Dormant

It seems reflective of the season. My practice feels dormant. At least the contemplative part. And I suspect this is just fine.

"Don't judge your practice." Zen Teacher Hogen Bays repeats this often, in many different forms. Over and over, he reminds us that we are not in any position to gauge what is going on, how we are doing, or what is happening.

Nevertheless, there is a sense of superficiality, of busyness in the mind, of easily distracted Zazen.

Okay, so compared to what? Compared to last spring and summer -- the experience of intensive Zen practice in the midst of a yearlong Sabbatical with regular sesshin, being inactive as a social worker, working on a koan and sweating an impending Hossan ceremony.

Now things are different. I am gainfully employed in the world again, and facing outward quite a bit more. Our Sangha has just purchased a church that will be the Heart of Wisdom Zen Temple. With such a change on the horizon, being a part of many of our Sangha's transition plans is a high-energy, high-people-contact endeavor.

I still sit, I still practice, I still enjoy being at the Zen Center twice a week. It's practice without much drama. Not sure what the fuel is. It seems a little quieter, and cleaner-burning than some earlier practice that seemed all about having eye on how I am doing, and how I am received by others.

I don't know if that makes sense.

Chozen Roshi talks about how our Zen practice has a natural rhythm with more passive times to incorporate periods of intense practice. Using the example of non-practicing spouses of serious practitioners, she says sometimes these latent periods can last lifetimes.

The last few sesshin, I have come away without a Zen adventure ("Zenventure?"), but instead just saying, "Something happened. I have no idea what it was."

I guess this is just another flavor of practice.

nothing to report

Valentine's weekend on the coast -- a treat every time for those of us who migrated from the middle of the country. I'm just checking in, enjoying a few moments of electronic rambling. Which is kinda crazy, I suppose, but I am having fun. Everything in moderation.

Right now we are staying at a sweet place where we honeymooned a couple years ago. It's a really large, blue, homey building. It's got three stories, with a total of about five or six rooms of various size, each with kitchenette, big windows onto the ocean, no TVs, no phones, no cell service, yes wifi, Pendleton blankets, dozens of books about whales, a few books by the Dalai Lama, many books by Sherman Alexie, a deck of Medicine Cards, environmentally friendly cleaning products, do-it-yourself daily tidying, compost buckets, and a rule specifically against Hummer vehicles.

A few bags of groceries, and there is no need to even get out of pajamas.

Every room overlooks the smashing, crashing ocean, and it is very, very easy to sit in one of the overstuffed rocking chairs covered up with a heavy wool blanket, looking out the open window, staring into the ever-changing sea and sky, just watching for hours and hours, which I did today, between naps, cups of tea, a brief jaunt out to Cape Perpetua, and the purchase of a tree-and-plant-identification book. I suspect I have taken on a task more difficult than I thought -- learning to identify and differentiate the conifers of the Pacific Northwest (inspired by my friend Joe).

Each room also has a stack of journals in which guests over the years have left their expressions of gratitude for their time here. It's precious and delightful to read over all the entries from people as far away as South Africa. There are drawings, poems, rants, Bible verses... it's a hoot to go through them all.

I am having fun, and existing in a state of near-constant appreciation. So many people in those journals wrote about how sad they were to leave, already planning their next visit. Impermanence can be such a sweetener.

There's a storm on its way, and the wind is whipping up, as we sit with the windows open, facing the darkness, only just listening to the vast, cleansing, churning ocean, feeling the wind pick up and rattle the windows every now and then.

Dialectical Sabbatical

As Sabbatical draws nearer, I am noticing a pronounced polarization happening inside:

• Active / Receptive
• Personal / Professional
• Growth / Rest
  

What I appreciate about dialectics is knowing that these seeming opposites can indeed be incorporated and transcended. I'm not quite there though.

I sense the Inner Critic is the source of my mild distress. I can tell, because it's got me coming and going. The Inner Critic will criticize 'A' and 'not-A'. Imagine a busy-body voice dripping with gotcha:

"I thought you were supposed to rest on this Sabbatical."
vs.
"Oh, so your Sabbatical is going to be one big vacation -- must be nice."

It's like driving with the gas and the brake on at the same time. Ironic that I am struggling so hard with stopping.

On one side, I have lots of goals. This is what enabled me to actually say yes to Sabbatical. I had to justify it to the inner workhorse. Prove to myself that it would entail lots of career development, and would indeed be very useful and very practical. So I have a big list and a spiel to talk about this side of the whole deal, and it sounds very clinical and academic and busy.

Then there's the other side. The side of personal and spiritual development. I started making a collage about Sabbatical, and it reflects this side -- lots of yoga, meditation, outdoor activity, retreats at the monastery, baths, gardening and cooking. Even all this is pretty busy too. And if Heart of Wisdom Zen Temple obtains a building of its own, well then I will be very busy.

I had a long conversation with Mushin -- she's a longtime member of our Sangha, a Dharma-Holder and a therapist, and has been an ongoing sounding-board of wisdom for my thoughts about how Zen practice is mingling with and now seems to be hijacking my career. We talked about doing nothing. This is a foreign concept. It feels like swimming against a mighty river of Protestant Work Ethic karma.

"Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring arrives and the grass grows by itself."

Mushin encouraged me to look at the existing Jewish traditions of observing the Sabbath. She suggested that even within my Sabbatical, I might designate a day every week to observe a Sabbath Day very formally. I love the idea of going right to the source of the word itself.

There are 39 categories of activity that are prohibited on Shabbat. These can be simplified into two broader categories: 1) Creative activity, and 2) Activity that changes one's environment. This has been very interesting reading, and the various levels of observance end up prohibiting different things. For the most part, they include these: Driving a car, using electricity, writing, washing, playing instruments, watching TV, sewing, cooking, etc.

Here is a list of encouraged activity:

• Spending Shabbat together with other Jews
• Attending synagogue
  
• Socializing with family and friends
• Hosting guests for Shabbat meals
• Singing special songs for the Shabbat meal
• Reading, studying and discussing Torah and commentary
• Sexual relations between husband and wife, particularly on Shabbat eve
  
• Taking Shabbat naps

I notice myself seeking permission for taking this Sabbatical. Even though I have already decided to do it. I can find it in other traditions, other cultures, other countries. This normalizes and justifies it to some degree. I found that in one article, 75% of the British workforce is considering a "Career Break." Yeah, they even have their own word for it. And that so many of them are considering it... well it's decidedly un-American.

The thing is, it really doesn't matter where else these kinds of things are practiced, or how important they are to others. The important thing is for me to continue to consult myself. I have been in deep discernment for a long time, and have tapped into a very still, quiet place that does not require statistics, ancient religious law, or even words. It's more like the truth of simply exhaling. Or the truth of the seasons. The truth of night. A natural pull towards what is true that I can trust if I am quiet and listen deeply.