A Zen Koan, "What is this?"

There are many seemingly simple spiritual practices that when engaged often bring to a person some surprising and purely deep results. While many may interpret "simple" to mean naive or stupid, these are actually that word's lesser implications.
A check with your dictionary will likely reveal that its first definition is actually "free from guile; innocent; free from vanity, modest; singular, unified without clauses."

So from this one, simple practice, ask the question, "what is this?" Ask yourself often and sit quietly, listening for the answer, which will come if you do.
You may find this difficult to do because many times in fact, we want to run away from ourselves and our reasons. Why? For lots of reasons or no clear reason at all, like a habit. And like Nasrudin looking for his key the dark, the familiar seems so much better than anything else. That is until we discover what else there is.

What is it that you think; what are your habits? What is it that you feel? Can you label your thoughts, your feelings? Will you sit quietly long enough for them to present themselves? For many, labeling a thought or feeling is surprisingly a challenge. Will you sit for the days, weeks, months or the years that it may take?
Asking what is this is a first step in the "willingness to just be," as Zen teacher Eric Bayada describes in his book, Being Zen.

The Paraclete, the Divine Healer

"Resting in God is a term I like." --Thich Nhat Hanh
 
Buddhist monk and teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh, writes in his book, Living Buddha, Living Christ, that real love never ends. He says, "In Judaism, we are encouraged to enjoy the world as long as we know that it is God himself." Jewish belief is the forebear of Christianity; its patrimony is unmistakable, joyful, loving, creative. "The Ten Commandments... of the Judeo-Christian heritage help us know what to do, and what not to do in order to cherish God throughout our daily life."

"All precepts, commandments are about love and understanding." Jesus gave this commandment first to the Apostles his disciples, to 'love God with all your mind, with all your strength, and most importantly, to love your neighbor as yourself.' In the Jewish world of the Christ, this was very well known verse. It appears a number of times in the Torah. In the Bible chapter, First Corinthians (Corinthians 1), it declares the principle message of the bible and its eastern, Jewish roots: Love is patient, love is kind, love is not arrogant, envious or rude. Love does not rejoice in the wrong, it is not irritable or resentful. Love does not insist on its own way. Love rejoices in the truth.

These are very close to the teachings of Buddhism, continues Thich Nhat Hanh. He comments that, "Love bears all things, believes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. Love is born and reborn... To take good care of yourself and the environment is the best way to love God. This love is possible when you understand that you are not separate from other beings, or the environment. This understanding cannot be merely intellectual. It must be experiential, insight gained from deep touching and deep looking in a daily life of contemplation, prayer and meditation." Real love never ends. It can be born and reborn within you, again and again.

When you pray with your heart, your love, the Holy (whole, unified) Spirit is within you. Nothing more is necessary. The Spirit is a force, a power within you and in the world. Spirit comes, lighting the Way in the darkness. The force of Bodhichitta is alive. You can see things deeply, understand deeply, love deeply. Hanh writes, "if you practice this way, the Lord's Prayer comes alive in you. It brings real change: thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven... This is like the water that touches the wave, which is its own nature.

This touching removes fear, anxiety, anger, craving... give us our daily bread, and forgive our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us... lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, every evil...have mercy upon us, and protect us from anxiety..." Deeply looking, meditating on this prayer shows the light of the Spirit, the loving God, is loving the living beings that "we see and touch in our daily life.

If we can love them, we can love God. "Thus the Holy Spirit continues on in you. You are one, both the wave and the water, the raft and the shore. Your mindfulness will bring this about, sharing with others.

False Generalizations

Recognize that a concept is just a concept, and not reality. --Joko Charlotte Beck

Generalizations. Assumptions. We all make them. And they cause all of us grief. The world as it is. Reality is not an assumption. It's not the way we want things to be, or the way we think about things to be. "Each moment, life as it is--the only Teacher. Being just this moment--compassion's way."
Joko Beck writes in her book, Nothing Special, Living Zen, about the Sufi sage and fool, Nasrudin who was once said to have been in his flower garden sprinkling bread crumbs over everything. His neighbor saw what he was doing and asked him why. To which Nasrudin replied, "to keep the tigers away!" The neighbor, laughing, said, "but there aren't tigers within a thousand miles!"
"Effective, isn't it?" said Nasrudin. Beck writes, "we laugh because we're sure that the two things--bread crumbs and tigers-- have nothing to do with each other. Yet as with Nasrudin, our practice and our lives are based upon false generalizations that have nothing to do with reality."

If we base our lives, most often unconsciously, upon generalizations or assumptions, and we do not ask ourselves or others about what is happening in our lives in this moment, in this day, like Nasrudin we build our understanding upon false notion, upon false generalizations. "Such generalities obscure the specific, concrete reality of our lives." In fact says Beck, "life is not general, it is specific." Sitting practice, or zazen cuts through the unconsciousness, the grey lights that obscure the more specific observations that we might otherwise make about ourselves and others, views which lead to the questions of how, why, what is this about, or what is necessary?

For example, "instead of I can't stand myself when I do such and such, we [then come to] see more clearly what's going on. We're not covering events with a broad brush" of assumptions, generalizations, powerful emotions--energies that take our focus elsewhere, away from our experience, our situations. Often, in conversations, we exchange notions and we are like two ships at sea, continuing on, lost in a grey murk of conceptual material, of analytic, virtual thought. Avoiding experience, no contact takes place. It may be a form of Zen combat, or it may be without of an experience precisely for that reason-- experience is what we fear to know about.

"In Zen practice, we tend to toss around many fancy concepts: Everything is in perfect being as it is, we're all doing the best we can, things are all one, I [you, we are] one with him. We call this Zen bullshit, though other religions have their own versions." And it's not that the statements are false; they have a universal truth. But, says Beck, "if we stop there, we have turned our practice into an exercise of concepts, and we've lost awareness of what's going on with us right this second. Good practice [zazen] always entails moving through our concepts... recognize that a concept is just a concept, and not reality."

When we "notice our thoughts... then we have to experience the pain that accompanies the thought." Why? Simply because it is our thought, and our pain. We have made them both; they are our very own. "When we can stay with the pain as a pure physical sensation, then at some point it will dissolve, and we can move into the truth... But we have to move from experience which is painful, into truth and not plaster thoughts over our experience. Intellectual people are particularly prone to this error." The rational world of concepts is a mere description of the real world. In contrast, when we allow this pure experience of our own, we come into zazen.

As Bassui says, "clearly seeing into one's nature is called practice. And the seat that puts an end to analytic thoughts is called Zazen."
And only when we "move through [to] the experiential level does life have meaning. This is what Christians and Jews mean by 'being with God.' Experiencing is out of time: it is not the past, not the future, not even the present in the usual sense." Unable to say in words what it is, we can only learn to be it. Some call it 'an-other world,' or 'living in the spirit.'

Catholic Christian writer, theologian, mystic and Pope, John Paul II, exhorted the practice, saying that "it is not enough to have, we must instead be." He emphasized that we must not only, for example, be in love, to have love, but we ourselves must be that experience--we must be love itself. We must not only have pain or grief, but we must, moreover, be that pain and grief.

A challenge indeed for those on the Way. We all have our favorite notions, our concepts of ourselves and others. They can become 'frozen in time.' We are caught by the thinking that emphasizes permanence. Yet the world, ourselves, and others are not permanent. At any moment, any cloud, any storm may take us far away to other shores in other places. Remember that practice is just what is; it is not unusual or exotic. It is not only open to the few; all beings have experiences. Learning to live fully those experiences is what in traditional Buddhist terms, is being buddha-nature itself.
"Compassion grows from such roots," emphasizes Joko Beck.

Nasrudin: The Lamp and the Key

Sufism, as a practice, emphasizes certain unique rituals for guiding spiritual seekers into a direct encounter with God. It comes from the Islamic traditions in places especially Persia or Iran.
Muhammad is considered the chief prophet; many consider Sufism to be a mystical practice of Islam. The following story by the great Sufi teacher, Nasrudin, illustrates a common experience for those along the Way.

His friend, Mansour, comes to visit him and sees Nasruddin on his hands and knees, crawling on the sidewalk under the street lamp, obviously searching for something, appearing frustrated.

Concerned for his friend, Mansour asks, "Nasruddin, what are you looking for? Did you lose something?"

"Yes, Mansour. I lost the key to my house, and I’m trying to find it, but I can’t."

"Let me help you," responds Mansour. Mansour joins his friend, kneels down on his hands and knees, and begins to crawl on the sidewalk under the street lamp, searching.

After a time, having looked everywhere on and around the sidewalk, neither Nasruddin nor Mansour can find the lost key. Puzzled, Mansour asks his friend to recall his steps when he last had the key, "Nasruddin, where did you lose the key? When did you last have it?"

"I lost the key in my house," Nasruddin responds.

"In your house?" repeats the astonished Mansour. "Then why are we looking for the key here, outside on the sidewalk under this street lamp?”

Without hesitation, Nasruddin explains, “Because there is more light here . . . !”

In his book At Home in the Muddy Water, by Ezra Bayda, Buddhist practitioner and teacher, recounts this story about a key and a light.
"In trying to uncover how to best proceed with practice, we're often like Nasrudin, looking in the wrong place. Sometimes we're looking in the wrong place for something that isn't even there. We think there is a magic key, some experience that will make the practice permanently clear, especially in the midst of everyday difficulties." In the simple mind, we realize there is no magic key, nor do we need one. What is needed is to persevere through the ups and downs of life. We hold our own key.