Taming the Bull

(A continuation of the Zen story, "Ten Bulls")

5. Taming the Bull

The whip and rope are necessary,
Else he might stray off down some dusty road.
Being well trained, he becomes naturally gentle.
Then, unfettered, he obeys his master.

Comment: When one thought arises, another thought follows. When the first thought springs from enlightenment, all subsequent thoughts are true. Through delusion, one makes everything untrue. Delusion is not caused by objectivity; it is the result of subjectivity. Hold the nose-ring tight and do not allow even a doubt.
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I'm not sure how successfully I am training the bull. I would venture to guess that the most sure-fire way to do so is to sit regularly, on good days and bad, when it is easy and when it is hard. I still struggle with this. Because things have been difficult lately, I have wandered away from daily practice. And when I do sit, it frequently feels rather pointless and frustrating.

One positive note, though: my recent questioning and self-doubt have not led me to the bigger doubt of wondering whether or not Zen is my path. That remains sure and true. I have committed to this, in a way that I seldom am able to commit. I have retained the most important aspects of my practice, as much as I have been able. Last Sunday, I finished sewing my rakusu, after four months of weekly sessions with my fellow sangha members who will be going through jukai. Since much of that four-month period I have been plagued with depression, it truly felt like an accomplishment, a sign of discipline, to have shown up week after week to sew.

I also have managed to continue with this blog, which has become part of my practice. Even though last month I wrote much less than the previous months - still, I wrote. I sat down in front of the computer and tried to find small truths that would help me get through each day.

On Saturday, I served as kokyo/doan (chant leader/time keeper) at Russian River Zendo for the two sitting periods and service that are held there weekly. I did not want to go; I had had an exhausting and physically challenging week. And my body was sore and uncooperative, making the periods of zazen difficult. But I did it; I showed up. Perhaps that is one way of "holding the nose-ring tight and not allowing even one doubt." Because what this Zen story says proved correct; one thought arising from enlightenment led to other true thoughts. Showing up for my commitment helped me to reconnect to the sangha, and to push through my resistance towards sitting, and to find in-the-moment joy even in the midst of my difficulties.

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The text and drawings are excerpted from Zen Flesh, Zen Bones: A Collection of Zen and Pre-Zen Writings. The story is by Kakuan, transcribed by Nyogen Senzaki and Paul Reps, and illustrated by Tomikichiro Tokuriki. (Comments in italics are part of the text.) Copyright Charles Tuttle and Co.

Catching the Bull

(A continuation of the Zen story, "Ten Bulls")

4. Catching the Bull

I seize him with a terrific struggle.
His great will and power are inexhaustible.
He charges to the high plateau far above the cloud-mists,
Or in an impenetrable ravine he stands.

Comment: He dwelt in the forest a long time, but I caught him today! Infatuation for scenery interferes with his direction. Longing for sweeter grass, he wanders away. His mind still is stubborn and unbridled. If I wish him to submit, I must raise my whip.
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When I first began to practice with Tony Patchell, he told me the Zen koan of the iron bull and the mosquito. At first I thought I was the mosquito, and Zen was the iron bull. I was flitting and buzzing about, trying to gain entry to an impenetrable path. I felt as powerless as a mosquito would feel, in such a predicament.

Later at home, I had an epiphany: I am the iron bull! It seemed that I was the one who was implacable and unwilling to change, tethered to my world view, and the mosquito, Zen, was relentlessly pursuing me, trying to get my attention, wanting to wake me up with its nipping bite.

I do not know if one or the other of these insights was correct. All I know is that having my understanding inverted, thrown from one thing into its opposite, split my world open. My life-long attachment to duality and good/bad, me/you, was tossed high into a stormy summer sky, and I was left fresh and new because of it, even if only temporarily.

So am I catching the bull? Or is the bull catching me? Do I raise my whip to subdue the bull? Is that what happens when I sit down to meditate, refusing to get up until the zazen period is done? Is the bull my wandering mind, seeking the pleasures of other pastures? If so, is it a whip that will pull it back? Or a gentle beckoning?

No answers - but many possibilities of answers. And in that wealth of opportunities, a widening of the world.
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The text and drawings are excerpted from Zen Flesh, Zen Bones: A Collection of Zen and Pre-Zen Writings. The story is by Kakuan, transcribed by Nyogen Senzaki and Paul Reps, and illustrated by Tomikichiro Tokuriki. (Comments in italics are part of the text.) Copyright Charles Tuttle and Co.

Perceiving the Bull

(A continuation of the Zen story, "Ten Bulls")

3. Perceiving the Bull

I hear the song of the nightingale.
The sun is warm, the wind is mild, willows are green along the shore,
Here no bull can hide!
What artist can draw that massive head, those majestic horns?

Comment: When one hears the voice, one can sense its source. As soon as the six senses merge, the gate is entered. Wherever one enters one sees the head of the bull! This unity is like salt in water, like color in dyestuff. The slightest thing is not apart from self.
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The first time I was invited by friends to the Healdsburg sangha, and heard the dharma talk by Darlene Cohen and Tony Patchell, I knew that "the bull" was finally within reach. Not that I had an immediate sense of home; I did not. There were still more hurdles to leap across. But I felt that I was finally in a place where it was possible - I had finally found teachers, at a time when I was ready (or almost ready) to be taught.

It has occurred to me, over the past several days, that this story of the Zen bull can be taken rather literally, as I have been approaching it, as seeking out the path of Zen, sort of a "way-seeking mind" talk. But now that I am more firmly entrenched in my practice, another way of interpreting this tale has sprung to my consciousness.

The entire ten steps can be part of a single period of zazen. Every time I sit down to meditate, I go through the same seeking: lost, no trace of the bull, as I attempt to make my sitting posture stable and try to quiet my mind; sensing that I am approaching the bull, as I settle into my body; glimpsing that first sight of the bull, as the input to sight, hearing, feeling begin to merge into one experience...

Some days, I go through the early steps quickly, and find myself in a place of "emptiness" almost immediately. Those days are a gift. Other days, I am caught on the third, or the second, or even the first step, never getting beyond that.

But I have experienced a complete, utter one-ness, a non-duality, while sitting. I guess that is what gets me through all those other days when I feel as if I am starting from scratch.

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The text and drawings are excerpted from Zen Flesh, Zen Bones: A Collection of Zen and Pre-Zen Writings. The story is by Kakuan, transcribed by Nyogen Senzaki and Paul Reps, and illustrated by Tomikichiro Tokuriki. (Comments in italics are part of the text.) Copyright Charles Tuttle and Co.

Discovering the Footprints

(A continuation of the Zen story, "Ten Bulls")

2. Discovering the Footprints

Along the riverbank under the trees, I discover footprints!
Even under the fragrant grass I see his prints.
Deep in remote mountains they are found.
These traces no more can be hidden than one's nose, looking heavenward.

Comment: Understanding the teaching, I see the footprints of the bull. Then I learn that, just as many utensils are made from one metal, so too are myriad entities made of the fabric of self. Unless I discriminate, how will I perceive the true from the untrue? Not yet having entered the gate, nevertheless I have discerned the path.
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For me, the footprints came many, many years ago, long before I was ready to actually follow the Zen path. I practiced aikido when living in Seattle, and as part of that practice, did zazen for the first time. I was intensely drawn to the Japanese aesthetic, which resonated most clearly for me in all things Zen. I received a master's degree in Japanese Studies, and then went to Japan to live for three years. While there, I poured myself into study of Japanese art, literature, culture, and religion, frequently visiting both Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples. I loved most the Zen temples, with their austere gardens, sculpted sand, and unadorned wooden structures.

So for years, I was drawn in this direction. There was no mistaking the path. But still I was wary, unwilling to commit to the pursuit of anything, particularly any kind of a spiritual exploration. My own life continued to be itinerant, as I flitted from one interest to the next. I had no foothold anywhere.

What is interesting to me, looking back over this period of my life, is that regardless of my haphazard approach to things, I was moving in a certain direction. Although I had no idea how to put my ideas in a spiritual context, I was examining again and again what was true and what was not true: in my own self identity, in the nature of the world, and in the realm of thought and belief.

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The text and drawings are excerpted from Zen Flesh, Zen Bones: A Collection of Zen and Pre-Zen Writings. The story is by Kakuan, transcribed by Nyogen Senzaki and Paul Reps, and illustrated by Tomikichiro Tokuriki. (Comments in italics are part of the text.) Copyright Charles Tuttle and Co.

Ten Bulls - A Zen Story of Self-Awareness

Tony Patchell recently shared with me the Zen tale of Ten Bulls, a story about the journey to self-awareness. I am going to share it with you here over the next ten days, with comments as they come up for me.

The text and drawings are excerpted from Zen Flesh, Zen Bones: A Collection of Zen and Pre-Zen Writings. The story is by Kakuan, transcribed by Nyogen Senzaki and Paul Reps, and illustrated by Tomikichiro Tokuriki. (Comments in italics are part of the text.) Copyright Charles Tuttle and Co. (Hopefully that covers all the legal bases...)


1. The Search for the Bull

In the pasture of this world, I endlessly push aside the tall grasses in search of the bull. Following unnamed rivers, lost upon the interpenetrating paths of distant mountains, My strength failing and my vitality exhausted, I cannot find the bull. I only hear the locusts chirring through the forest at night.

Comment: The bull never has been lost. What need is there to search? Only because of separation from my true nature, I fail to find him. In the confusion of the senses I lose even his tracks. Far from home, I see many crossroads, but which way is the right one I know not. Greed and fear, good and bad, entangle me.
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I have always been a seeker...of knowledge, of home, of the heart of goodness. My seeking began innocently enough, as a child raised in a Christian family, doubting the religion, finding more questions than answers at Sunday school. I separated completely from that faith at a young age, and turned instead towards a moral ethic, something I felt existed apart from spirituality. I made up rigid rules for myself, and expected others to follow them as well. By the time I was 20, I had come face to face with so many betrayals and obstacles that I lost hope in that explanation.

For many years after that, I wandered. Without planning, I somehow managed to always choose the hardest path: the rockiest relationships, the most challenging situations. I became split into two people: the cynic who believed only the worst in people, and the innocent who continually hoped for the best. That held true for the way I felt about myself as well. I both hated myself, and loved my intentions.

By the time I was in my mid-30s, I was emotionally spent and physically exhausted. I had all but abandoned the thought that it would ever be anything but what it was at that time - living hell. I cannot find the bull. I only hear the locusts chirring through the forest at night. I was lost in that night, and fear had overcome me to the point that I truly believed morning would never come.

In the commentary, it says: Far from home, I see many crossroads, but which way is the right one I know not. Greed and fear, good and bad, entangle me. That was me, caught up in a tangled web of uncertainty. My whole life had become the search. In a way, though, I guess I was lucky. Things were so bad, that it was obvious it was time to find a new way. For that I am grateful.

Without excuses

The worst part about depression is the retreating...from things I would like to do, from people I would like to see, from tasks that I'd like to accomplish. Over the past several months, I have stopped going to my book group. I have missed my writing group twice. I have been sporadic in my attendance at Tuesday night sangha. I have cancelled my piano lessons. I have been unable to keep my commitment with my writing partner. And I have repeatedly set up dates with friends, only to change plans at the last minute.

Just doing the things I must do has become a chore. Showing up for work takes everything I have each week. And even there, I have had sick days, and days when I arrived late or left early.

On top of the mood issue, I have been feeling physically unwell, dealing with nausea and night sweats. I have been sleeping poorly, waking up numerous times, often from vivid, terrifying nightmares.

Add to all of this new medications with their side effects, and the uncertainty that changes bring, and I have been rendered nearly dysfunctional.

Much of the time, when I sit down at this blog, trying to keep that commitment, it is a huge task to write about anything unrelated to all this chaos. And yet, writing about it makes me feel vulnerable and whiny and self-conscious. Sometimes, like tonight, after a day that was particularly bad, I end up writing about it anyway, because there is just no getting around the elephant in the middle of the living room.

I think I stress most about the fact that I have to repeatedly say, "I'm not going to be able to make it." Or "Sorry, not this week." It seems okay to make an excuse once, maybe even twice. But when the excuses continue, week after week, I can't help but feel that I am getting on everyone's nerves, wearing them out with my own weariness.

I wish I knew the date that this would end. If I could just say, "Everything's off until March 15 - then I'll be back on board," it would feel manageable. But instead, I wake up every morning not knowing how much longer this will last, this time.

So - forgive me for not showing up. Please pardon my absences. I'll try not to make any more excuses. It just is what it is, apparently, and no amount of determination seems able to change the state I am in - I can only trust that eventually, it will change.

One Thousand Fingers

Have you heard the story of Angulimala? He was a very bright student in India, so bright that he caused jealousy among the other pupils. The students managed to get their teacher to turn on him, and as a grisly test, at the completion of his studies, the teacher asked Angulimala to bring back 1,000 fingers from people he had slain.

So off went Angulimala, killing people wherever he met them, and collecting the fingers in a chain, or mala, around his neck.

The local king heard about these murders, and sent his army out to kill Angulimala. The man's mother learned of the king's plan, and set out to warn her son. But at that point, having collected 999 fingers, and thoroughly twisted by his violent pursuits, Angulimala would even have killed his own mother to reach his goal.

This is where Buddha enters the picture. He sensed the situation, and decided to go and save Angulimala from his own fate. He appeared before Angulimala, and the criminal thought, "Oh, here is my last victim!" He rushed towards Buddha, ready to kill him and cut off his finger. But although Angulimala ran as fast as he could, the Buddha was always just one step ahead of him, gliding along effortlessly. Finally, exhausted, Angulimala demanded to know what kind of man this monk was.

And, the texts say, Buddha answered in this way:

"I stand still Angulimala evermore,
For I am merciful to all living beings;
But you are merciless to living beings.
Therefore I stand still and you stand not still."

Hearing these words, Angulimala threw down his sword and became a disciple of the Buddha, donning the monk's robe and achieving nirvana.

So what's the lesson? Being an avid student, so eager to please that he lost his own moral compass, Angulimala serves, I guess, as an exaggerated example for all students of the dharma. And I also surmise that even when you're that far gone, you're still capable of recognizing the Buddha when you see him, and nirvana is still within your reach.

Having read this story, though, I will never look at my mala the same way again. Thank goodness Buddhist tradition decreed strings of beads instead of fingers. I'm not sure I could meditate while counting knuckles.