hotei (aka Budai) instead. Seems like I’m always looking for a reason to talk about goofy Hotei. He’s the fat hobo monk from the time of the T’ang dynasty, aka the “Happy Chinaman.” You see his image everywhere. Pier 1 sells little Hotei images by the boatload. He’s a bigger cliché than the word “zen.”

Hotei didn’t head up any monastery, and he didn’t have students. He just walked around the countryside and through city streets with a big sack hung over his shoulder. The sack was full of candies, fruits and sweet breads. Oh, Hotei made the kids happy. They would come running and he would give them little presents from his big sack. Then he would play and dance with them. It was like a little Zen street classroom wherever he went. 

If a Zen monk came along, he would stick out his begging bowl and say: “Give me a penny.” He was harsh with the Zen monks, and mostly they stayed away from him. 
Once an old Zen teacher, a roshi, came along. Hotei stuck his chubby hand in the old man’s face and said, “Give me a penny.” The old man looked at Hotei for a few minutes, then asked him, “What is Zen?” Hotei immediately dropped his sack, plopped nimbly to the ground and sat zazen. 

 “Ha!” the old roshi shouted. And then he asked, “How do you realize Zen?" 

Without a word, Hotei leaped to his feet, swung the sack over his shoulder and continued on his way. Happy little kids followed along behind him. 

No words, no ideas, only action. Like the bell ringing. Hotei understood the relationship between sitting zazen and realizing Zen out on the street. One feeds the other. He didn’t have to think about what the roshi asked him. He didn’t worry about why he was being asked this question. Was it a trick question? He knew in his essence, his Buddha nature, what was being asked. No words: yet, he answered without hesitation. He plopped to the ground and assumed the lotus posture, his hand folded in the cosmic mudra. He just sat. Shikantaza. Likewise he understood that his life—fully lived, embodying the Four Noble Truths, the Three Refuges, the whole kit and caboodle, being just that moment—is the realization of Zen. No words, but he answered the question. He jumped to his feet and went about his life.

Good for Hotei.

And good for the old Roshi, or whoever it was first wrote this story down. Words and stories have their uses. Our job is not to confuse the words and stories for the actual understanding and for the experience. Our job is to hear the story and learn to listen to the bell. When the time comes and the question is asked—“How do you realize Zen?”—we must understand fully. We must, without hesitation, jumping to our feet and go about our lives, fully present in the moment.

Just like the Sixth Patriarch who knew exactly what to say to the two monks who were sitting on a wall babbling on about nothing.

Life as it is, the only teacher. Being just this moment, compassion’s way.

Thank you for reading.
My best to you all.
Bobby Kankin Byrd

The Teaching of the World Trade Center Destruction by Pat Enkyo Roshi

A Teisho by Enkyo Roshi given on September 16, 2001

Note from Bobby Kankin Byrd: Dear all, when I was in NYC in May, I attended when I could the Village Zendo. One day, when I was giving dana, I saw their Journal of the First 25 Years in the Voices and Images. It's a beautiful, wise and thoughtfully prepared document. I was especially moved by Enkyo Roshi's Teisho about 9/11. It is truly a wise commentary on that tragedy and all that we witness, experience andread about daily. I whole-heartedly recommend that you visit the Village Zendo site and to listen to teishos and study their work. They (individually and in groups) are involved in community work, the Zen Peacemakers Organization, the arts and simply being householders in their world. I admire what they do, and I especially admire Enkyo Roshi. She and her Sangha are a blessing to us all. [Postscript: I have copied this teisho from their website, and I will email Enkyo and the VZ with the link. I simply thought this was an appropriate reminder of this day, 9/11, and I hope they agree. BB]

It has been five days now since the attack that caused such devastation and suffering just a few blocks from here. We were not able to enter the building until yesterday, so we have been sitting and having council in the park and at my home. It is wonderful to be back in our Zendo this morning with such a big gathering. In times like this we realize how much we depend on a spiritual practice. And in our case, it’s a practice that tells us that there’s nothing to depend on. It’s a practice that does not tell us what’s right and what’s wrong. It does not tell us what to love and what to hate. Our practice forces us to have great courage, great daring. To participate in each moment, and to act appropriately in each moment — without a set of rules, a set of ideas, that will dictate our actions and our response to what’s around us. It’s a very daring and courageous act, to practice in this tradition, to directly face suffering, anger, and fear.

Remember the story of Kisagotami who ran crying and distraught to Shakyamuni Buddha, holding her dead baby boy, begging him to give her medicine to bring him back to life. The Buddha said that he did know of a medicine, but that she must find it herself. He told her to bring him a handful of mustard seed from a household where no one had died. She went to the first household, and they said: “Oh, we’ll bring you mustard seed. But — oh, no … grandfather died last year; we can’t give you the mustard seed.” And so, as you might imagine, Kisagotami went to every home in the village, asking for a mustard seed from a family which had not experienced death and suffering, and at each home she was told that someone in that household had died. Very, very slowly the wisdom of the teaching of the Buddha began to sink into her. Finally, she walked back and still holding the dead infant, said to the Buddha: “The teaching of the mustard seed is complete. I now see that all people face death and suffering.”

We grieve for those who were killed in our city, and for their loved ones — and we also grieve for all the people that are dying today all over the world. For the people who are dying in Africa of AIDS; the people who are starving to death in impoverished regions of the world. Today, at this very moment, there are babies that are dying of malnutrition, young children maimed by violence and greed. We must also be aware of that. And we must remember that this great earth that we sit on is in agony from the unskillful plundering of earth, air and water.

And so the teaching of the mustard seed reminds us of the dying and suffering that is going on all the time in this world. No one is untouched by these aspects of life. In another sutra, the Buddha is reported to have said that people come to Bodhicitta, the mind of enlightenment, in three different ways. There are those who, upon hearing of a tragedy in the next village, realize the truth of suffering and death. And they vow to accomplish the way to raise their awakened mind. But that’s a very few number of people.

For most people it’s when someone in their own village is afflicted. Which is the case with us. This is our village.And, so, upon hearing about the suffering and death of so many people here, we can raise the Bodhi Mind — and realize that we must end our own suffering, and that of others, by seeking the truth within ourselves.

And the third group — the most hardheaded of the lot — must wait until the suffering touches them personally. Until it is they, themselves, who carry the illness or the loss of another. And only then can they truly realize The Way.

But does it really matter, as long as you see the way, whether or not you realize it because you have a diagnosis, or your loved one has a diagnosis? Or whether or not you realized it today, as we were chanting the names of many of those who died in the tragedy? Or whether it was when you heard about Bhopal, many years ago, that you realized that suffering is everywhere?

And what is that Bodhicitta? What is that Mind of Buddha that we raise? It’s the teaching of Prajna, of Great Wisdom, which excludes nothing. Which includes everything — the black smoke and the blue sky. Did you notice that the names of the perpetrators weren’t on the list? Oh, they didn’t die in the crash? Why were the names of the perpetrators not on the list? Did you notice that when the Ino gave the dedication, that he included the suffering of those who caused this event? Because nothing is left out. You cannot leave anything out.

And we can¹t leave out the anger and sadness we may be feeling right now. We must acknowledge our feelings, because not acknowledging them is what splits them off from our experience of consciousness and creates ideas of an Other¹ which embodies what we cannot acknowledge: the bad, the evil, the separate-from-me. This is what creates a great and horrible suffering in the world.

Maybe that doesn’t seem to make sense — and, yet, that is it. Of course it doesn’t make sense. What’s this about making sense? It’s a paradox — it’s a reality. We are, at once, a form that experiences emotions — fear, and anger and delusion. We experience desire, craving, hatred, aversion. But as long as we don’t solidify around these things — solidify by raising them up as truth, or repressing them as nonexistent, then we can be fresh and free in each moment, acknowledging and letting go in the flow of natural reactions. By not solidifying around our emotions, by not giving them a name and a rationale and an ideology, we refrain from creating Oisms¹ ¬ racism, nationalism, yes, even Buddhism. The Oisms¹ become our prisons.

There’s nowhere to stand — there’s no place to hold onto. And in that “no place to hold onto” is our complete and utter freedom. So we read these names of those who were lost on Tuesday, and then we sit — and for each one of us different things arise. And let’s say that rage arises. And we see it arise, and we just watch it — and it falls away. And fear arises, and we just look at it — and it falls away. And maybe it doesn’t fall away for weeks. And, yet, we know we have to continue to sit, and we have to continue to observe it — because, eventually, it will fall away. If we’re awake, and aware, and we haven’t started believing the story line. And that’s why we sit.

Trust it — the power of the practice. It changes us. And as Dogen Zenji tells us, even a single person sitting changes the world. As I look around the room, almost every other person I see has been involved in some kind of volunteer activity. And those of you who were not, please don’t fall into the ultimate kind of neurotic story about how you weren’t of help. You were of help, you are of help. By being present … by listening, by standing in the street. By looking in the eyes of someone who can’t look. By listening to someone who’s filled with rage and wants to kill. Simply to bear witness — to really listen to them. These are the acts of a Bodhisattva — to truly serve in that way. We have to drop our striving, desiring and clinging ego. Drop that for a moment and simply listen to what you don’t want to hear. Because nothing is excluded from our life. Everything that appears in our life is our life. This tragedy is our life. We are implicated and responsible. Because we’re here — because we’re interconnected with all of the people involved. With everyone who was involved. And only by owning that responsibility can we begin to make things change — to make a difference.

It is all connected. There’s this tragedy; there’s our own Buddha mind; there’s the reality of suffering in the world. There’s our rage; there’s our fear. All of it is within the one great bright pearl of the world.

Can we see that bright pearl in the midst of the soot, and the black smoke, and the choked feelings that we all feel for those that died? And realize there is nothing that is left out of this. And that our work is to be as spacious as we can be. To open our hearts as greatly as we can, and not deny our feelings or those of others around us. Do not deny them their experience — but see that as part of the great, precious, bright pearl of our lives.

This is our opportunity to practice deeply, in everything that we do. Soon enough, the television sets will start with their endless programming and commercials again, the Hudson will fill up with tour boats, and as Chijo very humorously said, after he had his rakusu and robe stolen yesterday, he knew that New York was getting back to normal again. Yeah, things will get back to normal. Will you? Will you?