Looking back, one of the things I liked about formal Zen practice is its ability to straighten out the matter of "loss."
It's a bit strange to think that sitting cross-legged on a cushion could address such an issue, but, as one Zen teacher once put it, "when has Zen ever had anything to do with sitting on a cushion?" Zen practice has to do with growing up and it doesn't take a Zen Buddhist to grow up ... anyone can do it.
Still, like some good-natured friend poking me in the ribs -- "see? I toldja so!" -- zazen, or seated meditation, provided a little quiet time in which to learn about things that it was harder to learn in the midst of the noise and haste.
Now before anyone decides to tip themselves over into a world of wallowing (spiritual) wonder -- and I dislike contributing to that function -- let me give a concrete example.
As a retired person and at 72, the day of the week is not so necessary any longer. Young and old alike smile indulgently on an older person who can't remember right off hand what day of the week it is. But another way to look at it is, what difference does it make? Anyone with a work schedule or a doctor's appointment may say it matters quite a lot ... so OK. But otherwise, the importance and meaning of Wednesday is ... what? If I had to guess, I would say it is simply a choice ... not good, not bad, not informative, not not-informative ... just a choice.
And, seated on a meditation cushion, this is the sort of information that makes itself felt. It has nothing to do with better or worse, spiritual or non-spiritual ... it's just an opportunity to get your head screwed on straight. Seated on a meditation cushion (or just growing up), this minute recognition has wider implications. Joy and sorrow come calling like any Wednesday. Sitting on the cushion, vast gouts of sorrow and uncertainty at 8:13 a.m. on Wednesday segue seamlessly into vast bits of joy and certainty by 8:16 a.m. on Wednesday.
Where did the sorrow go? Where did the joy go? Intellectually, the talkers may tell us that "everything changes," but that's too chickenshit for me. Everything does change, but talking about it doesn't make it any easier. Only living it will do. Maybe zazen is just about learning to live honestly. Nobody likes sorrow ... so ... dislike the hell out of it! Everybody likes joy ... so ... love it to death!
On the cushion or in life, things seem to get lost, somehow. Wednesday turns to Thursday, joy turns to sorrow, understanding turns to ignorance ... wubba, wubba ... things get lost.
But the cushion, like life, goes further.
"Loss" presumes in its very definition that there was something in hand. In spiritual disciplines, there can be a lot of talk about "attachment" or "detachment" ... words that suffer from the same difficulty: To be detached assumes there was something to be attached to in the first place. But the cushion, like life, pokes you good-naturedly in the ribs, saying, "oh really?!"
Was it ever really Wednesday to begin with? And the answer is, of course, yes or no depending on whose mouth is open and whose tongue is wagging and whose needs are what. Can anyone lose what they never had in the first place? Can they have what they never lost in the first place?
Thinking, thinking, thinking ... sorrowing, sorrowing, sorrowing ... losing, losing, losing ... Wednesday, Wednesday, Wednesday.
No one can escape being alive, so why try? The cushion nudges good-naturedly. Life nudges good-naturedly. Is inescapable really all that bad? If you never had it, how could you lose it? If you never lost it, how could you have it? And trying to sneak up on it all is like trying to sneak up on your eyes ... intellectual and emotional gimcrack... wallowing in belief.
The Zen teacher Ummon once said, "When you can't say it, it's there. When you don't say it, it's missing." Bit by bit, the practice of zazen is, as I look back, a good one. Just taking a little time to smile with a friend who has poked you good-naturedly in the ribs. The same friend pokes Zen students and car mechanics in the same way.
Either one of them could, with a profound accuracy, point out that today is Wednesday. If you call it special or profound, your friend winks and whispers softly, "Don't be an asshole!"
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