Saturday, 30 December 2017

Why Do We Do This?

By Rory A.A. Hinton













I was raised as an agnostic. "No mind? No matter. No matter? Never mind." This sums up my attitude at the time. The only religious conversation I had with my father was at the dinner table one evening when I was a young boy. My mother had taught me a simple prayer that I was told to pray before each meal: "God is great. God is good. Let us thank Him for this food. Amen." I did what I was told. It eventually became more of a poem than a prayer for me. I liked the cadence of it, but that did not prevent me from wondering why I had to recite it.
     After I prayed this prayer before dinner this one evening, I asked my father, incredulously: "Why do we do this?" Only now (forty years later) do I understand the wisdom not only of his response to my question, but of my parent's decision to have me continually pray (meal after meal) in the first place. He looked at me and said, insightfully: "Fine. We won't pray anymore."
     I lived as a spiritual materialist from my late youth to my early adulthood. This was a form of rebellion against my agnostic upbringing (Curious George was my spirit animal growing up, so my monkey mind was in high gear). An interviewer once asked C.G. Jung near the end of his life whether he now believed in God. Jung answered: "Now? Difficult to answer. I know. I don't need to believe. I know." I wanted to know like Jung.
     After ten years of living as a Gnostic Christian, my early agnostic roots got the very best of what I thought was me. Curiously enough, it was Jung's Forward to D.T. Suzuki's Introduction To Zen Buddhism that woke me up out of my Gnostic slumber. From here, it was only a small step from realizing the illusion of God to realizing the illusion of Ego. These illusions long contained in the thought-cluttered bucket named 'Rory' kept me from all that we need and from all that we love.
     I took this best of steps at the worst of times in my life. I had finished a Ph.D and started an academic career. However, I could not find full-time academic work. All I could do was teach courses on a part-time basis for a fraction of a tenured salary. The struggle to make a living in the career of my choice, coupled with my maddening confusion over just what this "I" was, drove me to literally sit and do nothing. The bottom of the bucket was on the verge of bursting.
     During this time I read Philip Kapleau's The Three Pillars Of Zen. This introduced me to the practice of shikantaza. I sat shikantaza on my own until I started sitting at a local Zen Center. This experience was instructive, but not long lived. My wife at the time was resentful toward me practicing Zen at the center, and did not want me to practice there any longer. I had to make a choice. I was married with three children. Loving them was my top priority. I wrote the Roshi at the Zen Center and said that I would not be sitting with the sangha any longer because of my situation at home. He wrote me back a very short letter. It was to the point. He wrote: "You are obviously not ready." He knew.
     Not long after this my marriage ended in a very difficult divorce. The experience left me bankrupt (in every way). I was without hope. As I sat in this hopelessness I read Chögyam Trungpa's Crazy Wisdom and felt a hint of freedom for the first time in my life. The insight that to have no hope is to have no fear, and to have no fear is to be free, eventually led me to practice at a local Shambhala Center. However, as I sat at the center, I started to feel like I was missing something. What is there to miss? This gave me serious pause. It was something that I was somehow not unaware of, but at the time I did not know what it was.
     As I sat in the foyer of the Shambhala Center one evening before a scheduled sitting, an older and seasoned member of the sangha noticed that I was wearing mala beads. He looked at me and asked: "Do you wear those for fashion or for practice?" This felt like a fatal blow from a Zen master's stick. For one brief shining moment time stopped. My answer was as impetuous as his question. Without thinking I answered: "Both." I did not know who or what was speaking, but at that moment I realized what I was missing (and why): the sitting style of cool boredom found within the Zen tradition. His use of 'fashion' made me think of 'style.' At that moment style and practice became one. I had to experience another style of practice in order to figure out what was best for me.

Shōbōgenzō


   












     What do I mean by "best"? The best answer I can give is to say that zazen (single-minded sitting) in the Zen tradition grounds me in basic goodness, enjoyment, and ease. This is a commentary on my history, of course. It is what it is. And part of this history consists in my discovery of Dōgen Zenji in the midst of my various life experiences (briefly described above). This feeling is therefore not fleeting, but founded on and informed by Dōgen's demonstration of the dharma. His "Sōtō Zen" is the threadless red thread that threads through the fabric of my life, providing wise guidance as the endless ensō of it is so continues beyond the point of death (Dōgen "died in the posture of zazen," as Hee-Jin Kim points out).
   "On the great road of buddha ancestors there is always unsurpassable practice, continuous and sustained. It forms the circle of the way and is never cut off. Between aspiration, practice, enlightenment, and nirvana, there is not a moment’s gap; continuous practice is the circle of the way. This being so, continuous practice is unstained, not forced by you or others. The power of this continuous practice confirms you as well as others. It means your practice affects the entire earth and the entire sky in the ten directions. Although not noticed by others or by yourself, it is so."
     These words of Dōgen remind me of the wisdom behind my parent's decision to have me experience the continual practice of praying. There was a method to my parent's madness here (whether noticed on their part or not): it was only through this experience that I was ready and able to ask my father about its significance, and willing to hear the answer he gave me. And it is only now, after experiencing all of the methodological madness of my life up to this point, that I lovingly approach (day after day) the gateless gate of the Great Matter and ask, ironically: Why do we do this?

Sources
Chögyam Trungpa. Crazy Wisdom. Shambhala. 2001.
Dōgen Zenji. The Essential Dōgen. Shambhala. 2013.
Dōgen Zenji. Treasury Of The True Dharma Eye (ed. Kazuaki Tanahashi). Shambhala. 2012.
D.T. Suzuki. Introduction To Zen Buddhism. Grove/Atlantic. 1991.
Hee-Jin Kim. Eihei Dogen: Mystical Realist. Wisdom Publications. 2000.
Philip Kapleau. The Three Pillars Of Zen. Anchor. 1989.