Full Trancript

The entire time I was traveling, I was somehow reflecting on home. I don't know why this came up for me, but what makes home? What is it that makes you feel at home? Those questions have always been much more interesting and appealing and compelling to me than any answers, which probably explains how I got in this spot. I like questions. But I was really exploring what home means. And one thing I know is that you're my home. People are my home. The Sangha is my home. The greater Sangha is my home. And so I'm very happy to see your faces and to be in quiet with you.

While I was traveling, somehow I took advantage or maybe something took advantage of me. I didn't really feel like I made the choice, but of course I made the choice to pay attention a little differently to my life. Because I was not giving a Dharma talk every Thursday and Sunday. And I wasn't having Dokusan all the time, although I had Dokusans there. I sat with Minnesota Zen Center. I sat every day, of course, on my own. But I started to pay attention to life in a different way. I don't know how to describe it exactly, but with every breath sitting, with every step into these museums and Zendos and the people in the Zen community with whom I was visiting and friends, I just started seeing every moment like very, very regularly as an encounter with life, with a capital L. And whatever form it took, whatever life form it took, whether that was in joy or in sadness or in confusion or shock or happiness, just this paying attention very broadly, like my eyes were really open in a way all the time. It was very fluid for me. It was kind of a relief to just be with whatever was happening instead of having an idea about what was happening. To have that occasionally is normal. To have it kind of as a constant was an unusual and liberating thing for me.

And one of our ancestors, Shitou, some of you have heard of Shitou, he was very important in early Chan. Chan later became Zen. That's what this is. And he had this wonderful phrase, "what meets the eye," in other words, whatever meets the eye is the way. So whatever meets your eye is the way. In other words, this true self that we always think maybe could be improved upon or maybe if only our partner were better, we'd be better, all of that stuff, all the things we think maybe out there that would help us be our true self, so it's not only here, it's everywhere. Your own heart-mind is everything that you see is the way. Everything that you see and can appreciate is the way. Everything you see is Buddha nature. Everything shines with light. Everything you see is actually you.

So Joan Sutherland, who I'm very fond of right now, I'm reading a book of hers, so I finished it on the airplane there about Vimalakirti that I hope we'll study someday, not quite yet. She is a Zen teacher. She said this, "What does it mean for each of us to be wholeheartedly part of this world? How do we fall willingly into the frightened, blasted, beautiful, tender world just as it is?" And I think this is what we do in our practice. We fall willingly into this life. And that's what I was experiencing in my trip. I was falling willingly into whatever I met, whatever I could see with my eyes. And I think that's about being here in each moment, just here, without any ideas about what happened in the past, without any ideas of how it should be different here, or if only I could make it different later, just this. You've heard a lot of just this, I know. And it raises some questions for me that I like to explore, but where I find myself, where we find ourselves, because I'm not doing this alone. We're doing this together.

And as you know from your own zazen, our practice teaches us that the way to come to terms with this, you know, the frightening, beautiful, joyful, sorrowful catastrophe of life is with the understanding that it is not self-consciousness, with the understanding that it brings us closer to all of that blasted, frightening, confusing, scary, joyful, sorrowful, beautiful stuff. That we're supposed to not turn away, but rather get closer and closer to it, more deeply, with what is here, just this. Not the stories we've had about it, which I do a lot of. Not those stories about how I'm imprinted. And not the stories of how idealized it should be, or I should be, just this. What meets your eyes right here. And I think part of the job is, of course, for all of us, not just this one, to encourage others to do this as well, as skillfully, as kindly, and also as directly, like Manjushri sometimes, bringing the sword down to do that, turning that light inwards over and over again.

So I wanted to share with you some stories about what I gave my attention to on this trip. What I saw and what it seems to be teaching me during this little period of travel while I was gone, when I found myself having this intention to keep my eyes open and to be present to whatever arrived, whatever, including all of my moods, in and out of what arrived. But first, there's a relevant koan. Sorry. There's always a relevant koan. And I think some of you have heard this before. It's from the Book of Serenity. It's number 49. It's Dongshan and Yunmen. When Dongshan was ready to leave his teacher, Yunmen. So Dongshan was ready to leave his teacher because he'd been given the right to teach. So the teacher kicks you out, right? You're on your own now. And so Yunmen said to Dongshan, time for you to go. Go. Go out and teach. At that point, Dongshan asked his teacher, later on, if someone asks me, what is it? What is the essence of your teaching? How can I depict your reality is the way it's written. But what is the essence of your teaching? What can I say? How shall I reply? And Yunmen said, just this is it. And when he heard that, Dongshan was confused. He didn't really get it. And he sank into thought. And a teacher can see that from a mile away. And so Yunmen said to Dongshan, you're in charge of this great matter. You're in charge from now on. You must be most thorough going. Here. So Dongshan left Yunmen and he was still perplexed. Deep in thought. He didn't quite get what his teacher was trying to tell him. And he proceeded along the path where he came to a stream. He entered the stream, a real stream, not just the stream of the way. He entered the stream. He's wading across the stream. And he suddenly stopped and he saw his reflection in the water. He saw something in the water and he had an understanding. He looked down into the stream and he saw something. And then he wrote this poem. Just don't seek from others or you'll be far estranged from yourself. Now I go on alone, but everywhere I meet it, it now is me. I now am not it. One must understand in this way to merge with suchness.

So my first stop on this trip was attending my older son's graduation from his residency program. Some of you know Ben his whole life. It was of course a very proud moment. And what I saw though with my opened eyes was something not just my parental motherly pride, but with this broader open eye, I saw all of these parents. Every residency program, at least at Harvard, has only 10 people in it. Only 10 residents in orthopedics and psychiatry and OB-GYN, whatever it is. He's only 10. It's an interesting thing I found out about. But I saw all these parents and all these young adults. I mean they're grownups. They're all 30 and plus. And I saw them in this tapestry of humanity. Awkward, graceful, bumbling, subtle and smooth, dancers, clumsy. I saw everybody like this whole fabric just like us. And they were perfect. And I had this incredible joyful feeling like nothing has to change. None of these people have to be different. Nobody has to change an iota to meet any kind of standard for anything. They just have to be fully themselves and awake to that. To own themselves. To just be with themselves. They'll be able to be with other people. It felt like nothing but love. Even if they didn't know it. I knew it. On all of its forms. And imperfect and messy and perfect all together. And I knew that everything was really already okay. To have that kind of like, oh, it's great just as it is. Nothing has to change. Really. Nothing has to be different. For me to be happy. For everybody here to manifest who they are and get through this lifetime. It's really great. I couldn't express it. I've not expressed it until right now. But that's maybe I told you in the car. I don't know. Mariko was kind enough to deliver me to the airport at a god-awful hour of four in the morning or something and pick me up. But it was a big awakening moment. Like, oh my gosh, isn't this beautiful?

So this is in our tradition, waking up to the great matter of life and death. Waking up to the great matter of life and death. It means just being you. That's all that anybody's asking. Just do you. Just like this. Just like the way you are. With a bum knee, with a stiff neck, with your bones falling to pieces. Whatever it is. Your hair falling out for some of us. Whatever it is. Just be you. Like you. And enjoy it. Just be you. Troubled and happy and full of spinning thoughts while you're sitting. Just do that. Whatever it is. Just do that. It's hard to accept that there's nothing you have to do that's any different. Ironically, that's hard to accept, I think. It's ironic that you don't have to do anything and it's hard to accept that you don't have to do anything. You think you'd feel great about that. But now we want to fix things. We want to improve things. We think there's an idealized version of ourselves that if we just do this, we'll be even more awake and alive. But no, no, that's not it. This is it. This is it. Just this. Right now. In every single moment. So all we have to do is actually be with and meet this one through these eyes. Everything is here. We're creating that. Everything is here. To meet who is here with us. And respond as true to yourself as you can. Without any fixed views about the outcome.

So another thing I've already mentioned was this reflection about home. I stayed in multiple places. Homes of friends. Homes of a student. Homes of friends. And I found on more than one occasion I would put my head down on a pillow in one place I'd never stayed before. Other places I have stayed before. I put my head on the pillow not thinking this was going to happen. And I'd go, oh, I'm home. Like, what is that? Like my body knew this was home. I asked Mike about this and he said, oh, well, you're safe. You feel safe with this group. You feel safe. You feel completely safe. So you can go back to being a little girl safe in the company of your family. And that's exactly how I felt. Like that feeling. Oh, I'm safe. What makes some place safe? I can't point at it. It wasn't the pillow. It wasn't the bed. It wasn't. I don't know what it was. I can't identify it. Someone in here knows. And I listened. What makes you at home? That's something for you to think about. There is nothing familiar in any of those places to suggest home. And yet somebody here knew this is home.

So my next big eyeful was about my friend Taizen Gendo Mark Adams facing his last days. Last Saturday, I got a call from a friend, from Jikoji, who told me he had noticed my face on Taizen Gendo Mark's website. I had given a talk to his Zendo at the beginning of COVID. I'd given a talk online during his Ango for Shuso before his Shuso ceremony. And he saw my face and there's some recording of me playing the flute at Kobun's memorial site at Jikoji. I actually haven't seen that recording, but I will. Anyway, he saw my face on there. And so he called me and said, do you know that Taizen is dying on Wednesday? And I said, Taizen is dying on Wednesday? His assisted suicide was Wednesday morning and his last Dharma talk was Sunday. And I'm sure he'd like to see you. And I said, I'll be there. Not online. Taizen's in California. I hadn't talked to Taizen in just about over a year. The last time I spoke with him, we had this very intense conversation where he was very upset that everybody, especially at the Zen centers where I practice, had not gone and committed completely to a vegan menu. There were eggs at Jikoji and he was pretty upset about it. And I said, you know, I have chickens. I did then. And my chickens do have a really great life, probably a better life than many people. And would you object to that? And he goes, no, but most people don't get their chickens like that. And there shouldn't be. He felt so passionately about it. It was his offering, what he could give to the world was this. It was really important to him. That was the last time I spoke to him. It was about a year and two months ago. Two months after that, he was diagnosed with cancer. Mouth and throat cancer. And I remember that conversation with him because I was struck by his profound sense of suffering of the animals that we eat. And I sent him, I do identify with the animals. And he said, I have to think about that. But I felt his passion and I felt his frustration and I felt his passion about this, what he had to give.

Fast forward to Sunday. There he is giving his last Dharma talk. I don't think anybody else in my lineage knew he was dying. I don't think anybody knew. I told them. I told Gerow. I told the Sangha at Jikoji. I asked that there be something in the newsletter this week. Mike wrote something. We wrote something together for Taizen. So Sunday morning I sat with Taizen and his Sangha for his last Dharma talk. There he is. Same beautiful, charming, big bear of a guy facing his death. Right there. Right there. Facing his death. I saw my friend saying goodbye and transparently showing what it is to be on this path and facing death. Imminently. With a full, open mind and open heart.

You should know that in Zen we have a way of speaking about the great matter, which was what he had been teaching for the last year. The great matter. There's a verse on the Han, which is this big wooden block that we hit at monasteries to call people into the Zendo. Both of you have hit on that Han at Jikoji. On ours it doesn't say this, but in many monasteries it has this phrase. And it's also sometimes chanted before bedtime in some monasteries. It's an exhortation to practice. And it goes something like this with some variation. May I respectfully remind you, great is the matter of birth and death. All is impermanent, quickly passing. Be awake each moment. Don't waste this, your life. And there's also a departing phrase that's common in Japanese, which is o dai ji ni. It means literally, you take care of the great matter. It's just a colloquialism, and yet they're referencing the great matter. You know what that is.

So Thich Nhat Hanh teaches us that monks, in the entire practice of Zen Buddhism, are instructed by the Buddha to contemplate life and death, especially death, on a daily basis. We are to remember the five remembrances. I don't know if you remember when we studied the five remembrances. I don't know if you were here Elizabeth, or you Patty. These are the five remembrances. I am of the nature to grow old. There is no way to escape growing old. I am of the nature to have ill health. There is no way to escape ill health. I am of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death. All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them. My actions are the ground upon which I stand. Those are called the five remembrances. And the reason that Buddha wants us to contemplate death every day is that if you become aware of death, the byproduct of your awareness of death is you're alive. And you live. You live your life. You don't waste your life. In our practice of meditation, in deep meditation, we sometimes see with these eyes, with this body and mind, that birth and death are inseparable. Thich Nhat Hanh refers to this as continuity. This is your birthday, it's your continuation day.

And he likes to explain it like this, which I really love. Before the moment of birth, were you no one? After the moment of your birth, are you someone? It seems as if we pass from non-being to being, but there is nothing in the world that is like that. That's what he says.

And he gives this example, which many people have heard. I'm paraphrasing him now. A cloud existed as water in the ocean, as heat in the sun, as well. It's water vapor, this whole cycle of water. There is no cloud by itself, is there? And there is no cloud, even as it exists in front of your eyes. It's changing. It's only a continuation of the water vapor cycle. The cloud does not pass from non-being into being, and so its nature is not birth, just so its nature is not death. There is no passing from something to nothing. It just doesn't exist that way. A cloud cannot pass that way from being to not being. It's just moving. It's just changing. It becomes something else. It just doesn't remain what we saw it as, as a cloud. Even for an instant, it's not a cloud. The cloud we saw an instant ago isn't still that cloud. This passing, though, is not into nothing. It's not nothing, this passing. We don't know what it is, but the nature of the cloud is no birth and no death.

And so to you and me and my dear friend Tizon, we all continue in other forms. And you should know that this particular awareness of the great matter of birth and death is the miracle, really, of our practice of meditation. Through sitting with what is and just what is, what arrives in each moment, moment to moment, with each breath, with each step, with each engagement, with each encounter, with whatever is arriving to your eyes, all of it is the way. And we see things deeply as continuations. And we see things without fear. This is the actual invitation of Zen practice. This is the invitation.

In the Shobogenzo, Dogen Zenji teaches us that this life, its time and its cause and its effect are not merely objective structures of reality. This life, we can't look at it and say, oh, these things happened objectively. Instead, we, like a cloud, our forms empty. You remember empty Shunyata from our month-long discussion of the Heart Sutra. We, in the cloud, are empty of any inherent fixed nature. And everything is just like this.

Dogen famously writes about ash and firewood in the Shobogenzo. He says this, "Once firewood turns to ash, the ash cannot turn back into being firewood. Still, one should not take the view that it's ashes afterward and firewood before." So Dogen is showing us that our conventional way of seeing our own lives is not the only view. At the level of emptiness, the highest truth that we can experience, there is no after. There is no before. There is no birth and death.

Dogen goes on and says, we should realize that although firewood is at the Dharma stage, in other words, it's the stick stage, the thing-ness stage of firewood. Firewood is at the thing-ness stage of firewood. And that this is possessed of before and after in our conventional way of thinking. But the deepest reality of the firewood, which is this stick, is beyond before and after, beyond words even. It's realized in oneness.

So one should not see firewood merely from our own kind of egocentric way, our attached perspective of something that would be really useful to build a fire. That's firewood to us. Rather, we can see firewood, whilst also letting go of the requirement of it being firewood. Right? Letting go of its usefulness to us. In this way, we can become, we can meet the firewood. Because it is not only firewood. There is no longer any causal chain from firewood to ash as known before or after. Only the awareness of this here now and how it warms our feet when it burns too.

Dogen says this about our lives. Life is a stage of time and death is a stage of time. Like, for example, winter and spring. So he's saying that life lives fully in the awareness of just this, this moment. This is life right now. And this is beyond time. Just this. Death is a stage of time. Just this. Death embraced fully in the awareness of this is also beyond time. And that's what I got to share with Taisen. Just this. That moment. Saying, thank you. I love you. So wonderful to walk this way with you. I'm so grateful. We ran into each other on the path of Jikoji.

So while I'm completely certain that on my three weeks away from you, I missed quite a lot of what there is to see because, you know, I'm all I got through eyeballs. I did notice like winter and spring, joy and grief. And saw them as seasons of the heart. As I encountered the great joy of watching my older son step fully into his own life to see him throw his lot in with all of us who are suffering. He's a psychiatrist. I met my happiness and pride and joy.

When I noticed that home is where we are right now, always right now. I understood that wherever we find ourselves, whatever we're faced with, whatever meets our eyes, that's the way. That's home. There are no detours from the way. You can't get lost. Everywhere we are is home. To engage and recognize our engagement with whomever we meet, with whatever we feel, with all the crazy stuff that's going on in this head and body. To really care about this one and everyone you encounter, everyone you meet, you're home. That's when you're home. Every moment, every circumstance, there's another chance to experience just this as it is, rather than how we wish it could be. This is it. So we experience this is home. We have that choice.

Leonard Cohen on the way home from seeing my husband yesterday. I heard Leonard Cohen singing the song called "Going Home." That's what came up on Spotify. I'm not going to read you all the lyrics, but I'm going to read you some of them. "Going home without my sorrow, going home sometime tomorrow, going home to where it's better than before. Going home without my burden, going home behind the curtain, going home without the costume that I wore."

As I sat with Taisan Sangha, we all said goodbye to dear Taisan. I saw that even this goodbye is home. Even goodbye. When we don't reject our own thoughts and feelings, when we don't try to look away from the things that are uncomfortable, when we admit to ourselves what we need to admit to ourselves, stop playing the shell game with ourselves about our own lives. When we admit all that to ourselves, that means the grieving and the rage and the flashes of bravery and generosity in ourselves and in others. All of that is just this, and it's our home.

So as my friend Taisan left this form, which is also formlessness, I met my sadness with the joy of having walked with him on the path and with his Sangha. All of us are refugees in whatever time and place we find ourselves, and this, wherever it is, is home. Whether the moment is joyful, full of pride, sad, full of heartache, devastating, full of grief. This is all me and this is all us and it's all you.

So I want to share with you Taisan's death poem. It's a tradition in the Zen world for priests, teachers, to write haiku at the edge of their death. And Taisan, I have a whole book of them I can share with you, but I thought I'd share with you Taisan's death poem. "Tender and fierce, the clock, the whole thing. Ding!"

Thank you for your attention. I'm going to stop the recording. Are you sure I see? Yes, I really want to stop recording.