Dharma Talk by Volker Kenko Ecke

Volker Kenko Ecke started his Zen practice in 2001 at Zen on Main in Northampton, MA, where he continues to live — and where he now practices with the Oxbow Zen Sangha (oxbowzen.org). In 2005 he received Jukai from Pat Enkyo O’Hara Roshi. After serving as Shuso in 2011 he continues to deepen his Zen studies as a Senior Student with Roshi Enkyo O’Hara and the teachers at the Village Zendo in Manhattan, NY. Kenko teaches mathematics and mathematics education at Westfield State University, where he also hosts a weekly sit for faculty and staff. Kenko and his partner Jo-Ei appreciate their ongoing connection with the Santa Barbara Zen Center after sabbaticals at UCSB in 2012 and 2019.

Full Transcript

All right, welcome. Welcome. Good morning, everybody. It's so wonderful to see all of you, see your faces, to be connected with you this morning. I was just struck by the metaphor, Nenzen, you mentioned, of too many windows open. You know, if I look at my mind sometimes, it looks like there are too many windows open. Too many are just running away and doing their thing and that sort of things moving in it. And it's like, whoa, so much activity.

Today here in Massachusetts, it's cloudy and cool. I think the high today is 60 and it's sort of a little drizzly, which is nice after last week, it was really, really hot and really, really humid. And it looks like next week, it will again be hot and humid. And I know out in the West, you guys have also had your unexpected heat and warmth and even more so up in the Pacific Northwest.

The other things that are on my mind is also the evolving pandemic. With the vaccinations, it looks like things have shifted quite a bit here in this country. In Europe, I talk to my mother regularly in Germany, so it looks like they're a little bit behind with the vaccinations overall, but it's also making progress. And then of course, there's much of the rest of the world that doesn't have a lot of vaccines yet. So a lot remains to be done. And even here in this country, with the Delta variant, there are pockets where maybe we have to again be a little bit careful and care for each other and protect each other by keeping our distance a little bit and maybe wearing masks. So staying in touch with what is actually going on.

I wonder how the few minutes of zazen today were for you. What did you notice? What did you experience? What was that like?

So today, I'd like to talk a little bit about a koan. I think that that has really touched me as I studied it, and it feels like it continues to unfold. This is from the Blue Cliff Record, case 27. Yunmen's "The body exposed in the golden wind."

A student asked Master Yunmen, "How is it when the tree withers and the leaves fall?" Yunmen said, "Body exposed in the golden wind."

There is a verse that goes along with that koan, and it goes as follows:

Since the question has the source, the answer too is in the same place.

Three phases should be distinguished.

An arrow point flies far into the void

Over the great plains, chilling wind blasts, howling, wailing

In the eternal sky, intermittent misty rains.

Just like today.

Yunmen was a Zen teacher back in China. He studied with various teachers. He was the student who came to his teacher, and his teacher kept closing the door on him until eventually he stuck his foot in the door and thought, "Ha, I got my way in." But his teacher slammed the door and broke his foot, and he saw something. I don't recommend that as a general practice. There was a lot of harshness, but also a lot of honest questions that really drove him. Ultimately, he studied with Suifang, who we heard from a little bit from Nenzen a few weeks ago. Also, hard, arduous practice, lots of shaking.

But here the teaching has a different feeling to me. Like he just uses words. "How is it when the tree withers and the leaves fall?" And I have the sense that this was an honest and deep question for the student. This was not casual. Maybe like we heard before, he didn't dare asking the question before, and it took some time, it took some sitting, it took some practice to really bring it up for the teacher.

For me, what it brings up are the three heavenly messengers, going back to the story of the Buddha: old age, sickness, and death. What is it like when the tree withers and the leaves fall? And the leaves fall for all of us. So how is it for you?

Susan Moon has this great book. It's called "This is Getting Old." I love it. I love it. This is getting old. You know, at times for me, there's sort of the anxiety of realizing that, oh my God, you know, the leaves are falling. I don't want the leaves to fall. And sort of all my usual reactions come up. It's like, well, I want to control it. I want to eat healthy. I want to exercise. And suddenly, sort of quietly in the back of my mind, there is sort of an unspoken belief that that's going to hold it at bay, right, for at least a little bit longer. Well, maybe. So, noticing the attempt to control what feels uncomfortable in the anxiety around it.

And I'm also reminded again of the poem, "Since the question has the source, the answer too is in the same place." I'm very intrigued by that. So here the student is showing up and says to the teacher, "How is it when the tree withers and the leaves fall?" What is he really hoping for? What is he really hoping for? Is he asking the teacher because he thinks that the teacher has been there and has figured it out and is going to give him the answer that's going to also maybe apply to his life? Right. It's like looking for the answer outside of himself. That's what we do. You know, we read books, we listen to podcasts, we listen to Dharma talks, we ask people on the path who have spent some time on the path. But listen closely to your question. What exactly are you expecting? Are you expecting them to give you the answer? Are you hoping for that?

So what does it feel like to be the tree withering and to notice the leaves falling? What does it mean to be naked and exposed in being the tree, in withering, in being the leaves that are falling? What does it mean to be fully exposed to that?

Well, it strikes me that the monk, the student, allowed herself or allowed himself to be fully exposed and to really show up with that question and say, this is what's in my heart. This is at the bottom of my discomfort. This is the bottom of my concern. And Yunmen in a way acknowledges this exposed body in the question. I think for the longest time when I would read these koans, I would sort of have the sense that it's like, you know, the Zen master smart ass coming up with the right answer and the student was all wrong. It's like the master has the answers and the student doesn't. But here it feels almost grandmotherly in how the teacher acknowledges how the student shows up fully exposed. Willing to be with that discomfort and uncertainty that I don't know. I'm at my wits' end. I've tried everything and nothing has filled that hunger.

And then Yunmen continues. "Body exposed in the golden wind." That golden wind, it's like it doesn't feel like a golden wind, right? It feels like in the verse, it sort of beautifully says, "Chilling over the great plains, chilling wind blasts, howling, wailing." You know, that's sort of what I feel like when I realize that the leaves are falling. It's like, oh, no, oh, this doesn't feel like a golden kind of wind. So that's intriguing. Body exposed in the golden wind.

Well, maybe it's a little bit like our zazen, you know, experiencing the body, breathing. Maybe sometimes the breath breathing the body, noticing the feelings, the sensations in the body, the thoughts in the mind. Noticing the anxiety that perhaps is there. Noticing the fear. Noticing that we may not be able to think of a way out. And there is some clarity in that, right? There's some honesty. This is how it is right now.

And maybe also noticing our usual reaction, what Joko Beck calls our chief feature. It's sort of our preferred way of dealing with life when it's uncomfortable. For me, it's often sort of a distraction and a sort of trying to ignore it, right? It's like, oh, let me pretend for a moment that this isn't here, and maybe then I'll feel better. Other chief features may be blame. It's like, oh, you know, this is all what's wrong with the world and blah, blah, blah, and they really shouldn't, and they really should, and they do, and blah, blah, blah. Or maybe a chief feature is judging ourselves. It's like, oh, I've gotten myself into this mess. I'm really the worst person ever, and I suffer this just because I'm a total and utter failure ever, and I have to do everything I can to make sure that nobody finds out about that.

So noticing our usual reactions, the ruts that our mind and that our hearts have gone down so often. These different dimensions sort of remind me of the greed, anger, and ignorance. It's like, oh, let me distract myself. Let me go into ignorance. Oh, I don't know that. Oh, now I feel better. Or maybe there's the anger at the world of setting things up in a way that's just terrible and unfair, and just wanting the comfort wherever we can find it.

So here we feel the chilling wind blast, the howling and the wailing, but maybe there's a little bit of space that we can actually see that we're in the same wind blast, in the same howling, that we're doing the same wailing that we've done over and over so many times before.

I remember going on sesshin, and I was sort of getting into the space of being physically uncomfortable in sort of the first days. I knew my neck is hurting, and my head is hurting, and my knees are hurting, and the food is not what I want, and I get up too early, and I can't really sleep, and it's all. And I'm sort of getting into this mind space of blaming the teacher, and that the schedule is all wrong, and this is all wrong. And all of a sudden noticing that, oh, I had exactly the same story playing the last time I was on sesshin during these early days. Isn't that interesting? You know, sometimes there's a space that opens up when we can actually see the way that we're trying to get away from this moment. And in my experience, sesshin is a beautiful way of being able to see that. It's not comfortable, it's not at all necessary. But there is something in the discomfort that brings some clarity to what is actually going on.

So then this breath, the sensation, this moment of clarity, recognizing this moment of confusion, maybe there's a golden wind that's blowing through us, seeing things as they are. And as it says in the poem, "In the eternal sky, intermittent misty rains," you know, it's like, this is where the mind goes when the mind is uncomfortable. And then it rains for a while, and I'm pulled into blame and anger and avoidance. But they're just intermittent rains. So easy to think that's me and there's something wrong with me because that's what happened. I should not be getting angry. I should not blame others. I should not try to distract myself. This is terrible. This is wrong. Well, you know, they're just intermittent misty rains that have come and gone through our own history of growing up. And that have just become part of our way of dealing with things. They maybe also had a good place at various times in our lives. But maybe we can ask ourselves, do they still serve? Or can we let the rains come and the rains go? And then we're soaked all through.

How is it when the tree withers and the leaves fall? Body exposed in the golden wind.

And I think also not just on an individual level. I think Nenzen and Emi in the last weeks really also pointed to the sangha level. That this is not a solitary path. That I think as Dogen said, only a Buddha and a Buddha. One is not enough. We need each other. And just like in the koan, the student came to the teacher. And I think both the student and the teacher benefited from that encounter.

So on a sangha level, we find out in early in the pandemic that, oh, we can't be together in person. Oh, that's terrible. Oh, that's terrible. And then somebody sets up a Zoom. Creating a space for community. For an unexpected intimacy. And a shared space for being silent and still together. If somebody looks at that from the outside, that doesn't seem to make any sense whatsoever. Like it's like, wait a second. You connect through Zoom, through video, through sound, and then you just sit together. You have your eyes lowered. You sit in silence. No channel of Zoom transmits any of that, we might think. And yet there's a golden wind in that. All of us, I think, have experienced that. It's a golden wind in just knowing, being together. You know, taking the seat.

So there's an action that arises. You know, so we see with clarity and then an idea comes up. We don't know from where. Similarly, on a global level, with the vaccines, with the climate change. We see it, and maybe there's an action that comes up for us. Maybe a small action. Maybe just writing a letter. Maybe making a donation. Maybe talking to our neighbors how this really has us concerned. Doesn't have to be a particular action, but an action that comes out of a clear recognition of what is actually true at this moment.

So let me close with a poem by Derek Walcott that's called "Love After Love." That I think illuminates a little bit of that as well.

Time will come when with elation

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door. In your own mirror

and each will smile at the other's welcome

and say, sit here, eat.

You will love again the stranger who was yourself.

Give wine, give bread, give back your heart

to itself. To the stranger who has loved you

all your life. Who has loved you all your life.

Whom you ignored for another.

Who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes.

Peel your image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

Thank you.