This podcast is offered by the San Francisco Zen Center on the web at www.sfzc.org. Our public programs are made possible by donations from people like you. I'm here co-leading a yoga and Zen retreat with Letitia Bartlett. And the theme of the retreat is Balanced and Awake, Harmonizing Mind and Body Through Yoga and Zen. And so kind of in light of this theme tonight, I wanted to talk some about inner stability and also a little bit about the recent fire or my experience of fire in terms of meeting things which are difficult. And particularly looking at the ways in which we lose some inner sense of composure and balance and presence.

[01:02]

Whenever we argue with what is, with what is actually the way that life is appearing in this moment, the way in which we might have some kind of contention with what is appearing before us. So over the 20 years that I have practiced Zen, I recognized that I learned the most about inner stability and silence and stillness during my time here among these Mentana Wilderness Mountains, the Santa Lucia Mountains. I spent eight years here as a monk at Tassajara, and during that time living sleeping, eating, working, sitting, day to day in these mountains for eight years, there was a way in which I felt I somehow absorbed them into my body, into my being.

[02:16]

This quality of their upright, steadfast, still, present, aspect. And my time here at Tassajara was actually marked by a number of significant milestones for myself in terms of practice. I was ordained in 2006 while I was living at Tassajara, and I was also head monk in the winter of 2010, and also while I was director. for three years, in the summer of 2008, I was particularly challenged by having to walk through a literal crucible of fire during the Basin Complex fire that occurred that year. And this particular fire taught me a lot about the importance of cultivating an inner composure

[03:22]

stillness, and presence, and having no argument with circumstances. I felt that during my years here in the Valley that the mountains somehow incubated me, incubated me in my practice. They became, if you will, another womb for my development. They also became kind of a version of parents, if you will. Parents that I never really had, but I always wanted when I was growing up. The kind of parents that were present, stable, always there, always available. Something you could always turn to when you needed a bit of solace, companionship. And these mountains here, Tassajara, witnessed my passage into a new form of adulthood, one that was based on the Bodhisattva vow, the vow to save all beings before myself in the path of awakening.

[04:37]

And they became for me a model of presence and reliability that I had missed in my youth. And I wanted to learn how to cultivate as I grew older and through my practice. And this was my intention of coming to practice, how to learn to be a steadfast presence. And it's an ongoing challenge, an ongoing lesson, one I will be always working with, always discovering what it means. So since I've left Tassajara, I've been back in San Francisco in the city for the last three years. And I've noticed that there's a way in which the bodily memory that I had of these mountains has seemed to have faded somewhat in the last few years. And that might be expected. It's typical, once you remove yourself from a particular space, that it's no longer with you in the same way.

[05:42]

And also, I don't sit six hours a day for six months out of the year like we do here at Tassajara. And so that constancy of a steadfast practice is also not informing me in the same way that it did before. And it's not a dramatic problem for myself, but it is noticeable and is somewhat disconcerting for me because I find myself wanting to cling and grasp to that experience of stability that I had here in the mountains. And so what I'm trying to do now as an administrative priest in the city is find a way to cultivate that presence and stability in the midst of city life, urban life. How do I do that amidst those mountains and valleys? The particular fires that I meet there every day on the streets, in the traffic.

[06:45]

Email. You know? Also in tandem with this, I've had a rather challenging job the last few years as program director. It's a new kind of more or less position, a new department or the organization. There's a lot of expectations placed on the position. It's definitely kind of at my edge of capacity, stretching me. And I often find myself having a lot of resistance to what comes up, to the amount of work. the amount of expectations that come my way. And I've been kind of like gritting my teeth at times and noticing that. I don't want this. This is not what I want. Not the job. This is not the practice. What am I doing here? I want to be back in the valley again, in these mountains. But rather than try to escape my discomfort and my unease,

[07:47]

that's been coming up I've really been trying to make an effort to examine how it is that this resistance arises for me you know how this if you will inner arguing occurs and how when I start to argue with the way things are I become unstable I lose my composure I lose my patience. I lose my connectedness with others. I lose my mind in some way. And I think most of us can recognize that we have, in some fashion, a form of contention, an argument with life. Anyone here not have that experience? We all share that.

[08:48]

We all have that. And I think it isn't so much the circumstances that are causing my dis-ease and my unhappiness, but rather my relationship with them. Or more so, my relationship with the ideas and concepts I have about how things should be. So as you might be aware, Buddhism proposes that this rivalry between the way things are and the way we think they should be lies at the root of all our suffering. The Buddha taught that our normal way of perceiving things creates a fundamental dualism. a sense of separation, if you will, at the base of our being.

[09:54]

And whenever we fall into this dualistic perspective, whenever we fall into the gap between reality and our limited capacity to be in harmony with reality, then we're going to experience disorientation, instability, unhappiness, unease, we're going to suffer. To regain our balance, to regain our sense of stability, we need to return to silence and stillness. To embody once again an innate stillness, an openness, an from which we can then meet the world and meet things as they are, without wanting them to be different, without having any other thoughts about how things should be.

[11:03]

There's a particular koan that I would like to share with you tonight, which I think gives us a little insight into how we argue about the way things are. and what we might do in order to stop this contention, stop this creating a sense of dualism and separation in our life. And this is case 29 from the Mumon Khan, which is the gateless gate collection. It's the six ancestors' mind moves. The wind was flapping a temple flag, and two monks started an argument. One said the flag moved. The other said the wind moved. They argued back and forth but could not reach a conclusion. The sixth ancestor, Huenang, said, It is not the wind that moves. It is not the flag that moves.

[12:05]

It is your mind that moves. The two monks were dumbstruck. Okay, so... how likely or how common is it that a bunch of monks are going to be standing around having a simple argument about whether or not the wind or the flag is moving? It's basically a very silly argument at some level. But isn't this a kind of common human occurrence? That we find the smallest, silliest, trivial things in which to have some argument about? with each other in some way. For example, where is the best place to take out pizza? Whose turn is it to take the trash out? Little things like that. We get caught on. We get stuck on. We bicker in some way.

[13:08]

But don't be fooled by the apparent superficial quality of this initial argument that the monks are having. Like most cases, koans, it points to something much deeper. I like that they use the word flapping in this translation, because I think it actually points to an aspect of our suffering. It actually points to, if you will, a quality of dukkha. that we all can resonate with in some way. The word dukkha is often translated as suffering, dissatisfaction, or disease. And dukkha is actually a Pali word. And it refers to a wagon wheel having a poor axle hole. In other words, it's a wheel that's out of balance in some way.

[14:11]

And this imbalance leads to a discomfort or a sense of dis-ease for the person riding in the wagon. And dukkha has been said to be an onomatopoeia for the sound that the wheel makes when it's out of balance. Dukkha, Dukkha, Dukkha. Dukkha is basically mistakenly thinking and arguing that the world needs to revolve around us. That we are the hub and the axle of the wheel of life. That we are the center of the universe and yet this way of thinking is off-centered it's imbalanced it doesn't take into account the truth of our interdependency that we in all things are dependently co-arisen and as such everywhere

[15:37]

And nowhere is the center of the universe. When we argue with this, we suffer. As Wei Nang points out to the two monks who are arguing, the apparent flapping of the flag is due in part to the flapping of their small minds, of their small sense of selves. which is, in other words, our ordinary consciousness, always again centered around the self, who I think I am. And our conditioned minds have this habitual tendency to flutter about, and mostly in self-defense and self-protection. It's as if we imagine that the more we flap about, the more we struggle and resist, then maybe the more that we can prove that we truly actually exist as a separate abiding self.

[16:54]

It's as if we think that the louder the argument we have with life and everything around us, the more real we're going to get in some way. But in the end, all this flapping about in our minds only produces more suffering for us. And in that way, we actually become less real, because we're not here and present and stable for who we truly are. Now, Sure, most of you kind of recognize the ways in which you argue with life, and ways in which your mind might flap about. You know, you have various contentions. For me, on the mundane level, is the way in which I often complain or kvetch about the smallest things. The fact that the internet isn't working again. I know for some of you here, that's not an issue, you know.

[18:03]

or you won't admit that it's an issue, or that my favorite orange juice is not currently stocked at the local grocery store, and how am I going to drink anything other than what I usually drink? But then, on a slightly more significant level, there are the times when I feel a greater sense of indignation, when I don't get the job that I want, and life seems unfair. When I realize that my body isn't what it used to be and that I'm getting older and frailer and it kind of sucks. Or when someone that I love has just been diagnosed with cancer and that I might once again lose someone dear to me. And then there are the ways in which we are not living the life we have.

[19:09]

How much time and energy do we spend seeking for something? A different friend, a different partner, a different opportunity or circumstance. Anything other than what's right here before us. And we also do this by dwelling in the past and daydreaming about the future. My life was better when I was in my 20s and I had more hair and more sex. Or I might think my life will be better when I'm in my 50s and I have more stability and money. Of course, as a monk, that's not going to happen. But all the same, we continue in some way, not being present for the life that we have. And this, I would say, is another form of being in contention with life, of being in opposition to reality in some way.

[20:22]

Always thinking that another life, a better life, somehow magically exists elsewhere. Any place but here I often notice how often when I read something on the Internet or hear a news story, something that's disturbing, that my initial reaction is literally, oh no, that cannot be. I think of times when I've heard of mass shootings of children. when then there have been airplane accidents, when major oil refinery fires have occurred, where someone is brutally assaulted, I hear myself say, oh no, this cannot be. Immediately, my habitual condition response is one of contraction.

[21:33]

a knee-jerk reaction, an opposition to what is. So rather than simply choosing to study and observe the conditions for that which has arisen, I find myself trafficking in resistance. A resistance that stems from wanting things to be any other way than what they are. What is it to simply see what is happening now? To accept it. And from that place of acceptance, choose how to respond. Seeing things more clearly, more directly. Zen is full of koans. and stories that point out the ways in which we create a contention through the simple dualism of preferences, in which we separate the world into dichotomous piles of, I want this and I don't want that.

[22:51]

Our third ancestor, the Chinese ancestor, wrote in the Shenzhen Ming, which is often translated as trust in mind, The great way is not difficult for those who have no preferences. When love and hate are both absent, everything becomes clear and undisguised. Make the smallest distinction, however, and heaven and earth are set infinitely apart. Our human tendency... to complain and to seek something other than what is, to constantly judge and evaluate, to measure and compare our life, excuse me, by things, by another yardstick, if you will, of things around us, often based on some idea of a perfection that may or may not exist.

[24:01]

But when we rely on comparison mind, comparing ourselves with others and other things, we actually are in some way dying to the life that we have. We die on inside emotionally because we're not available to what's before us. And we also die literally because we end up then fighting wars to prove how much more right or true or deserving that I am, more deserving I am than you are. So how do we stop this fighting inside and among ourselves? And all this judging and evaluating and comparing is stressful. It contributes to anxiety, depression, physical contention and pain. as well as an inversion to real intimacy and connection.

[25:08]

This pushing and pulling and weighing in the mind eventually, literally becomes embodied. It enters the body, and then the body becomes destabilized and out of kilter. Dukkha, Dukkha, Dukkha. And our bodies become hard and tense. Our faces rigid. Our hearts contract. This ease becomes disease in this way. And I often feel, whenever I am resisting something, how this contraction in the body is actually the self creating itself.

[26:17]

It's the way in which our small sense of self maintains an identity. It contracts and holds on and grasps and tries to be more real than it already is. And sometimes this selfing feels like a stabbing pain in the heart. And sometimes it's very, very subtle. Just a flicker, a nanosecond flicker, if you will, of irritation in the mind. But either way, it puts us at a risk for losing our inner stability, our inner composure. So in our practice, we are confidently constantly vigilant about whenever this small or large contraction, this selfing occurs, to see it, recognize it, and understand how has this arisen?

[27:23]

What's going on here? And how can I relax that contraction, relax that sense of self? When we allow the wind of our egos to become still and the flag of our small self to be lowered, then we can drop the judgmental thinking mind and arguments that we have with life. And when this happens, suddenly another space opens up, one in which another possibility becomes available to us. So, returning to the koan for a moment, is it the flag or the wind that's moving? When Huan Nang arrives, he doesn't actually join into the arguments.

[28:24]

He doesn't take up one side or the other. In fact, he cuts the conversation off. He tells the monks that they are wasting their time. The wind and the flag are just apparent phenomena, like images projected on a movie screen at a theater. He says, look, stop, shut up, and look directly at consciousness itself. And with that, the monks are literally dumbstrucked. Their minds go blank. And this blankness, this momentary space of don't know mind, of not being an expert, of not having to be right, is their door into a larger world.

[29:29]

And this is Huenang's intention, to break the monk's normal way of thinking about things. and throw them into a spacious don't mind that's free of dualism, that's free of contentions, that's free of extremes. This place of don't know mind experienced by the monks, this place of inner silence in which the flapping of the mind is muted and all movement ceases is the nascent ground of our inner stability. Our capacity to be composed, upright, in the midst of life's challenges and our daily, seemingly mundane activities comes from an ability to be open to an interior

[30:40]

silence and stillness. One that's found in don't know mind. And it's a mind that's absolutely free of contention with what is. And it's our practice of zazen here in which we actually become familiar and more comfortable with this space of don't know mind. the fundamental instruction in Zazen is do nothing. Do nothing. And do nothing means to not move, to not engage in thinking, or to try to fix or change anything or solve anything. Instead, we simply soften. into our being, to not resisting or moving away from what is happening in this very moment, regardless of what it is.

[31:53]

We make the effortless effort in Zazen just to be present, to be the presence that we already are. And so we relax. and do nothing, and open to the way things are, not moving, not reacting, allowing phenomena to just be as it is. As I mentioned earlier in the talk, I was here for the 2008 Basin Complex fire, and at that time, Well, actually, yesterday I walked up the creek to the recent fire site because I wanted to revisit an old teacher and to be reminded once again what it is to actually meet life when it is challenging to such a degree that your very life itself is on the line.

[33:01]

I think one of the teachings of the mountains that was very important for me, is that they didn't argue with the fire when the fire came through. There wasn't an obvious contention between the two. The fire was simply being fire. It does what fire does. It burned. And the mountain was simply being the mountain, doing what a mountain does, be upright and steadfast. Each was embodying their true nature, each meeting each other from their true nature. It was only us humans who had some story about the way things should be, what should or shouldn't be, what should or shouldn't happen. Nature was just being nature, unfolding with the way things were.

[34:07]

But what I find myself returning to since the days of the fire is not the fire itself or the weeks leading up to it. I find myself returning to actually the image of the mountains after the fire, the way in which they were stripped, bare, still, ashen, gray, totally vulnerable, And I found myself continuing to look up again and again at the mountains, unable to take my vision away from them. And for the longest time, I couldn't understand why was I so fascinated by them. They were beautiful in a way in which a dying person who has come to accept their death is beautiful, where they're no longer resisting what is happening.

[35:11]

but they are open, vulnerable, simply being with what is as it is, ready to turn to this moment without any arguments. The image of the burnt mountains expressed for me the words of Suzuki Roshi. He once offered some words during Zazen, a period of Zazen. And he said, don't move. Just die over and over. Don't anticipate. Nothing can save you now because you only have this moment. Not even enlightenment will help you now. because there are no other moments.

[36:12]

With no future, be true to yourself. Don't move. So thank you for your presence. Thank you for embodying the teaching of the mountains. in whatever way you can, whether or not you're here living as a residence, or even just here for a few hours, find some way to take this steadfast stillness with you into the world, into your life, into the way in which you meet everything. So I think we're out of time. I want to thank you very much. For more information, visit SSCC.org and click Giving.

[37:27]

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