Just for today,
I will let go of anger.
Just for today,
I will let go of worry.
Just for today,
I will be kind to my neighbour
and every living thing.
Just for today,
I will do my work honestly.
Just for today,
I will feel gratitude.
Just for today;
every day.
Principles of Reiko-Do (adapted)
Friday, September 24, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Echart Tolle, Byron Katie: Born of Desperation?
I suppose most readers of this blog have also read something of Echart Tolle and Byron Katie and probably also noticed how very Zen-like their books, The Power of Now and Loving What Is are. I know quite a few individuals whose lives have been radically changed by reading these two books.
Well, what is also interesting is the similarity in the biographical prefaces to these two books. Both authors, according to testimony, were almost incapacitated by depression when they experienced their epiphanies: Byron Katie:
In the midst of an ordinary life -- two marriages, three children, a successful career -- Katie had entered a ten-year-long downward spiral into rage, paranoia, and despair. For two years she was so depressed that she could seldom manage to leave her house; she stayed in bed for weeks at a time, doing business by telephone from her bedroom, unable even to bathe or brush her teeth. Her children would tiptoe past her door to avoid her outbursts of rage. Finally, she checked in to a halfway house for women with eating disorders, the only facility that her insurance company would pay for. The other residents were so frightened of her that she was placed alone in an attic room.
Echart Tolle:
One night, not long after my 29th birthday, I woke up in the early hours with a feeling of absoute dread. I had woken up with such a feeling many times before, but this time it was more intense than it had ever been before. The silence of the night, the vague outlines of furniture in the dark room, the distant noise of a passing train -- everything felt so alien, so hostile, and so utterly meaningless, that it created a deep loathing in me: a deep loathing of the world. The most loathsome thing of all, however, was my own existence. What was the point in continuing to live with this burden of misery? Why carry on with this continuous struggle? I could feel that a deep longing for annihilation, for non-existence, was now becoming much stronger than the instinctive desire to continue to live. 'I cannot live with myself any longer.' This was the thought that kept repeating itself in my mind.
Were these authors' breakthroughs born of desperation? Certainly their testimonies are moments of sudden illumination, akin to Zen teaching that enlightenment can arrive suddenly, in an instant, not through long periods of study or even discipline. What appears to be important --as always-- is the burning desire to change, and the willingness to let everything go, to risk everything on that desire to change. Haaa! Enlightenment is not for the timid! [?] :)
Well, what is also interesting is the similarity in the biographical prefaces to these two books. Both authors, according to testimony, were almost incapacitated by depression when they experienced their epiphanies: Byron Katie:
In the midst of an ordinary life -- two marriages, three children, a successful career -- Katie had entered a ten-year-long downward spiral into rage, paranoia, and despair. For two years she was so depressed that she could seldom manage to leave her house; she stayed in bed for weeks at a time, doing business by telephone from her bedroom, unable even to bathe or brush her teeth. Her children would tiptoe past her door to avoid her outbursts of rage. Finally, she checked in to a halfway house for women with eating disorders, the only facility that her insurance company would pay for. The other residents were so frightened of her that she was placed alone in an attic room.
Echart Tolle:
One night, not long after my 29th birthday, I woke up in the early hours with a feeling of absoute dread. I had woken up with such a feeling many times before, but this time it was more intense than it had ever been before. The silence of the night, the vague outlines of furniture in the dark room, the distant noise of a passing train -- everything felt so alien, so hostile, and so utterly meaningless, that it created a deep loathing in me: a deep loathing of the world. The most loathsome thing of all, however, was my own existence. What was the point in continuing to live with this burden of misery? Why carry on with this continuous struggle? I could feel that a deep longing for annihilation, for non-existence, was now becoming much stronger than the instinctive desire to continue to live. 'I cannot live with myself any longer.' This was the thought that kept repeating itself in my mind.
Were these authors' breakthroughs born of desperation? Certainly their testimonies are moments of sudden illumination, akin to Zen teaching that enlightenment can arrive suddenly, in an instant, not through long periods of study or even discipline. What appears to be important --as always-- is the burning desire to change, and the willingness to let everything go, to risk everything on that desire to change. Haaa! Enlightenment is not for the timid! [?] :)
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Buddha's 'Flower sermon' (Transmission of Zen)
'The Buddha stood beside a lake on Mount Grdhakuta and prepared to give a sermon to his disciples who were gathering there to hear him speak. As the Buddha waited for his students to settle down, he noticed a golden lotus blooming in the muddy water nearby. He pulled the plant out of the water - flower, long stem, and root. Then he held it up high for all his students to see.
For a long time he stood there, saying nothing, just holding up the lotus and looking into the blank faces of his audience. Suddenly his disciple, Mahakashyapa, smiled. He understood! What did Mahakashyapa understand? Everybody wants to know. For centuries everybody's been asking, "What message did the Buddha give to Mahakashyapa?"'
When Mahakashyapa smiled, what was he smiling at? There have been many suggestions, but I think we can reject all the figurative, allegorical, speculative and fanciful ones like 'Buddha trinity', representation of the Chakras etc. If we think of the flower, we can see that it is perfect, it is a real flower. It didn't become a perfect flower through thinking about it or planning to be a flower; it didn't dream of becoming a flower; it didn't study hard to become a flower. It didn't chant or pray to become a flower. Becoming a flower was its essential nature; it flowered because it was a flower. Maybe you are thinking, 'oh, that's no big deal, it was just a flower.' But that is a big deal. It was just a flower. For, you know, in Zen, that small word "just" is a big word.
I don't know if you have ever been to Kruger Park, in South Africa. Kruger Park is as big as Belgium-- a park full of animals, not people. Most tourists who go there go there looking for the 'Big Five': elephants, lions, and so on. And they can see them,they can find them. But the first animals they will see there are usually these antelope they call impala or maybe the wild pigs known as warthogs. And usually, most tourists just drive straight past the antelopes and pigs, searching for the Big Five. You know, those impalas and warthogs are beautiful creatures, and they are perfect. But to tourists they are just impalas and just warthogs, so they don't stop and look at them. Their heads are full of the Big Five.
The Buddha held up a flower. That was his sermon, his wordless sermon. And Mahakashyapa looked; and Mahakashyapa understood. Because the flower was true to its essential nature, it was beautiful and perfect. It had real beauty and perfection-- the beauty and perfection that can't be written about or spoken of but the beauty of perfection that arises directly and spontaneously from truth.
What the Buddha was revealing was the flower's truth, the flower's essential nature, what we might call its 'buddha nature', if you like. Words can't reveal it or express it, such truth has to be perceived intuitively. And Mahakashyapa perceived this, and so he smiled. This was Zen's beginning, this was Zen's moment, its epiphany. And whenever we behold that smile and recognise it for ourselves, it becomes our smile too and so the transmission continues even as the world continues to turn.
For a long time he stood there, saying nothing, just holding up the lotus and looking into the blank faces of his audience. Suddenly his disciple, Mahakashyapa, smiled. He understood! What did Mahakashyapa understand? Everybody wants to know. For centuries everybody's been asking, "What message did the Buddha give to Mahakashyapa?"'
When Mahakashyapa smiled, what was he smiling at? There have been many suggestions, but I think we can reject all the figurative, allegorical, speculative and fanciful ones like 'Buddha trinity', representation of the Chakras etc. If we think of the flower, we can see that it is perfect, it is a real flower. It didn't become a perfect flower through thinking about it or planning to be a flower; it didn't dream of becoming a flower; it didn't study hard to become a flower. It didn't chant or pray to become a flower. Becoming a flower was its essential nature; it flowered because it was a flower. Maybe you are thinking, 'oh, that's no big deal, it was just a flower.' But that is a big deal. It was just a flower. For, you know, in Zen, that small word "just" is a big word.
I don't know if you have ever been to Kruger Park, in South Africa. Kruger Park is as big as Belgium-- a park full of animals, not people. Most tourists who go there go there looking for the 'Big Five': elephants, lions, and so on. And they can see them,they can find them. But the first animals they will see there are usually these antelope they call impala or maybe the wild pigs known as warthogs. And usually, most tourists just drive straight past the antelopes and pigs, searching for the Big Five. You know, those impalas and warthogs are beautiful creatures, and they are perfect. But to tourists they are just impalas and just warthogs, so they don't stop and look at them. Their heads are full of the Big Five.
The Buddha held up a flower. That was his sermon, his wordless sermon. And Mahakashyapa looked; and Mahakashyapa understood. Because the flower was true to its essential nature, it was beautiful and perfect. It had real beauty and perfection-- the beauty and perfection that can't be written about or spoken of but the beauty of perfection that arises directly and spontaneously from truth.
What the Buddha was revealing was the flower's truth, the flower's essential nature, what we might call its 'buddha nature', if you like. Words can't reveal it or express it, such truth has to be perceived intuitively. And Mahakashyapa perceived this, and so he smiled. This was Zen's beginning, this was Zen's moment, its epiphany. And whenever we behold that smile and recognise it for ourselves, it becomes our smile too and so the transmission continues even as the world continues to turn.
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