80's Flashbacks

The first dozen plus years of my Buddhist life were purely intellectual. I would read whatever i could get my hands on and then re-read it and re-read it and think about it until i could find another book to read — which wasn't as often as you might imagine.

Back in the '70s, there weren't entire sections in bookstores devoted to Buddhism, and i can remember wandering through every bookstore i ran across every time i ran across them, looking for that one lucky discovery; another one has been published! I had a little more luck in the libraries at the universities i attended, but still, books on Zen weren't falling off the shelves.

Zen first lost it's intellectual smell when i was living in Japan for a few years in the '80s. While there, i learned two lessons that at the time didn't seem all that extraordinary. In hindsight, though, i am so glad i learned them when i did.

The first was in answer to the typical question asked of someone who is supposed to know: "What is Zen?" The response made perfect sense to me then and has defined how i look at it even to this day. In response, i was told that Zen was making sure that when i took my slippers off at the edge of the tatami, they weren't just thrown willy-nilly, but were lined up side-by-side, with the heels towards the tatami and the toes pointing away.

The point was, you pay attention to everything you do no matter how insignificant it might seem at the moment. Paying attention to what you do, what you say, what you think, how you look at things, how you live, how you live, how you live. You do not live your life as if there is anything that doesn't matter.

The second lesson i was forced to teach myself. Being a complete temple addict, i have visited so many temples around the world that i don't think i can count them. When living in Japan i would take weekend trips and ride trains and buses for a full day to get somewhere and then another full day to get back in time for work, just to visit a new temple on the other side of the island for 3-4 hours. I just cannot explain to anyone who reads this the feeling of contentment and ease i get sitting on the tatami in front of a Buddha statue at a temple.

(It sure did force me to learn Japanese, though, since i always traveled alone. :-))

However, since i am addicted to traveling and to wandering the streets wherever i live, i always refused to make time to stay at home and establish a formal zazen practice. Usually, if i was awake, i was out walking around. Then, one day (why, i'll never know) it dawned on me that instead of reading on the hour commute into Tōkyō each morning and the hour back home each night, i could meditate right there on the train.

Since i was never a member of a temple, there was no one to tell me i was stupid and that it couldn't be done, or that it was a completely ass-backwards way to approach practice. So, i just did it. Every day, while standing and leaning against the doors of the train and staring blankly out the window, or while hanging from the hand strap dangling from the ceiling and flopping this way and that, i learned to count my breaths. An hour into the city and an hour going home.

At first i had to be careful not to miss my station, but after a while, as any commuter can tell you, your body just seems to know when you are approaching your stop. Back then there were no mp3 players but i'm sure i looked just as spaced out to the other passengers as someone listening to music does now. But, i was hooked.

Since then, sitting on my zafu at home has never been my favorite place to meditate. For me, watching my breath during red lights, while waiting in the line at the grocery store, sitting in the waiting room at the dentist, .... all seem much more natural.

While i do love my zafu, i have to admit (maybe a little sheepishly) that it seems just a tad bit too formal. And besides, that's not what Zen is about. Not at all.

Do you know where your shoes are right now?