This podcast is offered by the San Francisco Zen Center on the web at sfzc.org. Our public programs are made possible by donations from people like you. I love the old Zen stories, so I'm going to start with a story about the great 18th century Zen master Hakuin. Now, many of you have heard this story. Some of you have heard it a lot of times, and my apologies. But it's very much up for me lately. If I can get a little further from the text, I can probably see it. So this story is absolutely true, and it

[01:01]

almost certainly never happened. The story is that Hakuen, who was a great figure in Rinzai Zen, was pretty much snubbed by the hierarchy at the time and at this point was a temple priest in a small village where he was respected and admired. One day, a young woman, a girl, found that she was pregnant. And when this became obvious to her parents, they demanded to know who the father was. And so she said, the priest did it. So the parents, outraged, went to see Hakuen and said, you are

[02:02]

disgrace you were an abomination to Buddhism the nerve of you we used to think you were something and you really aren't and Hakuin said is that so so a few months later you know a baby was born and the parents brought the baby to Hakuin and said, this is your responsibility, this is your doing, you take care of it. And Hakuin said, is that so? And he took this infant that he was undoubtedly completely ill-equipped to deal with, being a single man and probably one without a lot of experience in bringing up children. He took the baby and raised the baby for some amount of time.

[03:06]

I don't know, a year, a couple of years. And at some point, the young girl experienced great remorse and went to her parents and said, actually, it was that cute boy in the fish market. So the parents went back to Hakuen and said, We are so sorry. We are so ashamed of ourselves. You are a wonderful priest. In fact, you're a saint. You took this child that wasn't yours and raised him. And he said, is that so? And they said, oh, by the way, we'll take back the baby. Gave back the baby. So something else that keeps coming up for me lately is a line from a song. The line goes, love is but a song we sing, fears the way we die. That line's been rattling around my brain for about 40 years.

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I've always found it very evocative, kind of beautiful. And lately I've come to wonder, is that so? When I was about 17, I was very briefly a roadie for a rock and roll band from West Marin. They were called the Youngbloods, and they became medium famous. They had one big hit song, and that line, love is but a song we sing, fears the way we die, that was the first line of that song. I was very likely the worst roadie in the history of rock and roll. The only reason I got the job was because the band's manager was my smarter and more competent older brother, Stuart. Stuart is still smarter, and he's still more competent, and he is definitely still older. But he's not a rock and roll manager.

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He is now, among other things, a Zen priest. He was ordained in this room, and his ordination name is Anbo. We still call him Stewie. Sometimes in the family we call him Stubo. I'm not a priest. I'm just a layperson. Actually, I don't like that. I am a layperson. Yes. I've got a family, kids, wife. We have a dog. Unlike my brother, who spent years studying the teachings, my practice has been kind of catch-as-catch-can. I've been lucky enough to do some monastic training a few years ago in a massive lapse of judgment. The religious leadership here asked me to be the head monk or shuso during a practice period.

[06:22]

But, you know, now I just... You know, I just try and sit every day. I just try and study as I can. I crawl forward in my practice kind of like a snail. That's how it feels. So when I was asked to give this talk, I wondered, you know, do I really have something to say that is worth people coming and listening to? And I raised this. I'm in a group of people who meet. We've been meeting for 25 years to talk about our practice. So I brought this up, and my friend Christina, who's in that group, said, you know, many of the people who are going to be coming to this talk are also lay people, and they might find it helpful for you to talk about where you are with this practice. So that's what I'm going to do. The through line for my practice for the last few years has been letting go.

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And the most immediate level of this letting go is just about what we do when we meditate. I don't know if this is your experience, but this is what happens for me. I sit, and hopefully after a while, I settle, and I'm actually aware of my breath, of the sounds in the room, what's happening in the present moment for a few seconds. And then, you know, a few seconds after that, I've hopped on the first train of thought that's come highballing through my consciousness, and I am headed full speed to Kenosha, or somewhere darker than Kenosha. So it's a matter of constantly coming back. It's a matter of constantly bringing my attention back. That, by the way, is what mindfulness is all about. That word is used a lot these days. It's kind of current.

[08:31]

Mindfulness, as it's being used, is a translation of the Pali word sati, which is used in the old Buddhist text to describe an approach to meditation. The more direct translation of sati is to remember, to recollect. In context, I think the best way to understand it is remembering or recollecting the present. So the motor of that process of recollecting our attention is notice where it's gone and let go. Letting go of the plan, of the fantasy, of the memory, whatever it is that's carrying us off. My sense is that what we describe as emotions, you know, what an emotion is, I think, is a set of bodily sensations to which we've attached an idea.

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So when a strong emotion comes up, it's a matter of paying attention to the sensations, noticing the idea, letting go, letting go of that idea. Letting go is also a matter of letting go of the little voice inside you that comes up that says, you are pathetic. You can't even sit here for 10 seconds and pay attention to your breath. Let go of that. Maybe that's the first thing you let go of. So to me, letting go is the key element of meditation practice. But our practice is not just what we do. when we're sitting in our chair or on our meditation cushion. It is, after all, how we live. And neither is the practice of letting go just about what we do when we're meditating.

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The notion really is simple. If we let go of our reactions to what just happened, we stop being led around by our emotions, by our delusions, by our fears, we can actually live authentically in awareness. But it's easy to say. And some things are easier to let go of than others. About 30 years ago, I read a book by the great Buddhist scholar Edward Kanza. And one thing he said, or actually it was what I thought he said, stuck with me. What I remembered him saying is that, you know, it's not an uncommon experience for us to wake up in the middle of the night and suddenly find ourselves paralyzed with fear, dreading our death. Most people try to forget this as soon as possible and turn their attention to something else But to a Buddhist this is an opportunity So what I understood from that is that I was not really a Buddhist Once in a while I would have that experience I'd wake up in the middle of the night with the realization that my life will end and I didn't think it was an opportunity at all I was filled with dread and

[12:10]

with fear, and I just couldn't stand the thought that this, this would stop being. So, you know, I'd replay old episodes of The Honeymooners in my head and get back to sleep as fast as I could. Love is but a song we sing. Fear is the way we die. Because that's okay. There's a set of teachings called the paramitas or perfections about how to actually live in an awakened way. And in our tradition, there are six of these paramitas or perfections. And they're supposed to describe what are the essential qualities of a Buddha. But they're also a guide to how to train yourself to be a bodhisattva or an enlightened being, an enlightening being. It's one perfection that I have really concentrated on.

[13:17]

They're all important. But for the last few years is the perfection of Kashanti. I love that word, Kashanti. If I had another daughter, I'd try and talk my wife into naming her Kashanti and my wife would say, are you kidding? Anyway, Kishanti is usually translated as patience or tolerance or sometimes forbearance. It literally means something like enduring it. Whatever it is, however you translate it, I don't come by it naturally. I've long thought that the mark of when I will actually have some attainment in the practice is when I stop driving like an over-caffeinated teenager playing a video game. Patience is not my long suit. So I decided to study Kishanti, the art of letting go. So around this time, I remember thinking that a consolation of getting older, and there are consolations, was that no one was looking to get into a fist fight with me anymore.

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So the week that I decided to practice patience, Three people, actually four people in three different situations on three different days in three different places all wanted to fight me. It was very weird. The last time that it happened was in a ballpark, the ballpark in Oakland. It was around this time of year. It was a playoff game. The A's were playing the twins. And we went, my son and his friend. And... You know, I was standing in line for the bathroom, and a couple of, you know, ordinary-looking middle-aged guys came, and they started to, you know, just walk into the line. And I thought, oh, they don't realize there's a line. I said, guys, there's a line. And they went, oh, guys, there's a line. And, you know, they wanted to get into a fistfight with me about that. You know, I didn't say anything else to them.

[15:36]

I didn't respond to them. And, you know, I went to the bathroom as they kept it up the whole time and went back to my seat and kind of worked my way back. We were in the middle of a row. And the thought that arose in my mind is, what is up with my karma? And that was the thought in my mind when I sat in my seat and I looked forward and there was a baseball going about 100 miles an hour right here. And it smacked me right there. in the old third eye. It's great to laugh about it now. But literally, my ears are still ringing. So it took me a long time to realize that the universe was very specifically responding to my request. You want to practice Kshanti? Here it is. Various Buddhist sages, notably the Tibetans, have written a lot about the perfection of Kshanti.

[16:43]

And they often divide it into three forms or three levels of Kshanti. The first is learning to tolerate sort of what, well, the suffering that just arises for us. Our aches, our pains, our illnesses, our heartaches, our sorrows. And, you know, traditional Zen practice is really great for this. Because the instruction when you sit is, don't move. If you don't move, you deal with discomfort. Your nose itches, don't move. Don't scratch it. You're in the third day of an extended meditation retreat and your legs really ache. Don't move. That, of course, doesn't mean that you push yourself to the point of damaging yourself. There's an important Buddhist teaching that you take care of this body. But if, as is almost always the cause, it's just muscle ache or restlessness or you just itch, you don't move.

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And what happens, maybe not immediately, but over time, is you experience a great feeling of liberation. in finding that you don't have to react to this. I remember being amazed at finding that if you don't scratch an itch, it just goes away. Body aches are just a sensation, fundamentally like any other sensation, and they go away. So instead of being led around by your reactions, you get to make a conscious choice of how to respond, and this is a gate to freedom. The second level of Kashanti is about tolerating all the crap we get from other people, including drunks at ballparks. There's a lot to say about this as a gate of liberation, but today I just want to go back to the story about Hakuin and the baby. You know, for a long time, I understood that story as just a wonderful fable about Kashanti, tolerating the assaults of other people, of the environment,

[19:04]

You know, first he was falsely accused of disgracing himself as a person, as a priest, and all he said was, is that so? Then he was burdened with caring for a newborn life that he wasn't equipped to look after, and he said, is that so? Then, after he cared for that child, nurtured the child, I'm sure came to love that child, they came and took the child from it, thanks. And he said, is that so? Now that is Kishanti. But after a time, I noticed something deeper and more important about that story. You know, there are a lot of ways to say, is that so? There's sarcastic, is that so? And there's bemused, is that so? And there's, is that so? Like you're looking for a fight. Is that so? I don't think that's what Hakuin was saying. I think he was saying something else. I want to suggest that he was really sincerely curious.

[20:07]

Each time he was viewing the situation without being attached to any outcome and was curious about what was going on there and what would happen. Is that so? Isn't that interesting? It began to occur to me that this wonderful practice of Kashanti is not just about learning to tolerate or endure the challenging and difficult things that come up in our lives. Maybe, just maybe, it's about a whole new way of meeting our life. The third and deepest level of Kshanti, if you're going to put him in a hierarchy, which is probably wrong, is another wonderful word. It's anutapathika-dha. Dharma Kashanti, which is learning to tolerate the fundamental truth of our lives, learning to endure the impermanence and the radiant emptiness and the inconceivable nature of our existence.

[21:25]

I heard a TED talk by a scientist who had conducted a study in which people reported to him I won't describe the mechanism, but what they were doing at that moment, which means, of course, what they had just done and whether they were paying attention to what they were doing or whether their mind was wandering and whether they felt happy or not. And some of what came out of this study was obvious, like people daydream a lot more when they're at work than when they're making love. Some was a little surprising to me that the time when people's minds wander the most is when they're in the shower. And, you know, I love showers. You know, I really want to be there when I'm taking a shower. And since I heard this guy talking, I've really made it my practice when I take a shower to remember to show up and enjoy it. But the most interesting part of what he said was the conclusion, which is that people were uniformly happier when they were paying attention to whatever was happening.

[22:31]

Even if that activity was taking out the garbage, even if it was something they really pretty much didn't want to do, they were happier and they were less happy when their minds wandered. So I had always thought this was just me. I mean, I noticed that when my thinking just straight off would almost end up, almost always end up in some sad or painful cul-de-sac. But apparently this is true for most of us. So that really framed the big question for me. If my aspiration is to be really present for my life as it unfolds, to experience it fully, And if that's actually the happier way to live, why don't I just do that? Why do I constantly, reflexively flee from the experience of the present moment? From what I've been able to tell, what's going on is that we're afraid that we're not going to be able to tolerate our feelings if we're fully present with them.

[23:40]

It's not even that we can't tolerate what we're feeling. You can tolerate what you're feeling now. It's that we think that we're not going to be able to tolerate what we might feel. And so we jump on the first train to Kenosha. So, of course, that's where the practice of Kishanti, of tolerating our feelings, is invaluable. We no longer have to run from what we think we might experience. But there's also something much deeper, I think. My experience is that no matter how deeply I settle into meditation, into letting go, there's an almost constant, very quiet, very subtle hum of anxiety. It's the anxiety of not knowing, what is it? What is this? There's

[24:41]

a story about Bodhidharma who, if he existed at all, could be said to have been the person who created Zen. And about him being called in front of an emperor who wanted an explanation. What is the highest meaning of the holy truth? What is the meaning of Buddhism? And Bodhidharma said, emptiness, no holy. And the emperor, a little perplexed, said, well, what is this standing before me? And Bodhidharma said, I don't know. I don't know. There's another story about two great Zen masters, one a teacher and at this point the other his student. The teacher asked the student, where are you going? And the student said, around on pilgrimage. The teacher asked, what is the purpose of pilgrimage?

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The student said, I don't know. Teacher said, not knowing is nearest. Not knowing is most intimate. So intimacy, we all know, is wonderful. And intimacy can be very difficult to stand. Anuttapattika Dharmakashanti, the most profound aspect of this paramita, this perfection, is about learning to tolerate that intimacy, that not knowing. So in preparing for this talk, I went back to get the exact quote from Edward Konza about waking up in the middle of the night terrified of death, et cetera. It turns out that's not actually what he said. What he said is, there is in the core of our being a basic anxiety, a little empty hole from which all other forms of anxiety and unease draw their strength.

[26:49]

In its pure form, this anxiety is experienced by people with an introspective and philosophical turn of mind, and even then only rarely. It may come upon you when you have been asleep, withdrawn from the world. You wake up in the middle of the night and feel a kind of astonishment at being there. which gives way to a fear and horror at the mere fact of being there. It's then you catch yourself by yourself just for a moment against the background of a kind of nothingness all around you and with a gnawing sense of your powerlessness, your utter helplessness, in the face of this astonishing fact that you were there at all. Usually, we avoid this experience as much as we possibly can because it is so shattering and painful. Usually I'm very careful not to have myself by myself, but the I, plus all sorts of other experiences. People who are busy all the time, who must always think of something, who must always be doing something, are incessantly running away from this experience of the basic or original anxiety.

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What we usually do is to lean and to try and rely on something else than this empty center. The Buddhist contention is that we will never be at ease before we have met this basic anxiety. And we can do that only by relying on nothing at all. So that wasn't about death at all. Or was it? While I was studying all of this about Kishanti, something happened that had a very deep effect on me. Steve Stuckey died. For those of you who didn't know him or didn't know of him, Steve was an abbot of these temples. He was the central abbot. I had served on the Zen Center board with Steve about 20 years ago. We liked each other.

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We made jokes together, but we weren't close. I wouldn't say we were good friends, and I never thought of him as my teacher. But I have never received a more profound lesson from anyone. The way that Steve met his death changed how I understood this practice and how I understand my life. So there are a few people, at least in this room, who were much closer to Steve than I was. And so please forgive me if I get the details wrong. This is just my story about Steve Stuckey's death. He was a big, strong, incredibly vital man, energetic, always helpful, very beloved in the community. The last time I talked with him in person, he said he'd been feeling a little crummy, like he had the flu or something. And the next week, or maybe it was the week after, he sent an email to friends and to community leaders saying he'd been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and would probably die within a few months.

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It was a beautiful letter. He quoted the blues singer Booker White. I don't mind dying, but I hate to leave my children crying. He was OK with the fact that he was going to die. His only concern was for the people, the many people, that he loved. Was that really true? From everything I saw and heard in those last few months of Steve's life, it was true. It was true that Steve walked into that dark place without being afraid, but also without any bravado about it. Not a hint of self-pity. Always concerned with others. an open heart.

[31:15]

When I was talking with Linda Ruth about this, she pointed something else out, that Steve was always grateful up to the end, always expressing his gratitude. But the most startling thing for me was that he seemed genuinely interested in what was going to happen next and what was happening then. For the very first time, it struck me not as an idea but as a deep feeling that maybe, just maybe, fear does not have to be the way we die. So Steve died almost three years ago. In the meantime, I've kept studying Kshanti, kept trying to practice letting go on my meditation seat in my life, crawling forward with my snail-like practice. A few months ago, I was walking my dog, Satchel.

[32:21]

He's a good dog. We were on a corner a few blocks from my house when something weird happened to me. Ever since that baseball hit me in the head, I'm used to getting random... strange neurological events happen. And this time it felt like there was an electric storm in front of me, not in front of me, inside of me, just shorting everything out. Like all my wiring was going kablooey. And I thought, I don't know what this is. Maybe I'm having a stroke or something. Maybe I'm going to die on this corner and never make it to three blocks. my house. To my great surprise, I was not afraid. To my even greater surprise, I was interested. I was interested in what was going on with me. I was interested in what was going to happen next.

[33:23]

What came next is that it just passed and I went home. Around that time, something else happened. I'm a lawyer, and the work that I do is for an agency that is devoted to representing people on death row, trying to keep the state from killing them. As I hope you all know, there are two propositions on the ballot next month, one to abolish the death penalty and one to supposedly strengthen it, which from my point of view means to make everything a lot worse. Either way, the agency I work in and my job would change dramatically. In fact, I could be out of a job entirely. I really like my job, but I really want the death penalty to be abolished. On the other hand, if the other proposition passes, the one to strengthen it, my job could get to be a lot less enjoyable. When all of this became clear, I started to get a little stressed out

[34:35]

And then unbidden, the thought arose, this is interesting. What's going on with me is interesting. What's going to happen next? So I think you're getting the point. But I didn't really get it until a few weeks ago when we took our oldest child, my son, Jake, back east to where he was starting college. And he was this person whose life had been part of our lives, my life, ever since he was born. I love him so dearly. And I knew that everything was going to change. But in some sense, he was leaving forever. I mean, he'll be back. Hell, he's back now for a few days. But he started his life.

[35:36]

his own life away from us. And I was devastated. I was heartbroken. We dropped him in Philadelphia and took the mega bus to New York. Never experienced the mega bus. It's a trip. It's actually a big, comfortable bus. For five bucks, you get to go from Philly to New York. For another five bucks, you get the best seat on the bus. So I was up on the second level of this double-decker bus with this panoramic view, just this big windshield, watching the New Jersey landscape. It is the Garden State, after all, fly by. And I was weeping. Someone asked Suzuki Roshi, our founder, if he could explain the essential teaching of Buddhism in words, a few words that anyone could understand.

[36:42]

And he said, everything changes. So after a few days of feeling distraught and grouchy, I remembered that everything changes. And I thought, you know, this is just change. Isn't this interesting? Isn't my reaction interesting? What's going to happen for Jake? I wonder what's going to happen for me, for a family. I wonder what's really happening right now. Kshanti, as it turns out, doesn't have to be about enduring what arises, about tolerating it. I would suggest that the true perfection of patience is about letting go. with curiosity and with an open heart. I'm not saying that's easy. I won't say that I'm always holding my arms open to the next moment.

[37:46]

I'm finding the current presidential election particularly challenging in that regard. But anyway, this practice of letting go, this is what's going on for Love is but a song we sing, fears the way we die. You can make the mountains ring or make the angels cry. Although the bird is on the wing, you may not know why. Come on, people, smile on each other. Everybody get together. Try to love one another right now. Before I go, I've been asked to say a few words from our sponsor. Zen Center is, at this point, Zen Center is, as you probably know, this temple and a temple in San Francisco and the wonderful monastery at Tassajara.

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And we're in the midst of a membership drive. Now, for those of us who are lay people coming and visiting the temple, it feels like that's what we're doing, like we are guests who come here to this really nice place. And, you know, hopefully we're treated really well as guests. But the place really belongs to these people that we see in robes who sit here regularly, who live here, who work here. and we're just passing through. Well, you know, actually, most people are just passing through, if not for a day, for a few months. There are a few people who really have spent much of their lives here taking care of the place so that we can all enjoy this, and I'm deeply grateful to them. But the point is, it's not their place any more than it's your place.

[40:08]

Suzuki Roshi came to this country to make the Dharma available to lay people, to householders. And this temple, these temples are as much for householders as they are for anyone who lives here, any brown-robed monk. So the way to express that is become a member of Zen Center. And, you know, part, in that sense, part of this community, and be able to have a voice in what happens in the community, what happens in this wonderful practice. And it's also a way to express appreciation in the people who are spending their lives taking care of it. So my friend and colleague, Mark Lackman, is going to be outside with the table, letting... people sign up to be members.

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There are various perks and advantages, but the main thing is really to express being part of this. And so I would like to encourage you to do that. End of announcement. Thank you very much. Good for you. Thank you for listening to this podcast offered by the San Francisco Zen Center. Our programs are made possible by the donations we receive. Please help us to continue to realize and actualize the practice of giving by offering your financial support. For more information, visit sfcc.org and click Giving. May we fully enjoy the Dharma.

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