This is Sunday, February 16, 2025 and for teisho today, actually going to start back with something I read from last week, and we're going to be talking about, still going to be talking about silence, boredom, patience. Somewhere in there, there's a title for this, teisho. So when I was reading from the piece, I want to go back and sort of underline and take a bigger look at, was a talk given by Norman Fisher, the teacher in California, San Francisco. I believe, anyway, he was a student, probably a disciple, of Suzuki Roshi, and he's a poet as well as being a Zen teacher. So he said this, and we talked about a little bit, he said, because it is exactly the notion that it is our effort to do and make happen and create our lives that defeats us. You
our idea that our job is to do and to make happen, fundamental misunderstanding, the nature of practice, the nature of true life. He says, no matter how good I am, no matter how strong I am, how determined, how many periods of zazen I sit and so on and so on, I'll never be able to do it, because it's not that kind of thing. That's why so many of us try the strategy, consciously or unconsciously, of avoiding the barrier.
What is that barrier? Barrier of who we are, what we are, the impossibility of the eye to see itself. I people get a real taste of this when they're working on a koan, but it applies to every kind of Zen practice. As long as you're trying to do it, you can't
strategy consciously or unconsciously, of avoiding the barrier thinking about something else for 50 or 70 years, because we can't pace face the impossibility of Our life as it really is.
This whole issue, we're all so intimate with it, of deflection running up against what we can't do, or even what's hard to do, and deflecting off to this side or that side. You
there's some material that I'm going to read that really shines a great light on that problem,
and it's an account, one of a number of different accounts that I've seen, of a naturalist, a student, scientific student of Natural History, coming to this well known professor. Not sure how long ago this was, but it's, it's back in the days of cork stopper bottles. So it was quite a while ago, and this account was written 15 years after the after this person's experience. Not even sure who the writer is, but I'm just going to read it. And he says it was more than 15 years ago that I entered the laboratory of Professor Agassi and told him I had enrolled my name in the scientific school as a student of natural history. He asked me a few questions about my object in coming my antecedents, generally the mode in which I afterwards proposed to use the knowledge I might acquire, and finally, whether I wish to study any special branch. To the latter, I replied that while I wish to be well grounded in all departments of zoology, I proposed to devote myself specially to insects. When do you wish to begin? He asked. Now I replied. This seemed to please Him, and with an energetic very well, he reached from a shelf in a huge jar of specimens in yellow alcohol. Take this fish, he said, and look at it. We call it a Himalayan, by and by I'll ask you what you have seen with that. He left me, but in a moment, returned with explicit instructions as to the care of the object entrusted to me. No man is fit to be a naturalist, said, He who does not know how to take care of specimens, I was to keep the fish before me in a tin tray and occasionally moisten the surface with alcohol from the jar, always taking care to replace the stopper tightly. Those were not the days of ground glass stoppers and elegantly shaped exhibition jars. All the old students will recall the huge necklace glass bottles with their leaky wax, bare corks, half eaten by insects and begrimed with cellar dust. Entomology was a cleaner science than ichthyology, but the example of the professor who had unhesitatingly plunged to the bottom of the jar to produce the fish was infectious, and though this alcohol had a very ancient and fish like smell, I really dared not show any aversion within these sacred precincts and treated the alcohol as though it were pure water. Hopefully didn't drink it. Still I was conscious of a passing feeling of disappointment for gazing at a fish did not commend itself to an ardent entomologist. Entomology, of course, is the study of insects. My friends at home, too, were annoyed when they discovered that no amount of Ota cologne would drown the perfume, which haunted me like a shadow in 10 minutes, I had seen all that could be seen in that fish, and started in search of the professor who had, however, left the museum. And when I returned, after lingering over some of the odd animals stored in the upper compartment, my specimen was dry all over. I dashed the fluid over the fish as if to resuscitate it from a fainting fit, and looked with anxiety for a return of a normal, sloppy appearance. This little excitement over nothing was to be done but to return to a steadfast gaze at my mute companion. Half an hour passed, an hour another hour, the fish began to look loathsome. I turned it over and around, looked at it in the face, ghastly from behind, beneath, above, sideways, at three quarter view, just as ghastly. I was in despair. At an early hour, I concluded that lunch was necessary. So with infinite relief, the fish was carefully replaced in the jar, and for an hour I was free. On my return, I learned that Professor Agassi had been at the museum but had gone and would not return for several hours. My fellow students were too busy to be disturbed by continued conversation. Slowly, I drew forth that hideous fish with a feeling of desperation again, looked at it I might not use a magnifying glass. Instruments of all kind were interdicted. My two hands, my two eyes and the fish seemed to most limited field. I pushed my fingers down its throat to see how sharp its teeth were. I began to count the scales in the different rows, until I was convinced that this was nonsense. At last, a happy thought struck me. I would draw the fish, and now, with surprise, I began to discover new features in the creature. Just then, the professor returned, that is right. He said, a pencil is one of the best eyes. I'm glad to notice too that you keep your specimen wet and your bottle corked with these encouraging words, he added, well, what is it like? He listened attentively to my brief rehearsal of the structure of parts whose names are still unknown to me, the fringed Gill arches and moveable operculum, the pores of the head, fleshly lips and lidless eyes, the lateral line, the spinous fin and forked tail, the compressed and arched body. When I had finished, he waited as if expecting more, and then with an air of disappointment. You have not looked very carefully. Why he continued more earnestly, you haven't seen one of the most conspicuous features of the animal, which is as plainly before your eyes as the fish itself. Look again, look again, and he left me to my misery. I was piqued, I was mortified, still more of that wretched fish. But now I set myself to the TA. Ask with a will and discovered one new thing after another, until I saw how just the professor's criticism had been. The afternoon passed quickly, and when towards its close, the professor inquired, did you see it yet? No, I replied, I'm certain I do not, but I see how little I saw before that is next best. He said earnestly, but I won't hear you now, put away your fish and go home. Perhaps you will be ready with a better answer in the morning. I will examine you before you look at the fish. This was disconcerting. Not only must I think of my fish all night, studying without the object before me what this unknown but most visible feature might be, but also without reviewing my new discoveries, I must give an exact account of them. The next day, I had a bad memory, so I walked home by char the Charles River in a distracted state with my two perplexities. The cordial greeting from the professor the next morning was reassuring. He was a man who seemed to be quite as anxious as I was that I should see for myself what he saw. Do you perhaps mean I asked that the fish has symmetrical sides with paired organs? His thoroughly pleased, of course, of course, repaid the wakeful hours of the previous night, after he had discoursed most happily and enthusiastically as he always did, upon the importance of this point, I ventured to ask what I should do next. Oh, look at your fish, he said. And left me again to my own devices. In a little more than an hour he returned and heard my new catalog, catalog, that is good. That is good, he repeated. But that's not all go on. And so for three long days, he placed that fish before my eyes, forbidding me to look at anything else or to use any artificial aid. Look, look, look, was his repeated injunction. This was the best entomological lesson I ever had, a lesson whose influence was extended to the details of every subsequent study, a legacy the professor has left to me as he left it to many others, of inestimable value, which we could not buy, with which we cannot part. Of
course, student had the advantage of being forced to keep looking.
That's some of what we do in Zen. It's the value of sitting without moving. Of course, as we all discover, it's possible to spin off daydream, find other things to think about, but that never really goes too well, never sits well, certainly isn't anything we can bring before a teacher,
so we return looking again and again. One of the common complaints, of course, is that it's boring. What could be more boring than to sit in front of a wall not moving, faced with a problem we can't solve, and even if you're doing a breath practice, really, how do you solve that problem? How do you become one with the breath? How do you step out of the division between you, the contents of your mind, sensations of your body. How do you how do you return to the oneness you were born with?
There's a play director named Andre Gregory. He was one of the two main guys in the movie. My Dinner With Andre, he and Wally Chan have a dinner. It's another really boring thing. You just listen to two guys talk. I love that movie, and Andy Gregory. Andre Gregory is really something else. He his method of directing a play is to rehearse and rehearse and rehearse and rehearse and sometimes his rehearsals go on for as much as a year. I. It's just crazy. So he was interviewed by a man named Rob Weinert Kent for the American theater, I guess it's a magazine. And Rob Weinert Kent asked him, I just wonder if there's a paradox there. One of the things people seem to value in live performance is spontaneous. Spontaneity, surprise. Is there a danger that long rehearsals will deaden or drain these qualities? And Andre Gregory says, No, a long rehearsal is like a long marriage, a relationship or a long therapy, right? You reach places where you are literally get bored, where you literally get bored and you think that there's nothing else that can happen. I should get out of this therapy. I should get out of this marriage. Should find a different practice. And he says, boredom, to me, is generally a sign that there's a big shark swimming under the water, and if you're patient, the shark will rise to the surface. So if you can have the courage to see your way through the boredom until the new thing appears, you'll have amazing surprises. This is the teaching of Zen, to hang in there, not to worry about boredom. Don't worry about any condition of your mind. It'll pass. It's passing. Phenomenon want to do is to find the wherewithal, the patience, the determination to hold our own feet to the fire, to keep looking directly, not to deflect the great Chinese Zen master da Wei said of boredom, do not abandon it. When there is no flavor, no interest, this is a good time to not abandon it. What happens when we do that, when we just keep looking, just give up our preoccupation with success, with conditions, just keep returning again and again, because we keep drifting away, bringing it back, if You, if you really keep at it, something happens below the surface. Basically, whenever you take an unanswerable question seriously, the unconscious mind engages and help comes unbidden. You can see a trivial, trivial example, if you're working on a crossword puzzle and there's something that's just got you stumped. Keep looking and looking, then later on, all of a sudden, the word pops into your head. How did that happen? There's a lot of wheels turning underneath the surface. What they turn and concern themselves about depends on the integrity of your intention. Quoted in the workshop yesterday, as always, Jose Ortega y Gosset says, Tell me to what you pay attention, and I will tell you who you are. You
of course, we're always wanting to get somewhere in our practice, it's just natural. Don't feel you're a failure, because you do. But notice it. Notice that constant checking in to see how you're doing what we actually want is to get to where we're no longer trying to get somewhere. Man named Sam Harris said most of us spend our time seeking happiness and security without acknowledging the underlying purpose of our search, each of us is looking for a path back to the present. We are trying to find good enough reasons to be satisfied now.
Hakuin says, like one in water, crying, I thirst, everything we want is right here.
We need to develop patience. We need to develop a taste for silence, for stillness. That comes gradually, but it's reliable. There's a. A there's an essayist named pico heir, born in Oxford, but he's of Indian descent, and he wrote an article in The New York Times called The Joy of quiet. He talked about what he does. He says, In my own case, I turn to eccentric and often extreme measures to try to keep my sanity and ensure that I have time to do nothing at all, which is the only time when I can see what I should be doing. The rest of the time, I've yet to use a cell phone and I've never tweeted or entered Facebook. Like to note that this article was written in 2011 so I went and checked him out, and he's all over Twitter, writing about being quiet. But what are you going to do? You're an essayist. He says, I try not to go online. So at least he was using a computer back then. I try not to go online till my day's writing is finished and I moved from Manhattan to rural Japan, in part so I could more easily survive for long stretches entirely on foot, and every trip to the movies would be an event. And he is still living in Japan, although he travels. Of course, none of this is a matter of principle or asceticism. It is just pure selfishness. Nothing makes me feel better, calmer, clearer and happier than being in one place, absorbed in a book, a conversation, a piece of music. It's actually something deeper than mere happiness. It's joy, which the monk David Steindl Rost describes as that kind of happiness that doesn't depend on what happens.
We have to work with our habit of deflecting, of turning away, the only way to work with a habit is to do something different. We need awareness, then we need the determination to follow through, to do something different, and we need to be okay with failing. I have a friend lives in New York City in Manhattan, named Sally Schneider, and she has a blog, think it's called the improvised life. She was she had written a cookbook called the improvised chef, which actually Chris, my wife, had a copy of before we met Sally, and she wrote something in her blog that I really like talking about working with habits. She says, to change the habit. I slowly replace it with a new one that is practice, a new one until it creates a stronger, deeper path than the old one. And that is the secret to change. Creating a new path is what happens as we continue over the years, returning to the mat, returning to the moment. It happens inevitably, outside of our intentionality. It's like walking through the mist. You become wet, she says, replacing a new one, till the new one creates a stronger, deeper path. She says that requires many, many fails, because habits don't change overnight, just as they weren't created overnight. That's why they say in AA, slow growth is good growth. She says, Here's what I've learned to practice to change a habit in this order, one self reflection, I need to become aware of the habit I want to change and the behavior to replace it with, and then I start practicing the new behavior to gradually make it a habit. So one thing that I notice in my own practice is when I notice that I'm scattered, or I'm looking into the future or just not present in some way, I find myself relaxing, just opening up into the moment. I find myself actually sometimes glad I noticed instead of having it be some Aw shit, practice doesn't work well when you're trying to measure up to a standard, when you're probably trying to appear to others as a strong practitioner, such a such a fruitless, pointless endeavor. You have to do it for yourself. You have to do it for your own interest. As pico ire says it's selfish, pure selfishness, pure selfishness that benefits everyone around you. You have to be willing to step out of what people expect.
So number two, self awareness, I catch myself when I slip into the old routine, which I inevitably will. And then three, gentleness, mixed with forgiveness. I've learned to dismantle my brutal critical self and instead be very gentle and forgiving of myself for slipping and quote, failing. Find it's good to laugh at myself rather than taking myself too seriously or piling on criticism. Four, self correction. Once I've caught myself reverting to my old habit, I let it go and I continue the new behavior, willingness to repeat this process many times without giving up over and over again. This is essential. It's really changing a habit is really a slow two steps forward and one step back. Practice that works if you have patience and all new habits are subject to tailoring as we change and grow you
sir Roshi says, notice and return. Notice and return. Over time becomes much cleaner, notice without the commentary, oh, and we're back. And then what does arise is joy. Joh, go back. It's a big, big joy. Joy person and claims that even suffering can be joyful. I'm working on that, but I am working on that, but I want to read a little something from her that, just a little bit here. This is from her book, ordinary wonder. Was published after her death, assembled by her daughter and edited. But again, it's talks that she made in the in her Zen do in San Diego, and it's from a chapter entitled The way things should be. And she starts with a quote from wh Auden, our claim to own our bodies and our world is our catastrophe. You
and I'm just going to jump to the part I like she says. The other day, somebody asked me about the upcoming seshin, for anybody who doesn't know that's a meditation retreat. Are you going to have us do something new, then different this time I said, Well, I hope not. Seshin is a formal Zen sitting practice retreat every day the sitting can last six to eight hours. It's very rigorous. Without being stiff. You try not to move your body, even your tongue, your fingers or your toes, and it should be the same old thing. Of course, we'd like some excitement. But one of the reasons formal sitting meditation works is because the schedule is monotonous. If you say too much, it works less well. That is a temptation for a teacher to say too much. I
uh, she says, how does it work when I sit long hours, enduring whatever I endure, enjoying whatever I enjoy, but just sitting there, what becomes clear to me is that 99% of what I'm doing is trying to claim the world and my body for myself. These thoughts that buzz endlessly. You can call it identification, or whatever you want, the buzzing thoughts support my claim that life should go my way. It should give me no pain, no difficulty, no disappointment, nothing that I don't like. And that's my claim. And when Auden says our world, he means that part of the world that I think is mine, this usually means the people close to me, my own family, my friends, sometimes my own town or city. And for some people, my country, my claim to own my body and my world is my catastrophe.
Skipping ahead when we sit long hours, then the truth begins to dawn. I. Like what pleases me and I don't like what doesn't please me. We will vary all through the day. Our anger is often about the feeling that something is assaulting some part of the world that I think is mine, my body, my world, my time when we can sit through the boredom, the pain or whatever comes up, something happens. It's not that we cease to see things the same way, but it's as though there's now a space around it that doesn't push us quite as hard. We soften up that tight rigidity about holding on which we all have to which we all have, to some degree, loosens a little you.
We notice we don't have to feel good. Roshi Kapleau said famously, everything is grist for the mill. Don't waste your time bewailing the fact that it's tough, that you're spinning your wheels. Be patient. Have confidence that it will change. It's always changed in the past. It'll change in the present, and it's going to change in the future. Never stops moving and changing. The minute you try to mark something off and say, This is mine, and I want this to stay the same, you're just being an idiot, garden variety idiot, which we all are, I'm an ass, you're an ass.
We're the problem. You know, it's, it's, we focus on conditions and we find ways to avoid them. Go somewhere where it's not so noticeable, which, of course, saps the joy out of our life, because now we're no longer present.
But the problem is not the circumstances. The problem is us. The problem is our demands. There's a story recounted by a Buddhist retreat leader named Gene lush tag lush tak. Don't know anything about him, but it's a story about Ajahn Chah, the Thai Forest master, a young monk, came to live in the monastery where Ajahn Chah was practicing. The people who lived in the town outside the monastery were holding a series of festivals in which they sang and danced all night long. When my son was married in Indonesia, the wedding happened in the street outside his new wife's house, family house, his little house on a little street in Nan juk, in the middle of Java, there's a tent, so traffic had to go around some other street, and the revelry lasted until the sun came up. I was thankfully gone. I had been there, and we went back to our motel at some point. But for my son, it was just torture, and he became quite crabby with his guests, with his hosts in Indonesia. But, you know, some places, that's the way it is. That's what people do. Anyway, little tough for monks trying to sit. Said, when the monks would rise at 330 in the morning to begin their meditation, the parties from the night before would still be going strong. At last one morning, a young monk cried out to Ajahn Chah, venerable one, the noise is interrupting my practice. I can't meditate with all this noise. Ajahn Chah responded, the noise isn't bothering you. You are bothering the noise, as lush tak put it to me, silence is not a function of what we think of as silence. It's when my reaction is quiet. What silent is my protest against the way things are.
It all comes back to right now. It's like this to our mantra,
amazingly, it's okay. Sorrow is okay, tragedy is okay. It's not okay when we resist of. Course, and some things are just too tough to resist. Everybody has their limit, but gradually we can take in more and more of things not going our way. We become what Joe COVID calls a bigger container. You notice that over time, things rock you, but not quite as much. And sometimes, in the words of CS Lewis, Christian writer, we are surprised by joy. Okay, going to stop there, and we'll recite the four vows. I.
