There is a mythology in Buddhism of the hungry ghost, a non-living, non-dead being that wanders around, starving because it has either a tiny tiny mouth or a very skinny throat, so anything it tries to eat cannot actually sustain it. It's a pretty scary image, because, as you start to look at yourself, suffering, and the general state of your life, it begins to seem as if you too are one of these creatures, living amidst banquets of emotional fulfillment, but unable to take part.
Anyway, I bring it up because the ZC is celebrating Halloween with, among other things, huge portraits of hungry ghosts in the Buddha hall and going up this great flight of stairs we have. They're big ink drawings of tall men-like ghouls, spilling soup on themselves and sitting in meditation postures, and their necks are very long and very skinny. No, I don't think I'll dress up.
All would be well here in enlightenment land except I have a cold. I have been sleeping for three days. Besides looking ghoulish myself, it hasn't done me much harm. Issues: there is still a shortage of showers. There is a small kerfuffle over who uses which bathroom (there are two showers on the second floor) and some friction as I make my way through the rules and personalities of the ZC. THere is a saying: the only thing wrong with Zen is Zen students.
On the work front, I'm pleased to say I'm getting nibbles through my network from some pretty interesting clients. This makes me happy. I'm also working on posting a website for myself, with all my professional accomplishments. It's actually kindof fun. Although I haven't published an article under my own name in 4 years, it's impressive (to me anyway) to see all the stuff I have written. I'm noticing I have a tendency to work with open source companies and early-stage startups doing their positioning and helping them with their presentation for press and analyst tours.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
a piss and a moan
First, a disclaimer: I am PMSing, and I am sleep-deprived. Ergo, I am crabby.
I am beginning to think it was a mistake to come to the ZC. I'm attending a class on Monday nights to study the Six Paramitas with ZC Co-Abbot Paul Haller -- the paramitas are the theme of the Fall Practice Period, so they're what I'm here to learn. Haller's Saturday morning dharma lectures have been great; he seems an upright, sensistive, tuned-in-to-a-greater-reality kind of guy. The experience of his Monday night class, however, has left me confused, irritated, and thoroughly unenlightened.
Here are my greivances:
- overreliance on sanskrit words I don't know (ex: nirmankaya, viyasa, and a bunch of others I don't remember)
- "homework" that includes self-examination of "what gets in your way of awakening." Last time I checked, I had not made any promises to uphold any code of moral conduct, even nice ones. So indoctrination is in the air. Bleck.
- reading list: turns out the 5 books are optional texts and will not be referred to during lecture. Goodbye, $40!
- readings: these are handed out in class. Not in advance of class, so you have a shot at understanding the sanskrit words (see above) or the Big Concepts. When they do hand them out they don't make enough copies for everyone, so many of us have to go download the docs from the Web site and print them. This wouldn't be difficult if I were at home, with my own printer. But here at ZC, they don't keep the printer stocked with papger. So you need to go get some of that. Oh, and the docs aren't always posted to the Web site in a timely way. So there's that, too. Let's say you succeeded in printing out, only for some reason the paper you're using contains someone's idea of paper art and you lose a page. Well, don't fear. You can read the electronic version, only you'll have to cock your head at a 90-degree angle, because the PDFs are not saved in a landscape format. Why not just buy the book the copies came from? You bought all the other ones. Well, you can't, because it's out of print. Fun!
- class discussion: evidently Paul is really busy because he relies a lot on discussion for the format of the class. There are about 40 people in the class, although I've now heard a count as high as 70 for folks participating in the practice period, so maybe it's that many. It's pretty hard to have a discussion among 40 people, but that doesn't stop some people from trying. There are ample opportunities to share personal experiences, and we've got some big sharers. So I get to learn a lot about the personal lives of people in my class. And their names. I am not told where they live, however, so I really can't do anything to improve the situation.
Here's my takeaway from all this aggravation: It's hard to get off the angry bus. Once pissed off by the lousy class, it was a small step to really getting steamed about the lack of decent shower facilities in the women's third-floor bathroom, which leaves 15 of us battling for shower time at 4:45am. There are two other showers there: one is full of supplies and the other sports a water-saving head that's so aggressive it's like trying to bathe with a plant spray bottle.
So what did I do? I skipped kinhin, the second sitting, soji, and service. I sat with a cup of coffee and tried to calm down. The sunrise was beautiful, the building smelled like waffles. Trouble was, there weren't actually any waffles in the building. So I contemplated the smell, which was wonderful, and the reality, which was millet.
Pema Chodron wrote a book called The Wisdom of No Escape. I've got it upstairs, in my shared room, on my new bookshelf. Help, Pema, help! What do I do now?
I am beginning to think it was a mistake to come to the ZC. I'm attending a class on Monday nights to study the Six Paramitas with ZC Co-Abbot Paul Haller -- the paramitas are the theme of the Fall Practice Period, so they're what I'm here to learn. Haller's Saturday morning dharma lectures have been great; he seems an upright, sensistive, tuned-in-to-a-greater-reality kind of guy. The experience of his Monday night class, however, has left me confused, irritated, and thoroughly unenlightened.
Here are my greivances:
- overreliance on sanskrit words I don't know (ex: nirmankaya, viyasa, and a bunch of others I don't remember)
- "homework" that includes self-examination of "what gets in your way of awakening." Last time I checked, I had not made any promises to uphold any code of moral conduct, even nice ones. So indoctrination is in the air. Bleck.
- reading list: turns out the 5 books are optional texts and will not be referred to during lecture. Goodbye, $40!
- readings: these are handed out in class. Not in advance of class, so you have a shot at understanding the sanskrit words (see above) or the Big Concepts. When they do hand them out they don't make enough copies for everyone, so many of us have to go download the docs from the Web site and print them. This wouldn't be difficult if I were at home, with my own printer. But here at ZC, they don't keep the printer stocked with papger. So you need to go get some of that. Oh, and the docs aren't always posted to the Web site in a timely way. So there's that, too. Let's say you succeeded in printing out, only for some reason the paper you're using contains someone's idea of paper art and you lose a page. Well, don't fear. You can read the electronic version, only you'll have to cock your head at a 90-degree angle, because the PDFs are not saved in a landscape format. Why not just buy the book the copies came from? You bought all the other ones. Well, you can't, because it's out of print. Fun!
- class discussion: evidently Paul is really busy because he relies a lot on discussion for the format of the class. There are about 40 people in the class, although I've now heard a count as high as 70 for folks participating in the practice period, so maybe it's that many. It's pretty hard to have a discussion among 40 people, but that doesn't stop some people from trying. There are ample opportunities to share personal experiences, and we've got some big sharers. So I get to learn a lot about the personal lives of people in my class. And their names. I am not told where they live, however, so I really can't do anything to improve the situation.
Here's my takeaway from all this aggravation: It's hard to get off the angry bus. Once pissed off by the lousy class, it was a small step to really getting steamed about the lack of decent shower facilities in the women's third-floor bathroom, which leaves 15 of us battling for shower time at 4:45am. There are two other showers there: one is full of supplies and the other sports a water-saving head that's so aggressive it's like trying to bathe with a plant spray bottle.
So what did I do? I skipped kinhin, the second sitting, soji, and service. I sat with a cup of coffee and tried to calm down. The sunrise was beautiful, the building smelled like waffles. Trouble was, there weren't actually any waffles in the building. So I contemplated the smell, which was wonderful, and the reality, which was millet.
Pema Chodron wrote a book called The Wisdom of No Escape. I've got it upstairs, in my shared room, on my new bookshelf. Help, Pema, help! What do I do now?
Friday, October 13, 2006
Back in the cult
Life in a cult is not so bad. The food's good, the people are reasonably nice--friendly and helpful--and if they'd just let you sleep in instead of waking you up at 5am every day (but Sunday), it would be a lot like a spa.
I like it. I like sweeping out front during morning soji. It's at about 7am. The air is fresh and clean, and morning sky is gray and somehow tender. The idea with soji, or work period, is that it's not so much how much you get done, it's how you do it. You sweep as if you're polishing your grandmother's priceless silver. You concentrate, you feel the broom, and you look at the leaves and seed pods and focus on "just sweeping." It's interesting. People walk by us, a small army of sweepers in black, on their way to work. Some walk their dogs. And then there's us, daubing at the cement with little straw brooms. If you come by 300 page St. at Laguna, you can see us there.
Some of my friends have reservations about my being here. It was okay as a summer thing -- 3 weeks, meditate, find yourself. It's not that unusual. But when I told folks I was coming back, and for 10 weeks, there were noises. I can guess at what worries folks: that I'm losing it, can't cope with the real world, am hiding from my unemployment, will turn into a mush-brained drone that spouts dogma (or, in this case, dharma) and is no fun at all at dinner parties. I don't really have anything to say about all that, except, well, anything is possible.
And I guess that's what appeals to me about Zen Buddhism, loosely translated as "just sitting" -- you start to find the reins of your mind and can develop yourself. In my case, I lack discipline, so I am frustrated in my attempts to write fiction. I've brought a stack of stories, workshop feedback, and my laptop. The deadline to apply to the Iowa Writer's Workshop is early January. I'm not expecting to get accepted, but I would like very much to complete three stories that are the bulk of my application. Bug me about it. I could really use the hassling.
My living situation has changed. Last week I moved into the main building with my old roommate Abi. She's great -- a retired schoolteacher who's just entered a chaplaincy program. Last night she was on night watch, which means she had to camp out in the Buddha Hall, looking, I suppose, for signs of trouble. We are in a relatively shitty neighborhood. The projects are a block away, and the foot traffic downtown is not cosmopolitan. When she finally wakes up, I'll have to ask her if anything untoward went on.
That's it. I was offered a seasonal job at Sur La Table, which I am still debating about accepting. Did you know retail only pays $10 an hour? I was shocked. The discount, however, is 40 percent. That means a springform pan and mandolin for Judy, maybe a nut grinder, and/or a food mill. And all my Christmas presents. Don't want any more cloth napkins? Tough, here they are. Merry Christmas.
I am going to owe this company so much money. Because why should anyone have to live without a Le Creuset stock pan? Or the All Clad 2-quart sauce pan, which is actually the right size for oatmeal, not the 3-quart one, like I thought. And then there's knives. The discount applies to knives. Like a Global boner. (Get your mind out of the gutter.) Because you never know when you're going to learn to bone a duck. And perhaps a little paring knife that you never have to sharpen.
I'm in big trouble.
I like it. I like sweeping out front during morning soji. It's at about 7am. The air is fresh and clean, and morning sky is gray and somehow tender. The idea with soji, or work period, is that it's not so much how much you get done, it's how you do it. You sweep as if you're polishing your grandmother's priceless silver. You concentrate, you feel the broom, and you look at the leaves and seed pods and focus on "just sweeping." It's interesting. People walk by us, a small army of sweepers in black, on their way to work. Some walk their dogs. And then there's us, daubing at the cement with little straw brooms. If you come by 300 page St. at Laguna, you can see us there.
Some of my friends have reservations about my being here. It was okay as a summer thing -- 3 weeks, meditate, find yourself. It's not that unusual. But when I told folks I was coming back, and for 10 weeks, there were noises. I can guess at what worries folks: that I'm losing it, can't cope with the real world, am hiding from my unemployment, will turn into a mush-brained drone that spouts dogma (or, in this case, dharma) and is no fun at all at dinner parties. I don't really have anything to say about all that, except, well, anything is possible.
And I guess that's what appeals to me about Zen Buddhism, loosely translated as "just sitting" -- you start to find the reins of your mind and can develop yourself. In my case, I lack discipline, so I am frustrated in my attempts to write fiction. I've brought a stack of stories, workshop feedback, and my laptop. The deadline to apply to the Iowa Writer's Workshop is early January. I'm not expecting to get accepted, but I would like very much to complete three stories that are the bulk of my application. Bug me about it. I could really use the hassling.
My living situation has changed. Last week I moved into the main building with my old roommate Abi. She's great -- a retired schoolteacher who's just entered a chaplaincy program. Last night she was on night watch, which means she had to camp out in the Buddha Hall, looking, I suppose, for signs of trouble. We are in a relatively shitty neighborhood. The projects are a block away, and the foot traffic downtown is not cosmopolitan. When she finally wakes up, I'll have to ask her if anything untoward went on.
That's it. I was offered a seasonal job at Sur La Table, which I am still debating about accepting. Did you know retail only pays $10 an hour? I was shocked. The discount, however, is 40 percent. That means a springform pan and mandolin for Judy, maybe a nut grinder, and/or a food mill. And all my Christmas presents. Don't want any more cloth napkins? Tough, here they are. Merry Christmas.
I am going to owe this company so much money. Because why should anyone have to live without a Le Creuset stock pan? Or the All Clad 2-quart sauce pan, which is actually the right size for oatmeal, not the 3-quart one, like I thought. And then there's knives. The discount applies to knives. Like a Global boner. (Get your mind out of the gutter.) Because you never know when you're going to learn to bone a duck. And perhaps a little paring knife that you never have to sharpen.
I'm in big trouble.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
sleeping in a deathbed
My first week at the SF Zen Center has not gone smoothly. The fall practice period, a 10-week session of meditation, classes, and communal living, is very full -- about 60 people are participating. So housing is at a premium. To accommodate new residents like me, they got "overflow" housing at a building across the street, the Zen Hospice Project. Most of the room are lovely -- and empty. Mine was not. My roommate and I were treated to a large and quite beautiful room in a two-story VIctorian with a number of hospice-related items included: stained carpeting, adjustable hospital beds, and a closet full of vecro restraints, hospital gowns, and adult diapers.
Needless to say, I have not been amused. After washing everying I could detach, and then wiping down everything else, the place is still stained, dusty, and just a tiny bit stinky. Happily, the manager has been able to secure new housing for me and I move into the main building on Friday.
Lesson for the week? There are a lot of personal proclivities that are very helpful to work with, to have bent now and again, tested. Then, there are those that just don't ken to bending. For me, it's germs. And, ok, smells, residues and smudges of bodily fluids, stains that smell, and finding a dead-lady jewelery box in my drawer. I know, it's a lot. Perhaps I'm not cut out for this spiritual enlightenment stuff, after all.
Here's to Friday.
Needless to say, I have not been amused. After washing everying I could detach, and then wiping down everything else, the place is still stained, dusty, and just a tiny bit stinky. Happily, the manager has been able to secure new housing for me and I move into the main building on Friday.
Lesson for the week? There are a lot of personal proclivities that are very helpful to work with, to have bent now and again, tested. Then, there are those that just don't ken to bending. For me, it's germs. And, ok, smells, residues and smudges of bodily fluids, stains that smell, and finding a dead-lady jewelery box in my drawer. I know, it's a lot. Perhaps I'm not cut out for this spiritual enlightenment stuff, after all.
Here's to Friday.
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