As I enter my eighth decade, I understand why Robert Livingston became impatient with teaching in his later years. One tends to forget how many people come through those doors looking only for their own so-called enlightenment. Which is about 99% — or more like 100% of us — although some (one or two percent?) drop off that self-centeredness — some sooner, some later — and realize that we practice for all existences here and now. Some never realize this, and they leave when things get tough or inconvenient — some sooner, some later, but almost everyone eventually leaves.
Better to have that one or two percent in the dojo, like the four or five of you here now, who can sit for all existences than a whole dojo full of those who are sitting just for themselves, those fidgeters who are constantly making themselves comfortable, those suggesters who always think they can improve on a proven thing.
The fidgeters and suggesters come for the technique to calm themselves, to deal with stress, to become a better person, to get wise. And then they leave. They congratulate themselves on what they think they have attained. They want the technique so they can feel better about themselves. They want a feel-good meditation experience. Or they want a code of ethics, guidelines on how to act in any circumstance, so they can feel good about themselves, pat themselves on the back for their morality, their compassion, their politeness, their politesse. Like good Buddhists. Or they want satori, enlightenment, certification, validation.
Like parched men trying to quench their thirst with the fog, they impatiently lick the air for enlightenment.
We give them the technique. A gift. It’s called zazen. But they rarely get past the technique to the true realization that technique is not enough, not an end in itself. Posture and breathing, sure. Very important. But without the attitude of mind — mushotoku, no personal goal or gain — without mushotoku as a motive (the motiveless motive) it’s just a relaxation technique, an exercise, a spiritual massage, a little bit of soothing self-therapy, like thumb-sucking. They feel “Buddhistic.” Fine. But they miss the essence of the practice. They miss the hard part, the obstacles, the teaching that comes from the disillusionment about what it means to practice. They miss the teaching available to them through wrestling and then harmonizing with others in a sangha. They achieve no concentration, no discipline, no existential confrontation with the true self, no enlightenment. Delusion itself is satori, says Kodo Sawaki. He wasn’t kidding.
How does it happen? How does it work, this zazen, this practice? We don’t know.
But with long practice, diligent practice, selfless practice — gyoji — eventually, your selfish motives drop off and you find yourself acting (suddenly and unexpectedly) authentically in the here and now. Because you have allowed your regrets about the past to drop off, your hopes and fears about the future drop off. Eventually, you realize that you are no longer sitting for yourself but rather for others, for your family, for your neighbors, for your enemies, for the things in your life, for all existences.
But it does not happen immediately. It doesn’t happen after a week or two. It doesn’t happen after a single sesshin. It takes long and dedicated practice, it takes discipline. Sitting through the elation and the boredom, the infatuation with the practice and the disappointment (is that all there is to it?). But it happens, this transformation — over time, naturally, automatically, unconsciously, spontaneously, without our noticing it. But you have to show up and walk the walk — as Dogen says, walking as mountains walk — exposing yourself to the elements, allowing your clothes to absorb the fog.
— Richard Collins
Jim Dine, Dorian Gray at the Opium Den, 1968. Weingrow Collection, Hofstra University.