February 3, 2016 Dharma Talk

There’s a photographic series on social media you may be familiar with called Humans of New York. The photographer, a former Wall Street bond trader, takes pictures of people he encounters along the streets of New York—young and old, rich and poor, in love and lonely—and asks them to share a little about themselves.

The images and words tell remarkable stories of bravery and heartbreak, joy and sorrow, romance and isolation. In the words and images we see the full range of human experience, expressed in ways that are utterly unique and also universally resonant with anyone who has ever walked on this planet.

One recent subject was a young African-American man standing next to the subway, with a drum tucked under one arm.

“I play the drums on the subway for about three hours per day,” he said. “It’s like the matrix down here. A lot of bad energy. Everyone is rushing and tense and people don’t like to look at each other. So I’m trying to spread some positivity and keep people out of the zombie zone. Yesterday I was singing some Bob Marley and a man screamed at me to stop playing. I think he was bothered by my light. He got too close to the sun."

How often during the day do we enter the zombie zone? We get up, brush our teeth, make breakfast, drive our car, do our work or study, drive home, eat supper, go to bed, sometimes have entire conversations – without registering what we’re doing, as though we’re on autopilot.

Why is that? Where do our minds go while hundreds and thousands of unique, never-to-be-repeated moments pass by unnoticed?

The Buddha’s Four Noble Truths tell us that simply by being alive we are subject to Dukkah. The word in Pali, the first language in which the Buddhist canon was written, means suffering as well as dissatisfaction with the way things are.

The suffering the Buddha refers to isn’t so much the natural human experience of getting sick, growing old and eventually dying. We all bought a ticket to that ride simply by being born.

Rather, the Buddha is talking about the suffering we create for ourselves—and by extension, for the world around us—by wanting life to be something other than it is.

We crave things we don’t have but imagine will bring us happiness; and we reject or avoid those things we believe will rob us of our happiness.

Not only do we crave and push away, but we carry around this notion that if things would just stay fixed, unchanging, the way we want them to be, life would be perfect.

If only my coworker were a little less annoying. If only I could lose 10 more pounds. If only my roommate would clean up after herself. If only I could finish school, get a better job, a bigger house, a nicer car, whiter teeth, a better looking boyfriend or girlfriend.

And then … what? What happens then?

The truth is that everything is impermanent; everything changes – including our preferences. How many of you have desperately wanted something and knew—just knew—that possessing it would make everything OK?

And how did that work out for you?

So we feel this inner push and pull, this yearning and desire on the one hand, and this aversion and avoidance on the other. And we develop some pretty sophisticated explanations and justifications for the actions we take to get what we want and run away from what we don’t want. We tell ourselves some very compelling stories.

And while that song is playing, we also find ourselves getting lost in making plans for the future and in revisiting the past. We get caught up in these movies playing in our mind: sometimes it’s a romantic movie, or a drama, a comedy or a war movie.

And in remembering we rekindle the feelings associated with that movie. We forget that we’re really just watching images play against a screen and that we can leave the theater at any time.

There’s an old New Yorker cartoon of a car driving across a lonely desert, maybe in Utah or something, and it’s passing a billboard that says: “Your own tedious thoughts Next 200 Miles.”

There’s an old Zen story:

A horse suddenly came galloping quickly down the road. It seemed as though the man had somewhere important to go.

Another man, who was standing alongside the road, shouted, “Where are you going?” and the man on the horse replied,

“I don’t know! Ask the horse!”

It really is a wonder we’re able to get out of bed most mornings.

We remember, we scheme, we plan, and we worry how we might conform the world a more to our liking.

We get lost in our thoughts, hooked by the stories we tell ourselves, pulled this way and that – stuck in the trance Tara Brach talks about, adrift in the zombie zone.

When we’re in that zone we’re easily startled by reality, like the angry man exiting the subway and complaining about the drummer’s music.

But the truth is that the only time we truly have power to be present and to act is this moment right here, and here, and here—and so many of these moments slip away like a dream.

“There is only one world,” writes author Storm Jameson, “the world pressing against you at this minute. There is only one minute in which you are alive, this minute here and now. The only way to live is by accepting each minute as an unrepeatable miracle.”

Now, this trance can seem like a really nice place to be, especially if we are struggling to be at ease with our particular circumstances. It can feel like our brains, awash in thinking, are in a nice warm bath. Maybe one with bubbles and those little water jets that massage your body.

This makes sense, right? Especially for those who are tender hearted and easily hurt by the world, or who have suffered trauma, or who are in the midst of difficulties that seem beyond our control. Distracting ourselves, numbing ourselves, does seem to offer some great advantages.

And of course thinking isn’t the only way we numb ourselves: there are drugs and alcohol, sex, shopping, quitting or moving when the going gets rough. For some, religion truly can be an opiate—what Tibetan teacher Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche calls “spiritual materialism.” It becomes just another way we divide the world into good and bad, and to feed our ego.

Sometimes it seems far better to remember a happy past, or imagine a beautiful future, than to face a present that seems to break our hearts again and again.

But let me tell you something: You are braver than you think. It took incredible courage to come here tonight, to be vulnerable with a roomful of strangers. 

It’s counterintuitive, but the way we live courageously is to become vulnerable. Not to be naive; we don’t pretend that everything is happy and shiny and that there aren’t people and circumstances that require boundaries. But we learn cultivate hearts that are more soft, more open, more tender with life just the way it is, with its loss and gain, praise and blame, joy and sorrow.

Jack Kornfield writes: “To open deeply, as genuine spiritual life requires, we need tremendous courage and strength, a kind of warrior spirit. But the place for this warrior strength is in the heart. We need energy, commitment, and courage not to run from our life or to cover it over with any philosophy--material or spiritual. We need a warrior’s heart that lets us face our lives directly, our pains and limitations, our joys and possibilities. This courage allows us to include every aspect of life in our spiritual practice: our bodies, our families, our society, politics, the earth’s ecology, art, education. Only then can spirituality be truly integrated into our lives.”

Hakuin says this: “What is true meditation? It is to make everything: coughing, swallowing, waving the arms, motion, stillness, words, actions, the evil and the good, prosperity and shame, gain and loss, right and wrong, into one single koan.”

Each of us carries innate wisdom, the capability to connect with our awakened selves.

And you’ve all felt that connection, haven’t you? You know what I’m talking about.

As a young boy, the son of an alcoholic mother and parents who did not know how to be kind with one another, I first experienced that connection on the shores of Lake Michigan. In the winter, in the morning, just before sunrise, I would walk along the breakwaters, which had frozen over, and listen to the haunting sound of ice heaving, settling, breathing. And I would look up at the stars, and breathe in the frigid air, and feel enveloped in perfect love.

Again, Jack Kornfield: “When our heartfelt attention begins to separate the reality of the present from the endless waterfall of our thoughts, the world shines with a brilliant beauty.”

So we get to this place of knowing, of self-trust, by turning down the volume on the movies in our heads, by reminding ourselves that we can leave the theater anytime and walk out into the bright sunshine and fresh air of the present moment.

This is why we meditate. This is why we cultivate mindfulness. This is why we emphasize the importance of attending to our in-breath and out-breath.

Not to have a mystical experience, though those things can happen. Not to become a kind of saint who is impervious to suffering. Not as a self-improvement project, like going to the gym, dieting or “fixing” things so you can be a better, more attractive, more successful, more beautiful you. But to free our hearts and settle our minds so that we can move through the world with real freedom. A freedom that allows us to be fully alive, fully awake.

Zen teacher and author Charlotte Joko Beck writes: “The ‘secret’ of spiritual life is the capacity to ‘...return to that which we have spent a lifetime hiding from, to rest in the bodily experience of the present moment--even if it is a feeling of being humiliated, of failing, of abandonment, of unfairness.’”

So here is a homework assignment: For the next 24 hours, pay attention to how you move your body throughout your day.

How we interact with the world--fast or slow, with a sense of ease or agitation--is a good barometer of what’s going on in the mind. How many of us have slammed doors in anger? Slumped in a chair when we’ve felt sad or bored? Rolled our eyes when someone said something we thought was ridiculous or rude?

How do you get out of bed in the morning, brush your teeth, drive your car, eat your meals? Observe your body language as you interact with different people and in different circumstances—people you like, people you aren’t especially fond of, people who are neutral for you (the checkout person at the grocery store, maybe).

What is happening in your body, what kind of energies and thoughts arise? In turn, how do those thoughts and feelings affect your actions, your words?

Pay attention without self-judgment. This is very important. The point of this exercise, and all mindfulness training, is not to criticize or shame ourselves until we shape up. To notice how really awful, or lazy, or mean, or clumsy we are so that we can atone for our wicked ways, like Ebenezer Scrooge getting scared straight by the three ghostly visitors on Christmas Eve. It’s simply to notice and to name, and then to let it go.

Rather, as you notice things, pause for a moment. Breathe in, breathe out. You might even put your hand on your chest, over your heart, as a way to remind yourself to be kind as you pay attention, to be gentle with yourself. Maybe ask yourself: what is this, with a spirit of genuine curiosity? And then go on with your day.

Not long ago I discovered that when I’m standing still and feeling anxious or self-conscious, I tend to stand on the outsides of my feet, or on the tips of my toes, very slightly. Now when I notice this, I breathe in, breathe out, and place my feet flat on the ground, maybe rock a little to enjoy full contact with earth, to kiss it gently, and to remind myself that I’m safe, and that I belong here.

The body isn’t just the mind’s puppet, doing its bidding. It can also be a gateway to presence and awareness, a wonderful instrument for settling the mind.

There is a saying, based on the Buddha’s teachings:

The thought manifests as the word,

The word manifests as the deed,

The deed develops into habit,

And the habit hardens into character.

So watch the thought and its way with care,

And let it spring from love

Born out of concern for all beings

Thich Nhat Hanh says: “Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy.”

This isn’t just spiritual mumbo jumbo. It’s science.

Psychology Today reports that each time we smile we throw a little feel-good party in our brains.

Smiling activates the release of neuropeptides that work toward fighting off stress. The feel good neurotransmitters dopamine, endorphins and serotonin are all released, which relaxes the body and lowers our heart rate and blood pressure; naturally relieves pain; and lifts our mood. Smiling also tends to make us look better—always a bonus.

Last fall I participated in a silent retreat in Wisconsin led by two wonderful teachers trained by Thich Nhat Hanh. We ate our meals, in silence, and in accordance with one of the Five Mindfulness Trainings were encouraged to eat mindfully. To pay attention.

For instance, we would take a single bite at a time, and set our fork or spoon down, and chew slowly and thoughtfully. We might bring to mind all of the elements that went into the food: sun and rain, soil, nutrients in the soil, the plants that gave up their lives and their fruits so that we could enjoy and benefit from them; the many people who brought the food to the retreat center--the farmers, and the harvesters, the people who packed the food and ensured it would travel safely to us; the kitchen staff that worked hard all weekend to turn the ingredients into a warm and delicious meal so we could spend our time in meditation and contemplation; and also the many ways the food would benefit us personally; and how we might use that energy it provides to, in turn, benefit the world.

Let me tell you--it adds up to a lot of chewing when you start thinking about all of the things that go into our food; it can get really mushy, which is actually good for our digestion.

The point is, what if we began to move through our day, through our world, as if it were a holy place, a miracle, rather than a means to some desired end? Rather than merely fuel for our own private happiness and pleasure?

How might we move and interact and speak differently with the objects and plants and animals and people we encounter throughout our day if we saw ourselves as caretakers of and co-creators with the world we encounter moment by moment?

Deborah Eden Tull says this: “How we do anything is how we do everything.” This is worth repeating.

Thich Nhat Hanh says that when we are washing the dishes, we shouldn’t hurry to get to the next thing--the thing we’d prefer to do. But we should wash each dish slowly and with great reverence. We might even bow to our work before we begin and when we finish. Enjoy the warm water, which very likely was at various times ocean, cloud, mist in some distant valley. The tears of a woman in Malaysia or a child in the Amazon forest. Enjoy the deep satisfaction of making things clean and fresh. Enjoy the sounds and smell of the soap. Breathe in and breathe out while we do this. We may even imagine all of the elements that make our washing the dishes possible.

We cannot move mindfully in the world if we don’t know how to move first learn how to move mindfully within ourselves. If we are at war with ourselves, our minds flooded by worries about the past and the future, and our bodies acting upon those thoughts, we get caught in an endless cycle of suffering.

We are like the horse, rather than the rider. And when we forget to let go of the rope, we get rope burn.

So watch. Listen. And remember to breathe.

I’ll close with a poem by David Whyte:

Enough. These few words are enough.

If not these words, this breath.

If not this breath, this sitting here.

This opening to life

We have refused

Again and again

Until now.

Until now.