Yesterday, you were sitting on the couch holding a print out on meditation from a Jack Kornfield book. I was so happy I wanted to cry. I didn’t.
Today, you’re 3-feet deep into a Game of Thrones marathon while I sit next to you working. We fell asleep on the couch last night watching GoT. Actually, I turned off the TV at some point – and was too tired to move. You’re telling me how there are two polarizing parts of your personality. You’re an addict with commitment issues. I think what you actually said was, “I’m an addict – but I can’t commit. So it tears me apart”.
I know. Believe me, I know.
I see these glimpses of the person I know you are. The person who rescued me once when I fell apart. When my heart was broken. The person who loves to make me laugh. Who loves to impress with all the useless trivia in your head. I had Alexa play Jeopardy with us the other day – and realized you might know even more useless facts than me.
I asked you today if there was anything I could do to help. You told me no. Nothing that I haven’t already done. There is a certain helplessness in this. I have no choice but to surrender to outcomes. Surrender to outcomes and pray.
I know this is your decision. You made this choice. For yourself. Not for me. I know from here on out – it’s completely up to you. But the caretaker in me wants to do something – anything – to help.
In my Zen tradition, we do two forms of meditation. One is Shikantaza (which roughly translated means, “just sitting”) – a practice of simply sitting Zazen. The other is a Koan practice. In this instance, a Roshi (in the west you would call him/her a Zen Master, but the actual translation is old teacher) will assign a student a Koan to work with. The student will memorize the Koan, and repeat it over and over during their sitting practice (meditation/Zazen). The idea is to “solve” the Koan. The trick is, there is no one right answer. There are many. And so, you sit and you work with this Koan. And then during Dokusan (meeting with your teacher), you will tell the teacher what you think the solution is. And the teacher will tell you over and over that you’re close but not right.
Definition of koan. : a paradox to be meditated upon that is used to train Zen Buddhist monks to abandon ultimate dependence on reason and to force them into gaining sudden intuitive enlightenment.
The koan serves as a surgical tool used to cut into and then break through the mind of the practitioner… Koans aren’t just puzzles that your mind figures out suddenly and proclaims, “Aha! the answer is three!” They wait for you to open enough to allow the space necessary for them to enter into your depths—the inner regions beyond knowing.
EXAMPLE KOANS:
- What is the sound of one hand clapping?
- Tanzan and Ekido were once traveling together down a muddy road. A heavy rain was still falling. Coming around a bend, they met a lovely girl in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross the intersection. “Come on, girl” said Tanzan at once. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the mud. Ekido did not speak again until that night when they reached a lodging temple. Then he no longer could restrain himself. “We monks don’t go near females,” he told Tanzan, “especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that?” “I left the girl there,” said Tanzan. “Are you still carrying her?”
I think you might have created your own Koan to sit with. If I were your teacher, I would assign you your words as Koan practice. “I’m an addict, but I can’t commit. So it tears me apart”.
Sit with it. Let me know what you find in that place beyond knowing.
