Aerial Pork

Renunciation (Again)

2012-01-24T07:53:00.000-08:00

We, home leavers and home makers attaining the way, are renunciates, says Reb Anderson. And we're giving up what doesn't make us happy, says Koji, my dharma brother, friend, and roommate.

Which is apparently a lot of stuff for me! I've been here before, too. Before I lived at Mid-City zen...I mean, before my wife and I turned our home into Mid-City zen, invited two zen priests to move in, submitted to the practice container of zazen and ceremony and sangha in the house every day, I lived at New Orleans Zen Temple. And there I had a stack of books and some zaboutons to sleep on.

How many books did I actually need? Where did that big TV come from? Why do I have 38 t-shirts and 53 pairs of underwear?

I'm down to the small stack of books you see in the picture. I had 4 book cases full. Big book cases, too. I have 11 t-shirts, all my best ones- which means I gave up every single punk rock or comic book on, covered in stains and holes. I've got good Zen student t-shirts now, left over from a season of rangering in East Texas-brown, green, tan, grey. I've got 5 work pants, and 4 pairs of dress pants. 3 ties. 10 underpants. 12 pairs of socks. 4 sweaters.

And all of it looks nice, hides my tattoos, blanks my slate, so I can be approachable. But my hair is getting long, because I'm not cutting it until my teacher does! It's a bit of strike; maybe it will get so unruly, he'll have to ordain me sooner.

You know, renunciation is so rooted in memory. I can't actually see what I don't have anymore. I actually don't "feel" like I've given anything up- it's more like trading- for lay robes, a beach, some mountains, a farm, the teachings, dark quiet mornings...

So I don't think I've been successful, since I "have" all of the above.

I don't even want to tell about all the kimonos, obi, robes, samue, and zen gear I have, or worse, want!

Hopeless!

Leaving Home (again).

2012-01-19T05:57:00.001-08:00

Lulu and I received our invitations to Green Gulch Organic farm and Zen center. On our way we go, Feb. 8th!

People ask for how long. I figure somewhere between 6 months and the rest of my life;)

We'll actually be working on practice period crews, helping to support all the residents who are sitting with one of my favorite Zen teachers, Fu, and a very close friend and advisor, Reirin, who is Shuso for the spring. Reirin married Lulu and me in April:

So I ride to work through these old New Orleans streets and I wonder if I really know them and if I'll let myself know Green Gulch. Most of my time in New Orleans has been spent with eyes for some temple somewhere else...Antaiji and Green Gulch, mostly.

About 4 years have passed since I decided I wanted to move Green Gulch, but I had a really rough job in the recovery school district, I was in a bit of relationship distress, struggling and struggling and I had been warned that a monastery is not a place to run away to. So I stayed didn't really ask if what I was experiencing was so, but insisted that it wasn't, which wasn't helpful. Basically, I denied my suffering and acknowledged a misunderstanding of the "true dharma" and sense of non-self. Amazing! Actually, horrible.

But a lot has changed. Another "you need a teacher" plug, but changing teachers was the best thing I've done in the last two years. But I'm pretty sure I needed the first one to find the second. The first one said, "Head presses the sky, knees press the earth. Zazen is your coffin, don't move" and that was exhausting. And exhausted, I found Kosho, who said, "Soften. Open your heart, radically accept."

Not so tough these days. I was never very good at being tough anyway. Now I just show up, pay attention, tell the truth, be open to what happens. Such a relief!

But I'll miss our little temple here. We just got a big new bell. The new priests are settled and integrated into the sangha and we really enjoy living with them. I'll miss the Saints! And my Dad, step-mom, and baby brother. I'll miss these streets and old houses, too.

Show up, Pay Attention, Tell the Truth, Be Open

2012-01-10T15:48:00.000-08:00

I keep asking myself, "What is Aerial Pork? What do I want from this blog? What is this blog supposed to be?"

I'm going to try and let this blog be what is.

I'm still sitting, now living in a small zen center with two zen priests and my wife. My wife and I leave in April to sew our Zennie oats out in California. Maybe I'll ordain, maybe not- I actually have no control over when or if that happens, despite my spiritual ambition. I haven't been told no, I haven't been told yes, and I've asked, but only twice. Heard third time is the charm, but it usually takes me 2 years to approach the subject; I'm 5 years into formal practice, 9 years on a meandering path.

But hey, "Like a fool, like an idiot, practice secretly, working from within..."

Vow and Commitment

2011-08-07T15:12:00.000-07:00

A disciple of the Buddha does not steal, and I've heard it a few times. I took that vow, and this vow has been a threshold I've stepped over and back over the last couple of days.

This is a part of my Everything Changes, Everything's Connected, Pay Attention, program.

First, I sat in a benefits meeting at work. There was a rich man telling us we could all get rich, too. All we had to do was invest with his firm, and better yet, my school was going to match my contribution up to 5%. Someone raised their hand and asked if the company could direct our investments to green or ethical companies, so he wasn't funding genocide or ecocide, and the rich man said, no, that just wasn't a part of what his program offered.

Besides not wanting to destroy sentient beings, I feel very anti-capitalist, even green capitalism turns me off, and here was this threshold- but here was this "free money", too. I knew to enroll wouldn't sit well with me- we all draw lines somewhere- and here was something that felt like a no brainer, so no thank you, I won't be investing. On my eight fold path, it seemed like the right step to take.

Then two days later I came home to see that my rear bike wheel had been stolen. Gone, gone, gone, very much like my other bike which was stolen about 6 months ago. I hadn't locked that back tire up...I'm an anger type, and my first instinct was to punch my car. I didn't punch my car. I haven't punched anything (or anyone) for a very long time, however, that's what comes up. I thought, I don't have to be happy about this, I don't have to rationalize this, but I also can't avoid the emotion. I decided to read Reb Anderson's chapter on the precept of not taking that which is not given, and I wondered what I'd been stealing.

Reb gives a very detailed break down of the precept and includes example of stealing like having sex in a relationship that's not mutual and that murder is a type of stealing, too. But the one that rang true for me was making commitments you don't keep.

It's glaring in my mind- have you ever heard someone talk about something negative and just knew that it was 100% you? I have. My principal was talking about teacher absences and how detrimental they are for the classroom and my ears were burning. For the last 4 years I've missed about 25 days of work. It feels criminal. It feels like stealing.

Granted, I've had my burnout issues, I've had my investigations into depression, alcoholism, resentments of the system at large, and tried some "cures" too. Self diagnosis rooted in delusion gave cures rooted in that same delusion. Truth is, I'm afraid to fail, and that's what keeps me home. Funny though, you only fail when you do, and there's not much to cure that!

So, commitments. I made a commitment to my school this year, to a team of teachers, to the innercity kids coming my way, and I don't want to steal from them.

How do I bring this to the forefront of my practice? How do I make sure I don't forget? I feel very alone, very much facing in the direction of the Buddha.

Leaving Home, Staying Home

2011-08-02T05:15:00.000-07:00

My wife, taking my Rakusu for a spin. I have two...one from my first teacher, and the one she is wearing, which says Kogen Chikan on the back...Ancient Source, Wisdom Mirror. A lot to live up to! Deshimaru said that just wearing a rakusu, even if just for a second, changes your being. Lulu said, " It did feel kinda special, but that's about it. Made me want one."

However, in our household, when we get something new, we usually get rid of something old, and ironically, we're actually getting rid of a lot of things so that we can get two resident Zen priests for the new zendo, which she is standing in. And I really like Reb Anderson's idea that anyone who takes the precepts is a renunciate, and that is to say that we recognize that nothing is actually "ours." Leaving home or staying home, the path to liberation is still hard to map out.

Someone called Reb out and articulated what I never could. She said, "Even though you're saying that lay practitioners can stay home and attain liberation, I still get the impression that being a priest or monk is better." and Reb said, "Only if by better you mean easier." His point was that when you wear a kesa, that's a symbol to the world that you keep the Buddha way, and the world becomes a foundation of practice, because it's full of others wearing the kesa and sharing "pointers" freely.

I know that when I don't have a Zendo within 20-50 feet of my bed, I don't make it to daily Zazen. It's a crutch, I don't walk the path without it.

My own teacher counseled me to choose my own suffering. That whether I chose to go to Antaiji or some other place, i'd still have to come back to the ubiquitous here and now. Suffer in New Orleans, suffer in Japan, suffer in California, you can have suffering anywhere.

And then there is my good friend who has been a priest for about 5 years, lived in Zen centers and monasteries for longer, and he said, from whereever he is, "This is no place to practice buddhism."

I had to think for a second, because we're actually planning to switch places. Lulu and I are leaving in the summer for full time practice. He and his partner are the priests who are coming here to run the zendo and build a temple. They want jobs so they don't have to "sell" Zen, or workshops that look like Zen, and they want to run an "honest" zendo. They don't want to sell water by the river.

And I'm thinking, "Look at us, aren't we funny?" Because I have felt that my job here is too exhausting. That I don't know the sutras, I can't tell you about the paramitas, I can barely make it to Zazen, and I get caught up in so many things.

I felt like I know something about this workaday world that he has forgotten. And I know his experience is his truth. And we might both be right, or both be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that practice is hard, if not grueling, where ever we sit. And not practicing is grueling. And then sometimes practice is so fulfilling. And sometimes sleeping in is just what I needed.

Pretty much, everything is what it is, except when it isn't. Reb says the path of the priest is easier for someone who wants all the help in the world to keep the precepts, and I guess it will be while it is, and it won't be when it isn't. And as for lay practice, it's all I know, and it's been...well, most of us know exactly what it's like!

Everything Changes, Everything's Connected, Pay Attention

2011-07-31T16:01:00.000-07:00

Above, in the title, are three things my Zen teacher said are basic for Buddhists to do and understand. I'm going to carry them around a little, see where they ring true in my life.

The buddha-dharma flame has sparked again in my life, and again, here I am reading your blogs and writing mine and feeling supported. Feeling like there's a big world out there to explore.

Luckily, everyone got to miss my environmental revolutionary phase where I was so fired up after reading Derrick Jensen's End Game (both volumes). I agree with DJ and I had to ask myself this:

What do you want to do? Save the planet from being killed
Why? To stop widespread suffering
Is it possible to stop anything from dying and suffering? ...

My practice is Zen, not blowing up dams. It's to welcome affliction and meet it with loving kindness and compassion, and to recognize delusion, and I'm so glad to type that out. For awhile, that made me feel like I was copping out, letting the dominant culture destroy the world and my heart was full great conflict, but I don't think there is any copping out. If Deep Green Resistance want to dismantle petroleum culture, I'm gonna let them. And if Walmart starts selling kesas, I don't care either. I know that I can't save the planet or stop suffering, and even if I could, we have no idea what salvation looks like for each sentient being.

I'll never be completely out of the DGR camp, but nor will I be completely out of the dominant culture, or completely anything. Mostly this or less that is probably more accurate for me.

Do I really have to say something?

2011-07-24T14:40:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about a Steve Hagan teaching, the one from Buddhism Plain and Simple. It's the one where we conjure up a closed fist and we think about the beliefs we have about what's in the fist. It's about how we only have beliefs when we can't see reality. And when that hand opens up, or rather when we can see the open hand, beliefs fall away.

Here are some closed fists in my life. Also some stuff I've been up to: teachering, rangering, husbanding, farmering, priestering,and...fathering?

So many intense beliefs about all that. Backwards and forwards, good and bad, always switching for me but never becoming two sides of the same coin. I see in 2d.

My wife and I are moving to Green Gulch next year. I was sitting zazen and thought that wasn't really me and then I thought of all these different costumes i've worn (the latest being my fave, National Park Ranger!) how the hell would that all work. And then I saw me this very serious monk looking version of me, the one I left at the New Orleans Zen Temple, and then a mardi grais version of me, the one in the princess Leia costume who ate mushrooms and made out with everyone (everyone). And the the teacher version. Then the husband version. And they all started taking seats. They all started shutting up. It was like the gig the was up-they all found about eachother, all my little selves and each one no more or less important than the first one.

Pretty good day dream. I think that's what I'll have them put on my little urn some day.

Digging a Trench Across My Heart

2011-03-22T17:41:00.000-07:00

The dust of life settles thick! What happened to the writing? What happened to the sitting? What happened?

Getting married, teaching 5th grade, leading Mid City Zen, doing side construction work and I'm desperately searching for "the one who is not busy."

Things happen so fast, it's important I keep up with us. It was a small, wholesome ritual. First the novel stopped. Then the short stories...then the poems...then the journal...then the blog...silenced.

Silence can be good, but I know I've got to say something.

Just so you know how I feel, as I've felt a lot of ways, I feel like having kids, teaching, doing the teacher-ranger-teacher program with the national parks, and just wearing my dark blue rakusu. No more zen priest dreams. No more army dreams. They're just not there anymore. Maybe because I have some good friends who are priests and they want my life while I want theirs. What's the point?

Gez. I feel like doing a survey, just to get up to date with myself.

my name is: My mother calls me Augustino
this morning i was: In bed, reading and drinking coffee
im afraid of: Loosing my teeth
i dream about: Caves and sleeping bags
Have You Ever...
pictured your crush naked?: Nope
been in love: Yup
cried when someone died: Usually takes a year
lied: Not without fessing up
flowers or candy: yes please?
scruff or clean shaven: Scruff
tall or short: Short

With The Opposite Sex...
what do you notice first?: Demeanor
last person you slow danced with: Lulu
worst question to ask: How much money or how much time

Who...
makes you laugh the most?: Lulu
makes you smile: My students
gives you a funny feeling when you see them: funny haha or funny rancid?
is easier talk to: boys or girls?: Mostly girls

Do You Ever...
sit on the internet waiting for someone special to IM you?: No
save AIM conversations?: Yes
wish you were a member of the opposite sex?: Nope
cry because of something someone has said: I mist.
pray?: Hmmm...does chanting count?

Have You Ever...
fallen for your best friend?: Nope
rejected someone: Sure
cheated on someone: Nope
been cheated on: Not sure
done something you regretted: Nope
wanted to die: Wow, that's a little forward...yes.

Who Was The Last Person...
you talked to on the phone: My old Dean of students (teacher mentor)
hugged: Lulu
you instant messaged: A Zen priest friend...actually, 2 of them
you laughed with: The old dean!

Do You...
color your hair: nope!
ever get off the computer: Good Question
habla espanol: Si
sprechen sie deutsches: no
fight with your parents: no
have friends you've lost touch with: Sure
feel happy?: Often
wish you could fly away.. far, far away?: Often
believe in God?: Not that guy, but yes, some other kinda...guy.
could you live without the computer?: Yes
what's your favorite candy?: Reeses
whats your favorite fruit?: Avacado?
sunrise or sunset?: Sunrise
what hurts the most? physical pain or emotional pain? Physical
trust others way too easily?: Nope
are your fingers cold?: Not in this city
coke or pepsi: Coke!

Perfect Souls, Buddhist Answers, and The Great Pains in the Ass

2010-12-17T09:35:00.001-08:00

My teacher has a great joke; when someone new joins the breakfast table, he urges us to give him a warm zen welcome, in which we all let our faces drop, avoid eye contact, and stare vacantly. Recently, after leaving the Zendo, he made an announcement that it's okay to make eye contact, and he'd really like us to do so when we bow together after practice.

Nathan, over at Dangerous Harvests, had a great post about the overwhelming permeation of Buddhist personas we've all encountered in temples, in philosophy circles, and, gasp, in ourselves. First, let's look at those aforementioned assholes and see if you've met or been the same.

In one stint, I was roommates with a guy who thought he was enlightened. His "enlightenment" was very visible. He took to sitting in our room in our off hours, stared in the dining room until his eyes glazed over, did prostrations on fields during work practice, and would smile insanely at you and say something clever whenever you asked a mundane question, like what time is our tea meeting today, and he'd say it never began and will never end. Then, he'd miss it, which I wasn't sad about.

Recently, I was told all about my neo-cortex and how I don't really see form as emptiness and emptiness as form, and how straight lines aren't really straight and how if my mind was really open, I'd see the world like one big Monet picture.

And saving the best for last, there was me: I sat in full lotus for 7 years and popped Advil to make that happen, took Kyosaku every time it was offered and chanted in an impossibly low growl, despite the fact that it sounded like a garbage disposal and hurt my throat. I believed that the books should be burned and that Zen was a practice, nothing else, and Zazen would answer your questions, Zazen was Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha, and everyone else was a whiner, an arm chair Buddhist, or dilettante.

It's amazing that the people I met in the Suzuki lineage could put up with me at all. But that's what this post challenges- how do we put up with these phases?

I think that looking at the Brahma Viharas and their near enemies is a good way to put our altruistic mind in check. I came to practice with many notions of what peace, enlightenment, detachment, etc. looked like and life continues to tear away the smiling visage of what I thought these practices looked like.

There are some good talks out there about the Brahma Viharas and how to spot their near enemies. For example, pity being an impulse confused for compassion.

We're always feeling eager to do the right thing but we need guidance. Some of our great teachers in the west are still caught up in imitating their dead masters and I found it stifling for my practice (even painful!).

Of course, a good over dose of Zen culture is a sure cure to our "perfect-soul-Buddhist-persona." Get into one of those practice containers and you'll breaking rules with full awareness!
You'll also meet yourself and maybe someone you admire. Recently, my new favorite Zen buddy is a 6 foot prior service Marine who just finished his Shuso ceremony. His warm smile matches his strength and sincere effort and he told me it's okay to sit in half-lotus or whatever it takes. Coming from him meant a lot.

He's also never called me an asshole when I was acting like one and I think that's helpful. I think it also points to time as a teacher, that sticking around and making effort could go further than any sutra study.

Facing Suffering: If we turn one way we're not turning another.

2010-12-15T06:38:00.000-08:00

What does the zen teacher mean when she says turn toward your suffering?

Yesterday, as I was riding my bike in Austin, TX, a car rolled into the street from a little oil change place. It hit two cars. There were two reactions.

Lady number 1 said, "What-the-fuck-is-going-on?"

Gentleman number 1 said, "No need to get hostile."

And lady number 1 went on to argue with an attendant, while gentleman 1 tried to calm her down. And I just kind of stood there with this feeling of wanting to turn away and almost let my bike roll into the car in front of me.

The yelling, the words, the tone, made me feel like I was back at school, the school I resigned from after 3 1/2 years and I recognized that's what I quit. I walked away from hostility that flipped my stomach on a daily basis (and I'm not talking about kids- kids gave more hugs than anything else). But was that turning away from life?

I liked to think of my job as a sesshin; I wouldn't just get up when ever I wanted during a period of zazen, so why would I quit my job? Accept during a sesshin I trust my teacher and the Ino, who's going to guide me, who's going to ring the bell for when it's time to walk. I couldn't identify those roles in my job. Actually, I felt that those roles were vacant. So that's one story.

So now with no job to turn to, I turn to this: the suffering of no-job, which includes observing the stories I make up about why I quit, what I'm going to do instead, what injustices I believed were present, and the tape rolls on- and I try not to believe any of these stories and just leave it at, I quit.

I'm guessing that turning toward our suffering, like most things done in zen, has very little to do with what's going on in the outside world. I don't know what I'm turning toward, but I try.

And I don't think that turn toward your suffering is a direction as much as a given, that it's always going to be there and there's only one way to live with it.

My Life

2010-12-13T15:26:00.000-08:00

I've thought about deleting this blog because I was embarrassed of some of the things I've wrote and some of the friends who can now see my mistakes whenever they want. I can delete the blog but I can't delete my life, so Ariel Pork is going to be here.

I have a strong urge to sweep things under the carpet, to keep my hair cut and to stand up straight (and never move during zazen). But I'm going to resist.

Maybe instead I'll drag everything out to the front lawn and sell stuff off a blanket, let my hair get long, while I'm hunched over a daiquiri.

Or maybe I'll do nothing but just sit with it.

Sewing

2010-11-19T04:21:00.001-08:00

Each stitch is a star
deep in the fabric of self
seeking Buddha way

Prose v.s Poetry

2010-09-06T15:52:00.000-07:00

Great barbecue discussion yesterday.

Someone was complaining about the indulgent nature of poetry.

I was thankful that a poem could be written with broken fingers, by anyone willing to wring one out at the end of some Hebrew-slave work day. The sober can write, the drunk can write, anyone with a napkin and a pen, can write a poem, where novels and short-stories are more luxurious endevors.

Which reminded me, I can write poems. I don't anymore. But I could.

A Murder of Crows

2010-08-22T06:47:00.000-07:00

When I arrived in Alaska in late 2006, I was surprised to see how many crows shared trees with eagles. There would be about 15 crows to every eagle. You always hear about eagles in Alaska, but never the crow. There is a lot of lore to the crow in Alaska, as the bird that stole the sun, and then the moon. And I'm thinking of this grackle, not really a crow but close enough, that hit me in the shoulder this past summer as I was walking to Austin Zen Center.

I could admit that I went to Alaska for the eagle, but what I got was the crow. I went for the grand scale adventure, the grizzly bear, the hunting, and the epic wilderness. What I got was sleep deprivation, hunger, mangy moose, slaughter, and a burned landscape, vast and white, prickled by charred spruce.

While you look for the eagle, what you get is the crow, may be the first noble truth. What happens if you look for the crow?

Maybe It Started in Dagobah

2010-06-13T06:47:00.000-07:00

It's been a couple lifetimes. I'll start in the now.

I'm staying at Austin Zen Center until July 11th. I've found a new teacher, and I couldn't feel more at home. It's a completely different student-teacher relationship, one with more talking- one with more love- and I don't mind getting used to it. I'm going to try and stay away from a compare and contrast view. I could do that for the rest of my life, and all of it's so obvious in my mind- the first thing that comes up. I'm Kosho's student now, and were in the Suzuki lineage. I've got a lot to learn (or un-learn?).

The sangha is so open hearted and talkative. Lots of questions! Usually they start with how did you come to Austin, followed by how did you start practicing Zen?

Beginning, middles, and ends can be tricky. On one day, the beginning is five inches to the left of middle, and on others, it's 10 feet away. Sometimes I see my entrance into Buddhism as the day I started reading Siddhartha when I was 18, some days it's when I started meditating in martial arts, some days it's when I officially sat Zazen 6 or 7 years ago, and some days it when I first went to a Zen temple for traditional zen training. But when did I notice my way seeking mind?

I want to go way back to a dark and boggy place, in a galaxy far, far, away. I was 6. This was before I took first holy communion, before confirmation, before my stints with pentecosts and Jehovah Witnesses...All master Yoda had to say was, "Luminous beings are we... not this crude matter." and I opened my eyes. I couldn't see anything, but I started looking around.

This I would consider 30 feet from the center. I wonder if underneath it all I just want to be a Jedi. But, I think just like everyone's reason to come to practice, it's just a seed. When we sit Zazen, we have no idea what were watering, but just because we can't see the flower, doesn't mean we let the seed die.

I think we just like to garden. Hear water, feel dirt, that sort of thing.

Burnout is A Part of The Plan

2010-03-07T08:20:00.000-08:00

"Trudging the Road to Happy Destiny."

Silly me for taking it so seriously. Silly me for feeling guilty or ashamed for not being able to fulfill my duties.

This morning, NOLA.com featured an article about the charter school movement in New Orleans.http://www.nola.com/education/index.ssf/2010/03/new_teachers_working_long_hard.html

It didn't reveal anything I didn't already know first hand, like long hours, low pay, an excessive drive to raise scores, but it did reveal a mind set about burnout. I assumed that my leaders were too busy driving culture and curriculum to have thought about what happens to a teacher who is burning out, but apparently, according to Andrew Rotherham, it was all apart of the plan.

He states, "I don't think turnover is inherently bad," said Andrew Rotherham, publisher of Education Sector, an education policy think tank. "Planned turnover or turnover you can deal with without yielding quality is fine." * I think there is a typo there, and I assume yielding should say "affecting" or something like that.*

Turnover is such a nice word. Reminds me of fruit filled pastries or when it's time for a back rub. But what does turnover look like? Do I look like turnover?

For anyone who looks at my blog, it's not called Ariel Pork for nothing. I feel like the flying pig, a laboring soul who spends so much time with his nose in the mud, never remembering he's got wings. I've been practicing Zen for 7 years, practicing yoga for 2, in A.A for 1, and seeing a therapist (off and on) for a year. Given my background of growing up in relative chaos and shaky households, I've always had a tough time with depression, anxiety, and worst of all, panic attacks. Teaching in the Recovery School District has seemed to amplify every condition, which is good and bad.

Good or bad, it's been quite disruptive. And it comes with a good bit of shame and guilt I have to constantly defuse, let go, and accept. (Is that so bad a skill set?)

The whole country knows that this charter school movement found a peitre dish in post-Katrina New Orleans. Coming from a long lasting horrible tradition of public education in the city, it didn't seem that there was anything to lose. Accept maybe yourself.

If Andrew Rotherham thinks my burnout is an acceptable cost, maybe he should know what it looks like: Waking up at 3am not being able to breath, drunken escapades on Bourbon Street followed by extreme Zen retreats, crying, crying when the relationships failed, crying when you lost the dog, crying in front of students, violence, hitting another teacher, violence, having students push you, and you push back, screaming, feeling lost, feeling worthless, feeling less-than, feeling hopeless, feeling doomed, with glimpsing visions of the solace of death.

All over A,B,C and 1,2, 3? I must be kidding myself. I should thank Andrew and be on my way. There is a great matter to attend to and I don't think it's whether or not we all know how to explicate a poem or identify a gerund.

It's tempting to make a big stink. I know my activist Buddhist friends will think I should write an op-ed or make a statement, and frankly, I do feel like filing for disability, taking the care I should have taken for the last 3 years while I worked long hours ( holding a record at school for 6:30am to 11pm- ask my principal). But they don't give disability for resentment. And my panic attacks and depression are manageable, even if I did miss 3 days of work last week.

Honestly, I am thankful. The students I have encountered, the hard drive, the amplification of all my ancient twisted karma, is perfect in a way. How long would it have taken me to really sink into my zafu? How long would it have taken to recognize alcoholism as a real thing and not just some club my Dad, Grandfather, and Grandmother belong to?

And I've got 3 months left. I put in my intent to return and I'm letting go of all the mess (and the glory). What will I do next year? No clear idea, but things seem to work out, and for once, I don't have my entire future locked in.

Wall Jumping.

2010-03-05T07:51:00.000-08:00

I often think about Siddhartha and his decision to jump over the palace wall, leaving Yashodhara his wife, his son Rahula, and all of his responsibilities, the palace- the good with the bad. I wonder how long he stared at that wall.

Today, I'm writing while in the problem. Most of the time I avoid my blog while I'm in "the problem" and come later with the solution, so I can show how resilient I can be. I'm coming today while still in the problem, to write about it now in a vulnerable way.

I'm pretty sure my last post was about how great I was I doing. Zen every morning, yoga every night, success in the classroom, and having enough energy to get it all done. Well, Wednesday came, and I couldn't do it, again. I couldn't go to work. Thursday was worse and today is better, but I'm at home, trying to settle.

This spell may have come as early as 3am on Monday, when I awoke with thoughts racing through my head. It was noise. There were messages. Nothing to vile, nothing too negative. Big questions, really.

Tuesday, again, I was up well before my alarm with a couple hours of sleep. Went to the temple, went to work, went to yoga.

Wednesday and thoughts had transformed into pain-in the chest, in the stomach- and into fatigue. On Thursday, I called my therapist, and he saw me right away.

He said he wasn't surprised. That when you're a recovering alcoholic and from an addicted family, I can find a lot of "triggers" in a 10 hour work day.

And all the while I'm being diagnosed and talked to, I'm thinking this is bullshit, evident and clear, and I know what I should do. I should leave all this behind, leave the psychoanalysis in that office, my job, my life, and go attain suchness without delay.

That I'm not crazy, this damn world is crazy, and I know where to go.

So why don't I do it when I know the Buddha did it? Because, the Buddha wasn't the Buddha yet. He was a way-seeker named Gautama and he went through a lot of extremes before finding the middle way. And I believe he did that for us, so we don't have to jump the wall; we actually have to do something harder.

What's harder than staring at the wall? We can't stare at our teacher, we can't stare at the Buddha, because these things are outside ourselves. Our teacher's support only helps so much- at some point, and the earlier the better, we have to find contentment in just the practice- not the place, not the names, not the different colored kesa and rakusu draped on human shoulders.

The only shoulders we need worry about are our own, and we should make sure they're slightly back, while head presses the sky and knees press the earth. Eyes gaze at the wall, inward, and this was Buddha's final teaching.

I don't jump the wall because I know it's only my ego that wants to jump. It sounds better and more grand to become a monk than all of this: to work on yourself with a therapist, to miss work when I need to, to go to A.A meetings, to sit in a small unknown temple with questionable lineage than to accept current limitations that the body/mind are demanding I attend to.

Acceptance and surrender are going to be big part of my path. Even since the shit hit the fan, I've been more focused on being "better" than becoming better. And naively, I always assume my condition, my ancient twisted karma, is in the past, that I can "think" it away by simply believing there is no past. I may be right about that, but that doesn't excuse me from the karma. Karma can be like rust.

You can accept rust, you can drive with rust, and you can forget about when the rust encroached on the surface and interior of being. You can chug right along. But that doesn't mean we should ignore rust. Instead, maybe it's a unique opportunity to take care of something, something that's born and needs attention until it grows up.

Maybe I'm just growing up.

Going Under, Going Down.

2010-02-26T14:52:00.000-08:00

As I thought about leaving the office, a gas mask was strapped on to my face and I found myself completely inverted while they put Vaseline on my lips. I wanted to leave because I had waited an hour for my appointment to begin, the dentist is rude, and I could overhear him squabbling with patients about bills.

This was a new provider, up the street from my school, and basically in "the hood." Basically, I live in the hood. I've heard gun shots, I've seen a car set ablaze, and I've had to call the cops for unidentified visitors, banging on my door and demanding I come out. Why do I live here? It's where my students live and hoping to better serve them, I wanted to be trusted, and so I assimilated. It's actually worked pretty well and given me great insight as to why their homework isn't always complete.

Back to hood dentistry. No one spoke a word about the root canal. One minute I was thinking about taking off the bib, and the next minute I was thinking I bet it's hard to sue a doctor who uses laughing gas with malpractice. What could I possibly know?

At first, I couldn't really breath. And then I was drunk and thoughts were racing. And I was laughing.

I thought: and here it is, I bet you didn't know this hood dentist was going to teach you things about true Zen today, and that pain is nothing but up and down and impossible to get rid of, as you're drunk, numb, but pain still resides, and no, your lip did not tear, no they didn't just yank out the same tooth five times, as if mountains of molars existed deep in your gums, and pain is nothing but up and down, and if you can meet it where it is, up or down, you can be here and now.

Felt insane, but very present. Felt out of body, like the 12th hour of Zazen. Thought, why sit when I can pay for laughing gas?

It was scary, like driving 120 miles an hour and pushing on to see if the car will do 140. Realized that Zazen without a teacher, without dharma, might be like laughing gas- wreckless, convincing, dangerous.

I'm happy to know Zen is everywhere. I'm happy to feel my feet again.

Just feeling good...

2010-02-22T20:59:00.000-08:00

...But tired.

So, Jiryu's teaching on finding the practice in our life really struck a chord in me. Maybe because it started something like, "I know a lot of lay practitioners who trudge through life pining away for some other life, maybe another life at Green Gulch, where the practice will be better."

That's horribly elaborated and not really a quote as much as what I took away from his talk. But if your interested, it is on the SFZC website.

And then the next day I asked my teacher (I forgot, I actually have a Zen teacher who speaks living words every Sunday, even if they're not the words I want to hear, like "No, I will not ordain you") how we get a handle on our struggle to practice. That coming to the Zen temple once a week is hard enough and going every day was hard, and living there for 9 months was hard and...that's all he needed to hear.

He said "Just make sure you sit. It's best to sit with us, but if not with us, make sure it's the first thing you do, it's your greatest responsibility."

And that's horribly paraphrased, too. But it's what I heard.

I forgot that it's my responsibility to sit. That's I'm not wedging into full lotus so I keep my hips open, but that by sitting, I'm doing something for the world. I'm fulfilling my precepts and my vows.

And so I went yesterday for our regular Sunday extended Zazen/Mundo/Kusen and I went this morning for what I could- the first half hour.

I also went to yoga for the last five days.

This Flying Pig is flapping around, gettin' some air.

Sweat in Yoga, Sit in Zazen

2010-02-20T10:27:00.000-08:00

What's the big deal?

Why all the ideas and judgements?

Why the hesitation?

After 7 years of Zen practice, why do I expect anything different?

There it is: my practice. Just sit, just stretch the backbone, head presses the sky, knees to the earth. Why is it so hard to just do?

I've tried to save my practice for some other day for too long. I reach the Zafu more often than not, but sometimes I'm dreaming of some other Zafu, in some other temple, and seeing my practice perfect in some other life.

7 years is nothing. Today is everything. This moment, even more.

If you want to attain suchness, you should practice suchness without delay.

The Gift of Desperation

2010-02-17T05:42:00.000-08:00

After a long day of running around New Orleans in a spider man costume, dancing in the streets, standing under showers of purple, gold, and green confetti, we went home, sat Zazen, and met our friends for a late dinner at their place.

These friends are close; one is my dharma brother, though he has completely left the temple. He left for the same reason we all left, but that's another story, one I've told in this blog, one I'm just sick of thinking about, as I float around, semi-teacher-less.

We all talked about how great this Mardi Gras was, and how great Mardi Gras is, and we talked about the horrible parts of Mardi Gras, too. The horrible parts weren't so horrible for us, but maybe they were bad. No one was stabbed or shot, which does happen randomly, but sometimes a drunk participant would say something rude, maybe shove you, or as happened to us, gropes you. Grabs you where you shouldn't be grabbed.

This happened, and I had a very violent reaction. For a couple minutes, I didn't care, and I wanted to put everything aside. I wanted to hurt someone because they grabbed my fiance and I was confused in the dark of the warehouse party, lost in a very decadent Golden Buddha costume, and clumsy in my metallic gold platform shoes.

The universe had to be laughing!

But there I was, wanting to fight, like I used to, and not caring that we'd get thrown out, our night would end, and who knows, I might go to jail. And if you go to jail in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, they don't let you out until it's all over, so I could have sat in jail for three days because I wanted to punch some one out.

Luckily, you can't move so fast in a big fat Buddha suit, nor can you really find anyone at a Mardi Gras ball with maybe 2,000 people dancing. Not to mention, my fiance was holding me back.

She really didn't want to see this happen. At the time, I couldn't understand, and I spoke to her harshly, and I forgot myself, sober mind you. Sober, but completely intoxicated with ancient twisted karma, tangling me up into ideas of who I think I am and where I come from, and very silly shit like that.

We can get really technical with our definition of karma, but I'll just say it's action. I'll take a superstitious leap and say it's a little magic, too. I think I carry my fair share of both; my mother comes from a Sicilian mafia family and my dad escaped his upbringing by joining the Marines. Then my parents split and I "served myself" as my mother put it, meaning, she put frozen food in the fridge and I'd eat it. I moved out when I was 17, drank way too much, found Zen when I was 20, and things got much worse before they got better, I found a sangha, I found fellowship in the rooms, and I have a therapist.

Damn. And with all that, sometimes I feel like that beat truck on the block, the one that burns oil and leaks radiator fluid in a messy but sustainable way.

Then I found this job teaching kids who have eyes that cut right through any facade you had. I'll admit, Zen might have been one I put up that I thought looked nice, nicer than the others, and they tore that right down, too. They don't want tough guys, peaceful guys, or funny guys- they really want you to have your shit together, like their parent's don't. This has been a good practice for me.

My life has to be practice, and I have to surrender to that idea and accept my gift of desperation.

This gift brings me to the Zafu, brings me to the fellowship, and forces me to open my mouth and change my actions. It is not easy. I can sense the hard wiring in my mind, the hard wiring that is fear based and too quick in memory of my body brain. Sitting upright slows that body brain down, slows those hands down. It's kept me from running way.

Zen practice 7 years, New Orleans 3 years, A.A one year- There was a time when I couldn't stay anywhere for more than 5 months.

So I'm thankful for my gift of desperation. And I'll figure it out. Keep trying to find that middle path.

And I'll stay out of the newspapers and off of wikepedia; Dad was quoted in the New York Times for wanting to go and 'Kill em all' when he was a young man; Mom's uncle was the last man seen with Jimmy Hoffa.

So I'm not so bad, even if if the middle path at that party looked like this:

The fiance came back with 3 friends and turns out that the groper had thrown a drink on one, groped another, and insulted a boyfriend. Said boyfriend and I decided that his masquerade needed to end, and a RECON mission ensued.

I found "the groper" annoying yet another group of girls. I snuck up on tip toes (he was taller, even with my golden platforms) and reached around his face with both hands, and like the Golden Buddha who could, I snatched the mustache from his lip, and left with suchness.

The Art of Zen V.S The Art of Life

2010-02-15T06:54:00.000-08:00

Or, the art of true Zen.

Listened to Jiryu give a Dharma talk on the difference between The art of Zen and true Zen. He defined the art of Zen as our formal practice- the black robe, chanting, bowing, sitting practice- and true Zen as what we do with the rest of our day within our limitations of life- the going to the grocery store, teaching a test prep, sitting in traffic practice. The "make love, drive freeway" before and after enlightenment kind of true Zen.

He said that the surrender is what counts, that within surrender there is liberation. He warned that a lot of the time, we're planning the next life in which we will be here and now, trading one set of limitations for another set of limitations.

This was really tough for me to hear again. As soon as I stepped into a Zen temple, I wanted to become a priest. By that time, I was already an inner city school teacher, and I really didn't trust my intention because I figured I was trying to escape in any way possible. Three years later, I still plan to become a priest. But have I spent the last 3 years planning to be here and now in the next life?

I might have.

I remember when I first sat Zazen, 7 years ago. It was in a class with a professor who showed me the posture and that's all he had to do. I made an effort to sit every day since. I went through college thinking myself an intellectual who sat Zazen. I never thought of bells, robes, shaved heads, or levels or ordination. I did try to escape life through alcohol, writing, and trips to Colombia and Alaska, but I never thought of New Orleans Zen Temple, Antaiji, or Green Gulch, as I sometimes do now.

The question I'm pondering is if the art of Zen has become to big a distraction in my life and that I stare at the finger, missing the moon, day in and day out.

I have been boycotting the temple since I moved out and partly because of my tendency to live dual lives, each one an escape to the other, but that doesn't seem to be the answer either.

I do sit at home and that is without glory. I don't wear my rakusu or robe. I sit in my PJs mostly, and next to my fiance who has never been struck with a Kyosaku and who makes small conversation before we really settle in. And I like that.

At the same time I do long for the echo of the Hannya Shingyo. I do miss my rakusu, that piece of cloth I sewed well into the night.

There's a way to keep both the art of Zen and true zen alive in my life. That way may be a constant seeking of the middle path, but I know that's okay, too.

The instructions are so simple! Do good, avoid evil, save all beings! or Chop wood, carry water!

Simple, but difficult, too. I actually know what it's like to chop wood and carry water. I know so well, I remember exactly what I needed to survive for just a day; one blue child's sled full of wood, two 6 gallon containers from the open aquifer.
I'd haul these things every day while dogs barked, an actual wolf snarled (she was a neighbors, chained to a tree) and ravens laughed as I slipped up hill. And I used to curse, looking out at the dogs and say this is all for you.

Did I know that was a metaphor for practice? That waking up to sit, chanting, keeping my emotional sobriety in tact isn't really for me? I didn't know that, and I didn't know that the Bodhisattva path was going to be so difficult to negotiate. But I am pleased to know that I'm locked in. Once you learn the art of Zen, I don't think you can abandon it. It's become my perspective and I couldn't get rid of it if I wanted to.

Um...Who Dat!?

2010-02-09T04:51:00.001-08:00

Dad graciously hosted the superbowl. Very interesting to see my parents so fervant about sports. Fervant about food, too, but that's not new. The fiance and I came with about four loads of laundry.

The first half of the game was quiet. We didn't say much as we ate hot wings and jambalaya. Step-mom was on the floor while fiance applied accupressure for her pregnant growing pains. In 3 months, I'll have another baby brother.

I was out back in the laundry room when I heard my dad screaming his head off. The Saints had just intercepted and turned the game around. In a way I was more relieved than excited.When I came in with our fresh load, I found our Who Dat shirts and we put them on. Dad already had his Reggie Bush jersey on.

I like being a football fan, but I don't really like football. It takes me awhile to get into a game. Being a Saints fan in New Orleans is like becoming part of a Sangha...and on game, there's not a place in town where you don't have a friend. This team spirit trancends race, class, religion- all for a bunch of grown men chasing each other around.

Even Zen teacher's aren't immune. At the end of our mundo session on Sunday, Robert (who has been known to disaper from temple functions in search of a TV for the Saints) intructed us to press our heads to the sky, our feet to the ground, and deep in our hara, root for 'dem saints.

Into the Dark Box

2010-02-06T07:16:00.000-08:00

Dad used to go into confession while I'd wait in the kid's room. It wasn't weird for us to go on self-effacing excursions with Dad. He'd take us to meetings,too. My sister and I would play Monopoly while adults disclosed their character defects in detail. He never really talked about his Catholic faith or his program, but he was steady with his practice. He still is.

I never understood the idea of confession and my notion of the past complicated my view of it. I have a very simple Zen teacher who prescribes more Zazen on a daily basis and treats questions about karma and confession with overt annoyance. He's just not into talking about Zen. There are some things he loves to repeat and I'll be mumbling in my grave, but he doesn't want to talk about precepts, the 8 fold path, or anything "Buddhist." I don't think he's hiding his understanding. I think he's old(77)and cranky.

Although he's old and cranky, he's also well disciplined, and forms, chants, ceremonies, and samu is where I find my teacher. 90% watching, 5% listening to his rants, 5% feeling the Kyosaku. It's just his way. But in being well disciplined, he couldn't skip the confession part of our Jukai ceremony. And so, we all said, in Japanese:

All my ancient twisted Karma
From beginingless greed, hate, and delusion
born through body, speech, and mind
I now fully avow.

And I still failed to see the purpose. If all we have is now, what am I confessing? Who am I confessing for?

It took 20 days at Green Gulch, waking up each morning, and chanting the confession sutra in unison every morning to feel what confessing is. Hearing all those vibrating voices, all with a simple intention, brought confession into my body. I felt it. Can't explain it. Can't intellectualize it with Who am I? context.

What I felt at Green Gulch was an emerging resolve. It was just a start, but it gave me courage to pursue the way.

I think I'd like to explain what pursuit of the way is for me right now: Pursuing the way isn't easy and it's not glamorous either, like Dharma Bums. Pursuing the way has been the most difficult task of my life. It meant true confrontation. I was no stranger to confrontation, no stranger to resentment either. But I had to identify the true demons or enemies, and that's a daily process. Often times, it's not big business or status qua society, like my punk rock sentimentality suggested. First it was drinking. Then it was accepting things as they are. Some where in there was letting go of the idea that I'm so different from everyone else.

That's the big picture of my pursuit of the way. The small picture is even more boring: Sit in the morning, even though your tired. Stop judging your Zen teacher. Sit in the evening, even though your tired. Chanting matters, so do it. Put your head to the floor 3 times for Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha. Above all, do your best and stop thinking so much.

So this emerging resolve took me on a path I never thought I'd travel-a path of confession- into the rooms of A.A, into psychotherapy, and with constant strain of having students who need your support. And although my body's been in revolt, it's been communicating with me. For the last 4 days I experienced panic attacks, which started at 3 or 6am, while in bed. There was no cause that I could see, besides not going to A.A for a month, not sitting regularly, not exercising, but working for 12-15 hours a day in a high stress environment. No cause is an understatment, but what I mean is that work is hard, but work is good.

For the first three days, confusion ensued and I took refuge in every thing but the 3 treasures. On the 4th, after getting back on the zafu, the fog cleared. And just like Dogen wrote, suchness was there for the taking. As soon as it was, I called for help. I confessed. I asked my Co-teachers to call me the next day at 6am, I called my therapist (who I avoided for 2 weeks) and went back to work.

You know, I learned a lot. First that the way isn't self help for me, but that it's self perseverance. I don't feel like I need self help, or A.A, or a therapist. That's how I feel when things are good. Give me a month of no self-care, and I'll be a mess again. So A.A, therapista, and Zazen really aren't for me, but for everyone else. Self perseverance is for the whole world, especially my little world with a fiance, a school, and a community.

And confession is there to identify the defects in a non judgemental way. To be honest and in honesty find strength.

So this my not-so-glamorous-Bodhisattva-lay-life. Without a robe, I feel naked. Without living at the temple, I feel a little weak. But I just kinda gotta put one foot at a time into the muddy path to happy destiny.

revelations

2010-02-03T07:55:00.001-08:00

It just occurred to me that there might not be anything wrong with me, but perhaps something wrong with the way I try to fit into the world. I've been struggling the past couple of days.

I work a lot, and I work a tough 7 class a day schedule, and some of those classes I'm not qualified to teach, but I teach them anyway. A lot of what I do is about picking up one foot at a time. But sometimes I can't pick a foot up. Sometimes the muscles in my rib cage contract and tighten and I can't breathe or move. I've actually had this happen at work and I've had to leave. I've been doing this for three years in one of the worst school districts in the country.

Immediately, I believe I'm flawed. That's not something new- I've always felt that way. Immediately, I believe I have depression or anxiety or alcoholism. And this perception urges me to cover it up- cover it up with more work, or recently, perhaps joining the Army.

My ego is out of control. It thinks strength looks a certain way, like volunteering for the hardest jobs. But maybe strength is looking at the self and finding where it belongs. Maybe it's to stop trying to be something that I'm not.

My Dad has this great quote- he can't remember where it came from: "What someone says about you is none your business." Don't I know that this is my life? That there's this chance to be human and that I shouldn't pass it up?

Always Want to Say Something...

2010-02-02T11:34:00.000-08:00

...should be listening, watching.

Neighbors?

2010-02-01T10:56:00.000-08:00

I didn't go to work today. Didn't sleep well- the fiance is sick and I was a bit riled up.

The obsession with the military didn't go away. So I researched and I researched and I sent my e-mails and I'm supposed to take a test this Friday to see what I can do.

And then there was the banging on the door, the car honking outside, the unidentified people on my porch yelling back at me as I yell at them, wondering just who the hell they are and if they're connected to the man who approached my fiance earlier that night.

I called in. My head's spinning. What the hell am I doing?

Living in this city, seeing so much need, I really wanted all of Avalokitesvara's arms. I wanted whatever tool or weapon to work my frustration out.

Reading the news for the first time ever. Just started by asking questions: What is the mission in Afghanistan? I couldn't find any military objectives but plenty of political ones, which must be so frustrating for our service men and women.

I'm feeling torn between what looks like needs doing and what I feel like doing. It looks like our public schools need teachers, so I do that, and have been doing it for three years now, reaping reward and accomplishment. And it looked like the military needed help, too. I really thought that. But help with what?

And so my question extends to the rest of my life: But help with what?

It's dangerous to get philosophical. A lot of my Zen training has been about getting away from the intellectual pursuit of what's right, what's wrong, and just doing. My arena of doing is the New Orleans Public Schools.

I wanted to quit from day one. I wanted to quit on day 365. I wanted to quit half way through last year and almost did. But this year I've really felt successful. Same kids, same school, but some how I'm effective this year. I'm moving along just the way my principal wants me to, but I'm starting to ask, for what?

I hate questioning the mission because I still need to finish it, no matter what. But I think this is the mission at my school- get these kids passing a state test, no matter what it takes, no matter how simple and binary we must become, no matter how much of your life (mine and my students) is sacrificed.

Can't be that simple. We do alot within our parameters. But I'm feeling that I've ignored my heart for the sake of sticking it out. And that this mission might not be the one for me.

My mind returns to Zen and to writing.

You have to be the change you want to see, not the change that is easiest to calculate.

You know, we want to make people proud. But then I ask, who's life am I living today?

This must sound like drippy existential crisis. I think it is, too. But I've had these before. Riding them out is best...actions should occur after the settling. That's something different about me I can recognize.

I used to buy plane tickets the morning of.

I shouldn't drink coffee at 7PM.

2010-01-31T16:51:00.000-08:00

Always want to be something that's not right here, not right now.
The worst Zen student ever, I must be perfect.
Never really picking up the great matter, but really looking for the great answer.

If the great answer ever had a face would it be easier to forget?

Is that like, "If you see the Buddha on the road, kill him"?

Can you not kill what you can't see?

What's with all the killing...

36 degrees

2010-01-30T09:37:00.000-08:00

Very cold start in New Orleans this morning. Very grey.

It rained yesterday. I made the best of it. The students were anxious and ready to leave as soon as they arrived. Conflicting directions from the administrators didn't help the mood of anyone, as it made our morning routine a lot of hurry-up-and-wait.

I fought hard for the students to be given a break. They tested for four days straight, from 8:30 to 4:00, following up with tutoring until 5. I told them friday would be a day of activity and reflection. Then I was told there was just one more section of the test they would need to take...

First, I objected because I had already told them we were finished. I did this in front of the class. I did it on purpose, because I knew I wasn't going to win, and I knew this new turn of events was going to damage their trust in me as their teacher. Secondly, I objected because another student advocate, the dean, had planned a high school vist for Friday morning until 10:00. Apparently, these administrators hadn't talked to each other.

Well, I was still called a liar. I did succeed in getting this last test pushed back so we could attend the high school visit, but then we were left in limbo for an hour and a 1/2 and the visit was canceled.

Toward the end, with 30 min. remaining, we broke out some games- heart beat and pulse- which always boost morale. It was student led, which always makes me feel good. We took our tests, and then it was on to fly high friday, which is what we call our half day of classes, followed by a school culture building activity. Sometimes the classes act together and sometimes we break off. The Alpha Kings (a self moniker for the 8th grade boys, which sounds more like a gang than an academic fraternity) wanted to play football in the rain. I let them. Even played with them, and no one got hurt.

I was satisfied when one student said, "Man, we do everything- car wash, christmas chicken dinner, now football in the rain!" And I expected some repirmand from the principal, as we sat musty and excited during the 2nd quarter awards ceremony for the last hour of the day.

When it was my turn to go up, the Alpha Kings cheered. Not sure for what- we had no A or B honor roll!! I did give three best improved awards.

The Alpha Kings are a complex experiment that is a little out of my hands. I preached, you are your brother's keeper from the very begining, and fiercely individulistic from a grab what you can culture, they rebeled at that notion of accountability. Through meditation (every morning no matter what) a class chant, and class missions, like a peace walk and a car wash, they have become one. There is very little bullying and only the top alphas really get into it, and I'm glad to say that we've had no major infractions, though we appear wooly. We had one fight this year, which was a reactionary when one student thought another spit on him.

I'm also proud of their collaboration and inventiveness. The Alpha Kings have sayings, like the "Be the anvil." They have 2 daps (one I know, the other is secret), a very annoying slow clap, a particular way of standing in a straight line (also very annoying), and a game they invented called Wolves, in which they howl each other's names.

They think they're pretty elite, but how elite can they be when their mediocre students and athletes? We're going to talk about that.

Finally woke up!

2010-01-29T04:53:00.000-08:00

I've been trying to wake up at five thirty all week, and like every week, on some random day, I actually did it. It happened to be Friday, of all days.

I usually don't remember what I'm supposed to be doing. I haven't been sitting much Zazen, so it doesn't come to mind. It came to mind this morning when I remembered the church bells ring at 6- so it would be a perfect half hour to sit for. It's a start for now. I've lost my morning routine. I've been going to work around 7:40.

Mornings are really important to me. The best mornings I remember were the ones I spent in Alaska. I was alone, the cabin was small, and I wrote up a storm. There was no access to coffee, so green tea was the norm, and I remember how quiet the mountains were. I'd read anything! I ran out of books about two months in my trip, and at one point I found myself reading a 1,000 page text about science.

I had these long morning that started at 4:30 or so. I'd feed the sled dogs and let them digest until 7, and then we would run. Sometimes I wonder why I ever left. To crest hills through Aspens and watch the northern lights play in the sky until 9am was celestial. I guess the only thing it was missing was people.

Now I have tons of people and no mountains. I'll see 100 students today. They'll each have a question. Not sure what I'll say.

One foot after the other.

2010-01-28T18:23:00.000-08:00

Really, really, didn't want to go to work today. Didn't feel like rushing out of my house. Felt like listening to the radio in my pajamas, drinking coffee, and reading blogs. Had a little debate with myself and then my fiance.

I wanted to argue that because I worked last Saturday, that I tutored every day until 5:30, and I hadn't seen a planning period all week, that I should get to stay home. She reminded me that I took this job. Told them I'd be there Monday through Friday. So I got my ass out of bed. Went it to organized chaos.

I tackled it. It wasn't so smooth. I looked around and I didn't accept things I knew I could change. Yelled enough.

Frustrated. Great odds, meek support. Most of my students are ready for ELA but if their math doesn't improve in 30 days, it won't matter. They'll fail their big state test. So, I told my homeroom, come Monday, their English teacher will be teaching them Math in the morning. They were okay with that. They're a tight group. They call themselves the Alpha Kings...16 eighth grade boys. Limitless potential.

I'm glad I went. No one can run my class like I can. In my third year, I can manage these kids. Give them a look that will shut them up for an hour or have them acting out Greek myths. The bond is amazing. I actually love the kids, love the teaching, but find the work load unsustainable. Or maybe I just think that. Maybe there's nothing wrong.

Anyway, it's not going to get easier. So might as well keep on pushing.

Nothing but pig wings.

2010-01-27T04:54:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you have to admit you've fallen into an obsession.

Obsessions can be a bit ugly to watch- like a child running down an aisle and grabbing everything in sight. Where did this military obsession come from?

I guess that doesn't matter, because here it is, in my lap.

Do I know anything? Do I know that deployments are real? That 15 months could be a lifetime?

Am I not recognizing what I already am? Just a middle school teacher. Just a Bodhisattva that wants a little chaos.

Funny, most people would think an inner city school would be chaos enough. It's greatly improved from when I started, but I think it would still spin a couple heads.

I think I'm wrong. Are these settling pains working their way out like pieces of glass?

I think I'll shut up and sit still. It's worked so well in the past.

"You think outside about ten boxes."

2010-01-24T09:48:00.000-08:00

My fiance provided the title for this blog. Zen, military, A.A, teaching inner city kids, video games, fast car, video games, home repairs, cooking meals, writing, reading, running, loving, family, adventure - these are my boxes, I think.

Life is pretty outrageous. The places we end up, the places we choose to go, the costumes we wear, the ideas we keep like kites on a string- I have to say I've had a lot of fun.

Speaking of fun, tomorrow, I'll teach until 1 and then I go to take my ASVAB. I'm seriously considering, for the third time in my life, joining the military (as a reserve). This time, for the first time, it's Army, instead of the Marines. For one, I'm screened out of the Marines because of my sleeve of tattoos. I don't even remember getting a sleeve of tattoos, but there it is, bright as a rainbow. And two, the MOS availability, the bonuses, and accommodations the Army makes is more suitable for my life style, except of course for the long deployments, which I'm sure I'll see in the future.

I'll be taking a split school, which means boot camp this summer, and school next summer. My top three choices are Chaplin's assistant, journalist, or masonry/carpentry. Not trying to be G.I Joe, but would like to keep the tradition of service- Dad was a cook in the Marines for 21, Grandpa was a Chaplain's Assistant in the Army, other Grandpa was Infantry in Korea...

When I think about all my boxes, I think about the Bodhisattva Kannon. 1,000 arms with a 1,000 tools, for the worlds 1,000 needs. I feel ready and capable to fill the roles that come natural. I'm not really trying to do pros and cons. If I did that, I wouldn't do anything, ever. I have a con-sided mind. I'd be a great prosecuting attorney.

So, adventures abound- this afternoon, I'll take a practice test, and try and turn fractions into decimals, which for me will be a miracle. Think water into wine.

How smooth are things?

2010-01-14T05:20:00.000-08:00

Rubble and bleeding brown skin hits close to home for me. Horrible images and horrible sympathy for my students. A good many of my students fell into the socieo-economic group whose only recourse was to hope for a spot in the super dome, during Katrina. I was already back at college in Pennsylvania. My parents easily escaped. But some of my students stayed and saw horrible things. Some did horrible things.

I'm thinking of one of my students who saw a murderer killed in the super dome. He remembers how the M16s tore through the body. He was about eleven.

My family didn't have the easiest time either. 9 feet of water in St. Benard Parish. Never saw that house again. By the time I got back, it was swept away by organizations, mostly christian.

In post-Katrina New Orleans, things are better? That student has had more than one gun in his face for bicycles or ipods.

I don't see my job as easy, either. I often don't feel that I'm doing all that good. That I'm just putting out fires, one after another in the inner city classroom.

I hate the first noble truth. I've always been told that hate is the only real sin in Buddhism, if there are any, and I hate that I can't get past my own karma to help others. My body is moving, it looks like I'm helping, but I know I'm thinking, "Somebody needs to help me!"

I also suspect that knowing hate is wrong isn't enough. There's nothing to read or hear to realize that.

It feels rather childish. Like it's time to share my snack and I don't want to.

I want to feel empathy, real empathy. I'm just not open to it right now. I know I'll donate to the red cross, I know that Haiti needs help, and I'll give what I can, but what if I know that I'm not really feeling anything?

What should it feel like, anyway?

Too much or too little.

2010-01-12T04:41:00.000-08:00

How do we practice the way without too much regret or too much pride? How do we really act?

I didn't sit this morning, but I did wake up. I forgot that physically getting out of bed is a start to "waking."

Sometimes it's like walking into a room and seeing all the disarray. How do you not feel overwhelmed? Instead, how do you just start cleaning? I think the first thing is to accept that the room is a mess. You can't clean a clean room.

All these questions. I once heard my teacher say, "I only asked Deshimaru one question during my 10 years with him." He was bragging, I thought. I'm not sure what he meant. He said this in response to all of our questions, which we ask over and over. I do ask questions over and over. Some I've been asking for years.

The great matter seems a curse some days. It's always there, won't ever go away. Seems inevitable that I would become aware of it. How do we address it? I only know zazen and right livelihood.

Honesty

2010-01-11T15:51:00.000-08:00

I was thinking about closing this blog and starting something new. Ariel Pork sounds so desperate, so existential- so messed up. I was thinking, "Ariel Pork isn't me."

I had a better idea for what "me" should look like. Let me fes up.

I'm not sitting zazen. I stopped about a month ago. Maybe I sit once a week. I'm a bad Buddhist. 30 whacks if you do, 30 whacks if you don't. But I want to practice. I want a lot of things. My intentions are never lacking. But what good are intentions?

They'll have to be good enough until I get on my feet again, or zafu, if you will. Big life changes. I'm engaged. She's wonderful. Am I?

Trying to be, so ideas come in- how do I be the best me? What is the best me? Why am I 27 and a little confused about that? Very confused. But sitting still. Still teaching. Still...not thinking. Just doing. Movin' on with that which never really moves. That, uh, restlessness. She loves me just the way I am.

There are a few things I felt came naturally to me- writing and sitting. Teaching is something that I love doing, because it's hard, and gives me a reason to get out of my pajamas.

Can't seem to focus. Some activities I want to reclaim- Sitting, and writing, even if it's only this blog, only this nothing of a page.

Feeling too ambitious about some other things- money, for one. Security for another. Want to ignore all that I know. Want to think there is some better way.

Lay practice...I never knew it would be so hard. Smells just like Ariel Pork.

The Mississippi Triangle

2009-09-27T08:57:00.000-07:00

It was long drive to Starksville on Friday night. I picked up my buddy from the temple and we flew over the causeway, into the forests, and conversation ensued.

A lot has transpired at the temple and I'm not sorry to have missed it. Sounds like the good old royal rumble is still going on. My friend is the new "first assistant" which is a vague term and it probably means he's responsible for everything and nothing. It will no doubt piss off the current first assistant, who acted as shusso when I was living there. Of course, being pissed off in a Zen temple looks a little different than it does in the streets of New Orleans, but it's still disruptive. When someone hits the han like they're cracking home runs or rattles the gong like some low-fi tape deck, you know a Zennie is pissed off.

I only know from first hand experience what it's like to have a cursing match with the shusso at 5 am about the air conditioner.

But sounds like it's still going on over there, despite our teacher's recent involvement. He moved in around July. I shouldn't say despite- he quite likes the rude stuff. Or doesn't dislike it.

I'm not sure how I feel or where my place is in judging the royal rumble. Or how close I can stand to it without going off the top rope.

But we were on our way to our teacher's one and only dharma heir, Tony. Five hour drive up north to a quiet neighborhood that I always experience as dense with growth-grass, ivy, pecan trees. And it's always very damp and cool. It wasn't different, and after getting lost, we arrived at 12am, wandered into the zendo, found our mats, and fell asleep. Not so comfortable. Mosquitoes, that damp carpet. Weird dreams. Early wake up bell, like I never fell asleep.

Intense rain pounded the roof, thunder and lighting rattling windows, and so samu was canceled. Tony added two more periods of zazen, for a total of 9 sitting periods before 5pm. He gave a short kusen (dharma talk during zazen) to announce what sesshin is about, and how sesshin is supported by interdependence. He also announced there would be no more kusen and no teisho- just zazen.

It had been a couple months since I last practiced formally. I hadn't chanted in about a month. I was frustrated with myself and determined to just sit- just let the temple go, just the let the idea of becoming a priest go, and think about (or not think about) what was important, which was practice. Sincere practice. And this small 5 person day of zen, in a residential neighborhood, was perfect. The rain was perfect. I sat and struggled. I didn't know what sincere was going to be, but I decided it was going to be still, that I wouldn't (as I have in other sesshins) let my little feet sneak around under my robe, sometimes letting my ankles fall from lotus to Burmese style. I wasn't going to "relax." Sincere was going to be simple. Stretch the backbone, knees press the earth, head presses the sky. Don't talk back to the mind as it rambles on. Just sit there as I sit there when someone is gossiping- let it run itself out.

Well, I did move on the 7th and 8th period of zazen. Let the feet slip. Loosened up. Never helps, that pain just relocates. On the 9th and last, I got through it. I heard the bell once, then heard the bell twice, and it could have been a minute or it could have been an hour. It didn't matter, because at this point in my practice, I know it's forever. I can't quit sitting, so it doesn't really matter.

Not sitting is as hard as sitting.

Where do we act from?

2009-09-24T15:53:00.000-07:00

Monday turned into a dark day. I decided to stay home because I didn't feel quite right. I felt overwhelmed by the work I didn't finish and by the news that I'll be a big brother again. Funny, that news didn't prompt me to think about the future. Instead, I thought of the past.

I couldn't access how I felt. I was completely alien to myself. I wasn't doing anything I was supposed to. Depression started in on me after I tried to evade it by spending money on home improvements. The entire time I knew I should be at school, knew that hiding away from the world was a symptom of being an Alcoholic. I felt it coming, and I let it come.

I turned off all the lights in the house. Ran a bath. Lit candles. Sat in the bath until it was cold. Had incoherent thoughts about what I was doing wrong in life, followed by incoherent thoughts about what I should do different. Of course, the monastery always comes up as a place of refuge. At this point, I don't further the fantasy by thinking that I'd be happy at a monastery. I wasn't "happy" when I did live at the temple. For 9 months, I was the same person who struggled to touch the here and now. The incoherent thoughts said, "So what. You're unhappy, so you might as well be unhappy at the monastery."

After the bath, after all the thoughts, the words, I did the only thing left to do: Sat Zazen, in the dark, still wet from the bath, my rakusu carelessly hanging from my neck. I didn't care. And that's the great thing about Zazen. The zafu is still there, even when you don't care. You may not like the zafu or the wall, but it's still there for you.

I don't know if I was doing the next right thing, but I went from moment to moment, letting my body do what it wanted. Bath;Zazen; Bed.

I woke up feeling completely different. Just like usual, though without drinking the usual came in a night, instead of weeks or months of fog. Nothing magical happened. I just submitted to the feelings. Just went through them. Felt silly, felt ridiculous, and now I feel humble. Even after of six years of practice, 10 months of sobriety, I am still susceptible to all the old things, all the old suffering. And that will never change.

But I think about all the decisions we make in our lives. To become teachers or to become monks. Where are we acting from when we make the choices? And does it really matter?

And while one goes through these existential dilemmas, the sentient beings aren't saving themselves. It affects so much. Like Bob Marley said, the bad guys don't take days off.

I'll be a big brother, again.

2009-09-21T06:49:00.000-07:00

My dad informed me last night that I'll be a big brother again. I'll be 28 years older than this one!

I gathered that my sister, who lives up north, is upset. It's about the past. About how our father was back then, as a young gungy marine with a drinking problem.

He's much different now. That old person is gone as far as I'm concerned. I don't think the sister really feels that way and still seeks some reparations.

I'm not sure how I feel, but because I met with my father last night, I didn't get a chance to do any work, so I took today off. While I don't feel upset, I feel something, and I'm taking sometime to figure that out. I'll figure that out as I scrub the floor, dissemble an old couch, and buy a new one.

Saturday Day Trip!

2009-09-19T07:28:00.000-07:00

After a great week of work (students were tested on irony, motifs, foreshadowing, theme, character traits, and did well!) I'm taking my new car, The Millennium Hawk, to Vermillionville, in Lafayette, Louisiana. Mr. C is my co-pilot. He's a social studies teachers.

Vermillionville is a Cajun village. I'm not sure what else to say about that, except I've never been to one, so I'm excited to go. I'm also excited to drive the Hawk, because it's a turbo, and I really want to open it up on the highway. I was also lucky to purchase some great cds (On sale + teacher discount): Elvis Costello, The Police, Blink 182, Fiest, and Elton John.

Well, I'm on the road again.

morning.

2009-09-15T04:51:00.000-07:00

What a cruel thing for a Monday morning: rain. After the alarm went off at 5 am I had to gently address the self for five minutes; remember, that ½ hour extra feels like 5 seconds and is never worth it; remember, you have to make yourself sit now; remember, books don’t write themselves and most of the magic that goes into a novel is used just by waking yourself up to write the damn thing.
And so I got to the zafu five minutes late. I took a ten minute break from writing to eat and listen to NPR. But I got it done! Monday wake up is over! Now for the shower. School opens in 15 minutes and we’ve got 3 days of review before the test on Thursday. Professional Development Friday.

Tuesday Morning

Didn't sit this morning. Ate breakfast instead. I think I need to wake up just a little bit earlier. Which may sound crazy, since I'll be reaching into the 4am hour. I think this has less to do with breakfast, though. I've noticed my sitting practice starting to deteriorate. And I've noticed more worry, more stress, and more character defects starting to emerge.

It's always tough to make judgment calls about practice. Actually, I've always been told not to. But with my patience waining, my mind seeks to blame something. Wants to say, "You cursed today. You were picky with your girlfriend. You couldn't let go. And you haven't been sitting."

This was the danger of leaving the temple. I didn't just leave; I stopped going all together. I don't have a good reason beyond a felt sense that things weren't right there. So since then, I sit on my own, and I went to a Unitarian Universalist Church, searching for a sangha atmosphere, really. But nothing feels right. Since nothing feels right, should I just accept what's there? Go back to the temple?

I have been enjoying my mornings. Usually, I wake up a little early- like 4:45 (my alarm is set for 5) and I start sitting right away, which gives me about 15 minutes before writing at 5:30. That 15 minutes is the best part! I make coffee, eat, and listen to NPR. That 15 minutes is my favorite part of the day. Then I write for a half hour, take a coffee break on the porch, which is my second favorite part. My neighborhood is usually loud with DJs, football, and regular urban sounds. When I take my coffee break, all you can hear are church bells and birds. After that, I write for another half hour, and then head over to work.

A really nice life, despite what the radio says. I'm not sure why I listen to NPR. I hear too much about money and too little about Bhutan, which has happy forests of trees...

Empty Pockets

2009-09-05T14:33:00.000-07:00

All the way at the top of state, in Bastrop,Louisiana, I don't need any of my effects. No phone, no money clip (really a card clip), and no keys jingling at my side (after living at the temple, I amassed many keys to many doors, which conceal rooms I can't remember).

We drove for 7 hours to get here- a 1/2 extra for being confused and an 1 1/2 for traffic, but it was worth it. I really love driving, or as on this trip, playing navigator. This was my first trip with my I-phone, and I kept referring to the purple line we kept on. My girlfriend would ask me if I had seen a sign, and all I saw was the purple line, the purple line! Opps, we went past the purple line! And once or twice, I wanted her to slow down, because the satellite couldn't keep up with her. Poor, old, 3G.

We must have got the last cabin in Louisiana. It's very cute and comfortable, and very modern with its flat screen TV and the wireless Internet. I'm wondering why I ever stay at hotels.

The weather is much cooler this far north and less humid, too. It smells like fire wood. The porch is screened in and it's where we have spent most of our day. We had no plans but to drink coffee, read, and enjoy each other's company, but we did manage to go for a walk.

The lake here has been drained and sits empty, cracked mud and cypress, soggy in the sun. It was really neat to walk down into it! It felt like, like land of the lost, with tall green grass sprouting up here and there, big snakes crawling over logs. Saw one snake and one red fox.

It's been...over a year since I've been on a vacation, and longer if you don't count 20 day stays as a guest student at Green Gulch Zen Farm as vacations. I came here with no intentions other than to read a Stephen King novel and a book of Roald Dhal short stories. It's wonderful to have worked hard all week for this respite.

All Before My Morning Coffee.

2009-09-04T04:56:00.000-07:00

Today is going to be a good day, and not even an attack will change that.

On my way into a coffee shop, a man asked me for a dollar. I him how his day was going, and I think he called me rainbow bright.

As I stood in line, he came in and started harassing customers and asked me again. I asked him if he took plastic.

As I went to sit down, I made eye contact. I make eye contact, I can't help it, and it usually leads to love or fighting. The love is worth the staring problem. As I reached my seat, he "Iffed" or fainted a blow at me. I'm glad I didn't move. At least that made me feel manly.

And I told him I'd knock him out.

He left...and I stayed, thinking he must be outside, and that I could go out there show him what's up.

Right in front of the school I teach at. Where I tell kids to stay their hands, that only their actions matter.

Well, I didn't go fight him. This is a big thing for me- invitations to violence are hard to resist. And actually, there is a superficial feeling that tells a person he needs to police the world and teach lessons.

I'm glad I didn't hit him. But I know I still need to walk past. Even if he's out there, I need to walk past and go teach my class. Even if he hits me, I need to remember my students. And that my actions count. And we're not talking about self defense, he won't kill me. My reaction is ego defense.

And besides, it's labor day weekend. Back in the day, I'd be going to a clam bake with Griffin Masonry and I'd be drunk from 12 today until Monday. Tonight, I leave to go read, cook, and love in a cabin with my girlfriend.

But really, he's lucky I hadn't had my coffee yet.

They give out chips, and I like to count.

2009-09-02T18:48:00.000-07:00

It's always amazing to watch people have just one drink. I had dinner with my girlfriend's parents for the first time and her father drank one beer. As a little boy, my legs would get tired from carrying beer for my father.

And I remember sitting in clubs, waiting for dad to get done with a meeting. I remember eating watermelon one day, and people were watching us. As my sister methodically picked seed after seed, they said, "Oh, She's an Al-anon."

As I buried my teeth to the rind, sucking the taste out of the green, they never said anything about me. Never even knew they were saving me a seat.

Cunning and baffling as this condition can be, it's always surprising to find my conviction sway: I am an alcoholic; I am not an alcoholic.

I think everyone is a little or a lot of something, and I see the range between Al-anon and Alcoholic. Some people are completely balanced and walk right down the middle. They require very little maintenance. Then there are people like my sister and me, the children of one alcoholic and one addict. At any time, one of us is too far right or to far left. We need programs.

I find my program in the fellowship of people who share my story. The similarities are uncanny among garden variety drunks. Some of us have been thrown out of country clubs, squats, or temples- but we've all been thrown out and we never knew why anyone would to throw wonderful people like ourselves into the streets.

There's something wonderful that transpires in a meeting, something that is effacing and inspiring at the same time. It's only been nine months, but my life has changed.

When I walked into the Zen temple 2 years ago, of course, I wanted peace. My teacher looked me in the eye and said, "If you're looking for peace, I hope you brought some with you." He explained that the way wouldn't solve all my problems, but that sitting Zazen everyday sure would bring them up, like a pot of boiling water. I think I've been boiling a little.

Tuesday morning after the storm.

2009-09-01T04:43:00.000-07:00

I was still trying to get a hold of my father and step mother on this day four years ago. I had left New Orleans about two weeks before. It was a summer spent waiting tables at a fancy restaurant on Bourbon and Beinville...a place that would send me home fore wearing the wrong socks, and my face was never smooth enough for the Matre'D.

I remember the tropical storm we had earlier that year. It tore ancient live oaks out of the ground. Crayfish literally ran through the streets in St. Bernard parish, their claws held high.

When I heard about the storm, I was in Pennsylvania, starting my student teaching. I'm pretty sure I cried because I thought my parents were dead. No one was sure. I remember sitting there with my mentor teacher and supervisor, and we were debating whether or not I should commence with the classroom or wait to hear when we could go back. I didn't go back.

This is a dividing line between New Orleanians. When I was at a little grocer in the quarter on Friday night, a drunk woman who was selling roses, demanded to hear my grievance and loss list, she wanted to know if I lost everything like here, lost people, and wanted to know if had stayed to watch the floating bodies. I couldn't reply.

Maybe I'm alone on this, but I've always simultaneously wanted to share suffering and shirk it at all at once. I think this is why I'm attracted to the military, Antarctica, and run-down, corrupt, public schools. I just don't want all that suffering to go to waste.

And at the same time, when I put myself in a situation, I want parlance with all that I knew was waiting for me. Join a Zen temple, but I don't want to shave my head, or water plants, or have my teacher share his opinion.

I can't understand it. I just say a prayer to St. Francis, which starts,

"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.Where there is hatred, let me sow love;where there is injury,pardon;where there is doubt, faith;where there is despair, hope;where there is darkness, light;and where there is sadness, joy..."

Fly High Friday

2009-08-28T04:53:00.001-07:00

The kids learned a lot this week and sweat through some intense classes. Today is their assessment, and I woke up wondering if I pushed too hard for 8th graders- 20 vocabulary words, two short stories, two lessons on motifs and foreshadowing, and two author bios- one on Roald Dahl (who they always love) and one on W.W. Jacobs. I guess I'll find out tonight while I'm grading.

As I alluded to last time, so much has changed, but one thing always remains- form is emptiness, emptiness is form. When I walked into the Katrina damaged school 2 years ago, with rough kids who wanted to fight me, I couldn't see what they really were inside.

Not that a middle school er is a crystal ball. I have no idea how one can go from sweetly tying a tie for a 4Th grader to talking back to a teacher in the next. They're in such flux, a constant war inside their hearts and heads.

Eh, and then maybe I'm not so different. I woke up Monday and wanted to give up the apartment, the kids, the girlfriend, and show up on Reirin's door step, ready to sew a kesa.

And then, I haven't sat for the last 3 days.

I asked a co-worker if he ever felt like just heading for mountains. He said no. Maybe it's an alcholic thing.

But today I'm in comfortable pants and my M.C.P.A t-shirt. It's Fly High Friday! We shorten classes and at lunch, we head to City Park, the name sake of our school.

???

2009-07-31T06:20:00.001-07:00

It’s hard to blog when your lap top gets stolen. Never felt right to divulge all these episodes on someone else’s computer. It seemed like bad computer Karma. Better keep the action on my own hard drive.
So much has changed, I considered changing the name of the blog, or starting a new one. But Ariel Pork will do. I’m going to look around and feel my way back to this blog.

Gaki

2009-02-23T07:58:00.000-08:00

Only the first step has to do with abstinence. The next eleven are much more difficult, and the hardest one so far was the 7th- to turn my character defects over to a higher power for removal.

Defects? Removal? I already posted about this.

Leaving the Roshi out of it, I asked the Shuso if I could have the Zendo for Saturday morning. I filled him in on my "confession/refuge" ceremony, one I'd learned at Green Gulch, and he said it was fine, as long as I wasn't chanting in Pali or English or anything else that was hippy-yoga Zen or what he called "fluffy." This was fine. I didn't see it coming, but it didn't surprise me.

My sponsor came over at 7am. The Shuso offered to help out, but I figured he just wanted to make sure the chants were correct, and this wasn't Zen business, but A.A business, and my relationship with my sponsor, who is a very sentimental, affectionate ,older man, would make him uncomfortable, so I said I was fine.

I placed a zafu off to the side for my sponsor. He'd only need to witness this whole thing. I struck the gong in an accelerando, which seemed appropriate to get started. We do a lot of accelerando work with our Zen pieces of wood and metal, and it's a good way to settle things down. I offered shoko, and did prostrations. In front of the altar, I went on my knees, just like when I took Jukai, and I did a short dedication to the first ten Buddhas. Then the confession sutra, three times, followed by taking refuge in the three treasures. I finished up with our general dedication, you know, the one to the ten directions, and did three more prostrations. I closed with an accelerando.

I did this a couple times by myself as homework after the 6th step, which entails discussing all the defects with my sponsor. Without a witness, it didn't really feel like much. Having my sponsor there brought a little energy. It wasn't like I was performing, but it did feel a little like a Buddhist mitzvah, with the solo chanting and all. I invited him to chant, but he wasn't into it.

Afterward, I went to a meeting. People were talking, telling my story. Whenever I'm in a meeting, I don't think of alcoholics, but I think of Gaki, the hungry ghosts. This insatiable urge to fill a perceived void seems so ubiquitous, I fear the term alcoholic deters many from a 12 step program that would probably help them. I think humans anonymous would be nice. Everyone needs fellowship. Everyone has hungry ghosts haunting them.

Not drinking is a great idea for me, as well as not doing anything too much, too quickly, and that's what A.A has done for me. But alcohol was just one substance, with the most visible effects. Being a dry drunk isn't being sober. I used to think that living in the moment meant doing whatever I wanted, when I wanted. I don't know what I think now, but I think more slowly, for sure.

Eat, Sit, March

2009-02-17T06:20:00.000-08:00

I found a chaplaincy program at Upaya Zen Center. You don’t have to be a priest to participate. It’s a two year certificate program that may substitute for a master’s degree. I’m giving it Chaplain Candidate School serious thought.

As I write this, I’m looking at 4 new books I just ordered on pedagogy. I also taught a wonderful class to upward bound high school students on Saturday, which was refreshing and inspiring. And then, I’m studying for the GRE, with hopes of pursuing an MFA in creative writing. It's all going well. It's good to fly kites on breezey days.

Making decisions from a good place is a new thing for me. It's a new exercise. It's actually a challenge! It's much easier to react to a perceived disaster, to "save" myself and thrive on resentment. It's harder to love your job, you life, but also plan for the future, while not making any big changes to quickly. And I'm thinking about a big commitment.

If I decide to become a chaplain, it will take about 6 years of training, graduate school, and professional experience. I don't think this contradicts living in the moment. One needs to go to work, fulfill responsibilities, and one needs to plan, also. It's a necessary part of our life.

Zen teachers don't just show up to the airport and get on a plane the day of a scheduled dharma talk. They have to plan, too.

After zazen, I broke out Deshimaru’s The Way of True Zen. I treat this text like a bible. Not that I swear on it or anything, but it’s the Zen book I read over and over again, primarily because it teaches me the language my teacher uses. If you walk into a mundo with my teacher and ask about karma, he’ll not have much to say, and it may piss him off. But if you ask about Mu, Ku, Hishryo consciousness, or Mujo, it will provide a more teachable moment for everyone involved. And in reading Deshimaru, it’s hard to get away from his samurai-like upbringing, or even his own service in the Japanese army, and his teacher’s service. Robert also served in the Korean war.

And then there’s me, the son of a career Marine. There’s a lot about me that would strike some as militaristic. I don’t like a lot of junk on my bathroom sink and I make my bed as soon as I wake up. I slip and call the floor the deck pretty often, as it was always named in my childhood.

So I looked it up. Why not bring practice to the 3,500 hundred enlisted men and women? It’s not that I think I could be their teacher, but I can sew a zafu and ring a gong and sit up straight. I can maintain a zendo, recommend some books, and reference some teachers who can give precepts. I can also listen and give practical advice, and after the required training, provide council. All of this seems to fit. I think this would be good practice for a Bodhisattva. A lot of zen practitioners become yoga teachers, councilors, and teachers. And for the amount of suffering our enlisted and commissioned endure, there isn't a lot exposure to the buddha-dharma.

I know these are just ideas. I didn’t always know what an idea was though. I once listened to my teacher yelling, “Ideas, ideas! Don’t you know what an idea is?”

There was a time when I mistook an idea for certain reality. For example, I’d feel the urge to quit my job, or not show up, because I figured that was normal for metamorphosis. I’d start thinking terms of already being the idea, instead of experiencing the idea. Am I alone on this?

Not surprisingly, as I drank coffee after ceremony, I was moved to take the day off, and bask in the future. Read some, study some, and probably search the web for any shred of encouragement for my new idea. I didn’t encourage it for two long. Maybe I heard two or three requests from the brain. I didn’t entertain them, and I was only 5 minutes late for work. Not too shabby.

Big Band Zazen

2009-02-15T05:19:00.000-08:00

St. Aug's band was marching toward the temple while I sat zazen on Friday evening. If you've never been to New Orleans for Mardi Grais, you've never seen New Orleans do something right. The efficiency of our police, our bands, and parade directors would make you wonder why we can't get anything else working around here. Perhaps most surprising is how quickly the streets are cleaned. The cleaning crew is its own parade.

I often think that New Orleans is a unique place to practice Zen. When it's not Mardi Grais, it's still insane. From 3rd world traffic patterns to the raging bohemian current, any routine is challenged. This may also account for our low number sangha; people may be to drunk to sit zazen.

When I was drinking, I came to the temple anyway- mostly hungover. My teacher knew and I can remember him saying that it didn't matter, that to sit zazen was most important, and that I needed to come. I'm thankful he didn't push me away, as I credit my sitting practice for leading me to sobriety.

So, big bands make me feel inspired. To see Mardi Grais come together makes me feel connected. The traditions- like Popeye's chicken and king cakes-give us spectators something to do. My father's house is a block away from a parade route, and there is always food and warmth waiting for family and friends.

On a randomly associated idea, I've been researching chaplaincy in the military. With a little research, I found one Theravadan Buddhist Chaplin in the Army. I think it's all the uniforms, marching big bands, and hanging out with my dad that makes me think of the military.

I'm years away from ordination, but afterward, I could see the a lot of good work to be done in the military. Seems to be fitting for a Bodhisattva, and I wouldn't have to carry a gun.

These are just Sunday morning thoughts. It's time to get ready for ceremony.

Beings are Numberless

2009-02-12T14:11:00.000-08:00

The Zen temple is on the 4th floor of an olive green building. Most people don’t know it’s there. The 1st floor is an art gallery, the 2nd is an advertising firm, and the 3rd is the temple’s storage, office, and resident space. The stairs wind upwards and leave most winded. It’s an urban space, the smallest building next to skyscrapers, the Mississippi river, and two doors down from a beautiful cathedral. Their bells chime every hour and lend to the ambiance of our temple. Whenever I’m leading, I try to harmonize, striking the gong, the metal, the han, or drum in between the ringing.

The central business district is not very “New Orleans.” It may be the only place in the city where people show up on time. It’s far from a neighborhood. The street is alive from 6:30 am until 6:00pm. Everything closes and it’s hard to find something to eat. Even the hotel bars are empty because the French quarter is so close. Most business people or convention people spend their nights there.

I shouldn't say that the streets are dead, though. The cathedral is appreciated, the Zen temple is hard to spot, but the rehabilitation center (where I go to meetings sometimes) and the homeless shelter are abjured by most of the suits and slacks that rule the CBD. Doctors, lawyers, Zennies, drunks, Zennie drunks, addicts, and homeless people share one small street. I won’t mention there is also a confederate museum, a WWII museum, and two art museums with their own factions.

Every once and a while, someone spots our subtle sign, which is tan and black, and hung at the 3rd floor level, that states simply, in bold letters, “ZEN TEMPLE.” Most of the time, “ZEN TEMPLE” attracts people who perceive the fraying fabric of the universe. And they come in hoping we can bind it up again.

Jeff and a laborer were working on the roof of the garage. We actually need sangha members so badly that we have to hire help! If there is sin in Zen, this must be it. I planned to go help, but first went into our foyer, where I lock my bike. I turned around and was startled by a woman staring through our large glass doors. She was pressing the intercom, and I figured I’d let her in. We don’t sit on Wednesday nights, so I figured she was on her way to the advertising firm. She was young and attractive, and I couldn’t imagine she wanted to go to the temple anyway, as we rarely attract women with our posted Kodo Sawaki quotes and macho-tough-guy Zen stuff. Women come and go, but it’s mostly a bunch of guys, half grumpy, half indifferent. She surprised me when she said, “I want to talk to someone from the Zen temple.”

I said, “I’m from the Zen temple, you can talk to me.”

Tourists from the French quarter want to smell some incense and see a Buddha statue and are usually satisfied with a tour. She was eerily reticent. On the 2nd floor stair well, she hummed a song. On the 4th floor stair well, I started to say that our orientation was tomorrow, and she answered, “Oh, I already did one.”

I knew this was trouble, but not until that point. I was alone with this woman and I didn’t know what she wanted. And now that we were standing in the reception area outside of the dojo, with her vapid gaze, I panicked. Just on the inside.

“I really needed a calm space.”

“This is pretty calm.” I said.
“Do you have any food?”
“Are you okay?”

She spun around like a child and groaned, “I’m hungry. Can I go to the bathroom?”
I lead her to the back and she walked behind me. “The bible says that a temple should admit everyone, no matter how shabbily dressed they are,” she whispered, “They may be angels in disguise.”

Having no idea what to say, and without thinking, and with GRE words floating around my head, all I could say was, “You look perfectly seraphic.” She went into the bathroom, and I went into the kitchen, ready to make her a peanut butter sandwich so I could send her on her way. I’d give her a piece of cake, my apple, soup, anything- the moon- just to get her going. I was afraid, and I’m not sure why.

She came back out and stood silently. I broke the silence, starting the orientation, “We sit Zazen here.”
“Oh, can I sit now?”
“Um, well, you can come back tomorrow morning at 6am or at 6pm tomorrow night.” I said.

There were some newspapers on the kitchen table, and she asked, “Do have the comics?”
I started looking, but she found them first, looked at particular picture, named the comic, and handed it to me, pointed at a heart, and smiled at me.

I looked at it, tried to find meaning, still afraid, I said, “cool.” and handed it back.
“Well…”

Somehow we started walking back downstairs. On the 1st stair well she sighed, and said, “I get kicked out of everywhere.”
“You feel like you’re getting kicked out?”
“Yes!”
“I’m sorry. I don’t what to do. I’m not a priest, just a student.”

She walked toward the rehab and the shelter, but I’m not sure they were open to her.
I’m not sure what I could have done differently, but I felt like I had a perfect opportunity to help someone like I dream of helping them. Striving to practice for others, sit for others, sweep the steps for others, is hard to stomach, but when given this opportunity to help someone directly, I felt trapped in paradox.

People, westerners maybe, often look to Buddhism to solve their problems. Maybe they’re hungry, maybe they’re stressed, and I must admit I came to Buddhism looking for specific merit. I was quiet about it, though. Had I come to the practice saying, “I want power, like Jedi power, samurai power, ninja power.” I don't mean to sound childish. The power I really wanted was total self reliance. No interdependence, nothing, just me.

I might have been turned away. The more I strived for this power, the faster I wore myself out. Actually, there was no one to turn me away. Since I swore everyone was off base, I didn’t seek a teacher or a sangha. Buddha did it all with his head,heart and knees, why couldn’t I? Eventually, I came to some scary places through sitting, and I quit before it got too ugly. I came to my teacher and my temple with exhausted faith. Though wary, I was pretty easy to deal with.

But my point is, these personal goals, which are deterred in Zen practice, can lead someone to the path. They hardly need to be deterred, as the practice will let you know with time. People quit or people settle.

I’m wondering if I pushed her away. What tradition should I look to? Should I have offered her tangaryo? Should I have handed her a broom? They made Kodo Sawaki work in the kitchen for a couple months before they admitted him to zazen. Freshly shot in the mouth and out of the war, perhaps that was the best therapy around.

I know she wasn’t ready to jump into practice. I doubt she would have made it through 10 minutes of zazen without freaking out.

But maybe she could have called someone. Maybe I could have walked her somewhere. Maybe I could have seen my grandmother’s Buddha nature and force fed her the contents of our refrigerator. I was too afraid to see anything.

And I guess this is why not having at teacher around is dangerous. What did she get? Me. And I told her I wasn't a priest, like that means anything.

These are the days of our lives.

2009-02-09T16:04:00.000-08:00

(Flying pig in the middle)

I hadn’t said a thing to Robert, not even hello when I saw my teacher talking with the shuso about the book I’m editing. It was a work day at the temple and I was tenzo again, and I really couldn’t get caught up in my recent feelings, and so I didn’t open my mouth, for fear of something escaping.

In a lot of ways, I felt like Judas. I went behind my teacher’s back and asked some questions I’m not brave enough to ask him. It felt wrong, felt too subjective, and I spoke about our temple as a whole. I didn’t say this is how I feel; I said this is how things are at our temple. There are always problems with I statements, but my issue is that “I” changes so rapidly.

Last week, I was sure I would never take ordination from Robert. I was so positive that he was not the teacher for me. I had plans to go west or to Japan, and it felt so good to dwell in certainty. Not so good, but euphoric, like I figured something out- like I was drunk.

Inebriation and chaos go hand in hand for me. Not only is not okay for me take that first drink, it’s also not okay for me to take the first action step in some manic or depressed plan. When times are good, I’m laying the first and last brick of the tower, and when times are bad, I’ll be the first to put my back behind a sledge hammer.

Feeling all of this, after deciding to leave the temple, I went to a meeting. There is a rehabilitation center two blocks away, but I had never gone to a meeting there. Only real drunks go there, and I usually go to the nice coffee shop meetings, where everyone smells good. After zazen on the Thursday night, I went to where the real drunks are.

There were two meetings, one NA, one AA, separated by a wall partition. In that cafeteria, I thought of sangha. Here was the eating place of all these people who woke up on the same beds and ate at 6:30, 12:30, and 4:30 (as the sign said). The serenity prayer was hanging above a silver steam table. Other posters hung and reminded, and all I had to do was glimpse at the “off the beam” list. Resentment. Again, amongst those who appear Godless, those who smell, those who crawled into the room, and those who snored or vibrated uncontrollably, I was slaked. To listen for a minute was to hear myself. Reality wedged pause between action and reaction.
The tower would stand or it would fall, but for now, my hands were at rest, and I just observed.
In Zen, there is always talk of forgetting the self.

“Self, forget you!”

What that’s about for me is that the self is limited. My self is limited. It’s carries no permanent attribute. The flying pig that wanted to fly away is the same pig that roots through shit. I hear my self, and I have to give pause, because it’s usually bat shit crazy.

Of course, mujo prevails; there will be changes, I will make changes in my life. But instead of giving into my every whim, my every objection, I’ve been practicing good parenting skills. I listed to the first couple of pleas with indifference, but if something comes up repeatedly, like the desire to pursue priesthood and writing, or education and fitness, then I listen.

In life, there is no one to ring a gong for you to know what to do and when to do it. There are no 2 strikes to begin kinhin. Instead, it’s that old horrible truth, that you must be your own teacher sometimes, that’s there. Living a temple life is easy. When the han is struck, I go into the dojo. If I’m leading, I make the breakfast. There is little deliberation in deciding whether or not I’ll let down my sangha and call in sick at 5 am. I wake up and act, and it’s good practice.

But life isn’t like that. I need to decide where the wiggle room is in my schedule. I need to decide when to change jobs, when to take a break. And I don’t think too much about the precepts, but I listen to myself, which usually has its limited grasp on the precepts.

Regardless, with a little or a lot to hold on to, I still need to follow the cosmic order. Get out there and stir up the karma.

Bodhisattva’s cannot hide.

What is a true student?

2009-02-07T19:56:00.000-08:00

I can fixate easily on Zen lineages. I find the histories and biographies of lineages and teachers fascinating. I’m not sure I would have this affinity if I was at a big temple, or a temple that has many branches, like Suzuki’s line.

I’m at a Deshimaru temple, whose teacher was Kodo Sawaki. And when I dig up our past, our history- my teacher’s history, I’m afraid of digging too deep. Skimming the surface would give anyone one pause.

After the Sino-Japanese war, which Sawaki fought in when he was 16, “The monks, taking Kodo Sawaki for a beggar-tramp (his clothes were but rags) and a madman (the bullet wound he had received in the mouth impaired his speech and made it difficult for him to speak), refused to listen to him.” Of course, they eventually let him in. And in his later years, he refused to take a seat as Roshi, becoming known as an unsui, a wandering, homeless monk.

Deshimaru’s story is even better. During world war two, floating on a Japanese destroyer on the coast of Indonesia, the Americans attacked his convoy. As ships were sinking, and sailors were jumping over board, it’s written that Deshimaru took up the full lotus posture and sat zazen on a box of dynamite.

Is this Zen mythology?

Completely inline, Robert found Zen after the Korean war, when he fled America. He said the most fucked up thing he saw in Korea was how enthralled his fellow soldiers became with killing. He lost a lot of faith in humanity, and expresses little sympathy for those capable of helping themselves. This is why he loves cats and plants.

A lot of war, a lot of samurai bullshit, and a lot of stuff that Deshimaru retained from Rinzai training, bother me. Looking at Brad Warner’s blog, someone claimed to know some dirt on the Deshimaru lineage and I had to inquire. I e-mailed a Deshimaru monk of 30 years and disclosed some things that happen around here for clarity’s sake. I wanted to know if I was dealing with bullshit, or zen master bullshit.

It's all bullshit, though, and I didn’t learn anything I didn’t already know on a gut level anyway, that being, plain and simple, my teacher can be a cantankerous old asshole who doesn’t appear to be “Zen” on the outside. I mean, he wears designer black clothing, drives a Lexus, lives in a big house uptown, acts like his students are a nuisance, and is relatively unconcerned and unavailable. The best thing about my teacher is that he doesn’t come around much.

This monk told me that Robert is not actually a Roshi. That Robert was told to come to America to teach, but that Deshimaru did not intend for him to become a Roshi. Robert has done well to cut ties with all of our French, Japanese, and American connections. Unchecked, He answers to no one.

So before I burned down the temple, I tried to slow myself down. I don’t know anything about judging a true master, I don’t know anything about the politics of dharma transmission (but I suspect they’re there which is bad enough for me) and I’m not sure how this new scandal really changes anything. What, Roberts not a real teacher? Right, and not only that, he’s a bad fake one, and I learn a lot from him.

While I tried to figure out if he was a true teacher, I was acting like a false student. I started looking for apartments, considered moving to San Fransisco, Japan, Minnesota- anywhere, just to save myself from poisoned dharma. And I was getting so worked up, everything right in front me was neglected. Instead of editing the book, I surfed the web for temples, jobs, and apartments. I even skipped a period of zazen to satiate my anxiety.

I felt this overwhelming urge to do something. But finally, the things right in front of me demanded attention- my students, the spring performance of Romeo and Juliet, and the temple work weekend. I had made an appointment to see an apartment, but skipped it to make minestrone soup and bread for our sangha lunch on Saturday.

I have a history of “doing." I think I caught myself. I think I allowed some space between action and reaction, and I don’t know if it was a merit of zen or of the program, but I’m thankful. There’s an ego inside me that demands to be recognized, sometimes using the term “we." It must have a chipmunk in its pocket, because I know that things don’t have to be so chaotic.
I was ready to sit with the Tibetans across town, but was thankful to be sitting in a black robe this morning. I was thankful for the rice gruel breakfast. Right after we eat, there is one more chant before tea, and with full bellies, we always sound louder. Of course, Robert wasn’t there this morning, but that’s okay.

This place isn’t about Robert. He’s the teacher, and we deal with him, and I’ll find a new one when I’m ready to leave this lay life, but for now, I’m thankful for this sangha. It’s an opportunity for me to give. And even if what that monk said was true, Robert has never told me anything beyond offending. He teaches Zazen and work practice, and that’s good enough for me right now. He doesn’t know shit about the Tathagata, but he provides a place for us to practice.

Uchiyama, Deshimaru’s dharma brother:
"Right from the start you have to know clearly that no master is perfect: Any master is just a human being. What is important is your own practice, which has to consist of following the imperfect master as perfectly as possible. If you follow your master in this way, than this practice is the basis on which you can follow yourself."

7th step work

2009-02-05T19:57:00.000-08:00

After compiling a list of character defects, I am now bound to turn these over to my higher power for removal.

That’s complicated for a Zen Buddhist.

The simple part was identifying that as long as my higher power isn’t me, I’m nearer to conscious contact. And I do believe. I’m not sure what God looks like, but I think it’s manifested in the three treasures. When I think of God, I think of prostrations to all beings in the ten directions. When I feel conscious contact, it’s the opposite feeling of when I feel less than, feel damaged. I feel God when I feel loved out of the blue. Love has a lot to do with why I practice Zen. The ability to feel love has been a merit I hesitate to reveal, lest it vanish in my pursuit.

So there is an A.A prayer that doesn’t seem to work. And then I live in a temple and have a whole room that seems suitable for this task. But I guess I’m having a hard time in asking for something I don’t believe can happen. I can make the leap and believe in a “God” but to think that I can be rid of character defects? It feels sacrilegious. There is nothing to gain, so therefore nothing to pursue. But what about to lose?

Insides are outsides, outsides are insides. As much as I won’t be able to keep every minute of drama out of my life, I won’t be able to “remove” defects.

How about “observe” behaviors?

Dear God, please let me observe my behaviors. And…not fixate on them.

This isn’t something Robert would want to talk about. He was an A.A for 7 years, met Deshimaru and started drinking again. No wonder I ended up in this temple.

I think I’ll try telepathy. I’ll stare at a church, a cross, or the alter in our zendo, and I’ll stare these things away.

I do love the pali refuge chant, preceded by confessing karma.
I think I’ll invent a ceremony. It will start with the confession chant, end with prostrations, and in-between will be incense and silent gut-spilling.

I am not this batch of mud.

2009-02-02T17:10:00.000-08:00

Sho Myo.
Sho means “way of life,” and “the means of existence.” Right practice of the Way requires a regular, well-ordered, well-considered life and respect of duty…Concentrate on what you have to do with mushotoku mind, generous and altruistic.
-Deshimaru, on the eight fold path

The first job I ever had was cutting grass for an old Italian lady up the hill. I showed up once a week, headphones on, and sometimes I cut the grass and sometimes I cleaned out her basement. I remember cleaning her drainage ditches. At 11 years old, I made more money than I could spend on ice cream and movie rentals, so I spent some on Star Wars’ toys, models, and drawing supplies.

But I knew I only really needed the ice cream and the movie rentals. I bought the other stuff because I had no concept of saving. Save for what? The money was rolling in.
Eventually I quit. Ice cream and movies got boring. I just couldn’t think of anything to do with my money and I couldn’t think why anyone would want a job if they didn’t want money.
Around 15, I wanted money again. I wanted a car, I wanted tattoos, I wanted CDs, a girlfriend, and all of this meant I needed a job. After a 3 month stint in the fast food business, and another in a nursing home, I settled into a laborer position for a mason crew. In the beginning, I hated this job more than the previous two. You had to wake up early, it was an exhausting 12 hour day, and I worked with people who were toxic in a lot of ways. The worst part was how they were also nurturing me with swear words and beer cans, and they seemed impervious to the sun, the heavy concrete blocks, and to the beer. I really mean nurturing, too. There was much written on the wrinkled foreheads and marred hands of masons.

Whenever I failed on the job, I would revert to my resentments. It would start: They’re drunks. They’re red necks. They’re racist republicans. They don’t get me. I’m Buddhist. I’m a writer. I’ll be something. I’m not this fucking pail of mud.

On and on it went, for seven years. And I’d leave for college, swear never to be back. My parents bought me a beautiful Carhart for Christmas, which I took as an insult, and returned for a Navy issued pea coat; I figured that would lend some literary poise. I left this job in the spring of 2007, so I could go help the world and “use” my degree.

They were the crabs in the barrel.

I couldn’t see how laying stone or brick helped anyone. Listening to NPR about the teacher crisis in New Orleans, I reckoned I could really do some good there. I figured that right livelihood meant going into the places no one wanted to go.

As soon as I heard that term, right livelihood, my mind started slicing and dicing. Top three most altruistic choices were: Doctor, teacher, or priest. This was my top three. Therapist, social worker, and peace corps volunteer were next. But a mason? Spending one’s days laying brick in the sun while listening to the Knack’s My Shirona? Drinking beer and prattling on about guns, sex, and trucks? This could never, ever, be right livelihood.
Being a dogsled handler in Alaska couldn’t be it. Nor a writer. And eventually, after a year of teaching, that couldn’t be right livelihood either. Below the surface of everything was corruption, greed, and evil.

So work took a backseat to Zen practice. My relationship took a backseat too, right next to all the other delusions. Eventually, I moved into the temple to dwell in luminosity.

Then those black rakusu started looking so dark. And egos abounded. And everyone was way off, especially my teacher. I used to skip work to do samu at the temple. But where was I going to go when I skipped samu?

Uh, the bar. A girl’s house. My parents’ house.

I know, it all seems so clear, but I had to quit drinking to see anything at all.

A fellow blogger posted a story about Katagiri that really struck a chord. Really told my story. After reading civil disobedience, I wasn’t going to work hard ever again. But reading Dosho’s post really opened up a line of stirrings.

For one, I had actually skipped work on the day he posted. Secondly, I was preparing for my debut as tenzo. Thirdly, I am editing Deshimaru’s book on the Hannya Shingyo, where I found the epigraph to this post. The word “duty” stuck with me. Duty. Like my dad and the marines.
Deshimaru was an advocate of lay practice, and my teacher emphasizes this today. A real bodhisattva should have his feet in the mud of the world at all times. We’re not supposed to seek refuge in a hermitage or a monastery.

But who do I listen to? I still want to stay in a monastery.

I guess I listened to Dosho, and to Dogen, and to myself, when I really feel like I’m taking advantage of the system I work in. It’s real test to work in an indecent environment and remain upright. I have failed many times, and I see the marks of that failure on my students’ faces when they ask me where I’ve been.

Yeah, I have a drinking problem, but when I wasn’t drunk, I was skipping work because I didn’t care. I couldn’t see the point. I wanted to live in the problem, not the solution. Despite my efforts, it still happens.

I am trying to join my extended sangha in the work-a-day world. I drug myself today. I’m done trying to debate whether or not I am an English teacher; I am. I am those lesson plans. I am that chalk board. I am the failed lesson plans. I am the broken chalk board, or the chalk board that says, “Fuck Mr. Flyingpig.”

2009-02-01T06:25:00.000-08:00

I was a puddle on my mat. Ki-Ki prattled on about lifted knee caps and relaxed faces in a ceaseless stream of directions for each pose. Bikram always feels like swimming laps in a hot tub, and every once in a while becoming stuck in the filter. Ki-Ki’s directions are always very Zen like, urging us to focus, be in the moment, but I was thinking about our temple’s 25th anniversary and my Roshi’s 76th birthday.

As I rode to my father’s house, I thought about Robert and whether or not he’s a true teacher. You know, whether or not he’s a “master.” It takes courage for me to think about these things because I’ve dedicated the last two years to this temple and this teacher. And the facts are not reassuring. Sometimes I feel like I’ve fallen into a rogue lineage.

Kodo Sawaki did not give Deshimaru dharma transmission. Maybe he died before he could, but I’ve heard that’s not entirely the case. Deshimaru was a bit rough and tumble. By all accounts, I know that he drank, smoked, and did his fair share of womanizing. I’ve also heard that the Paris dojos could get a little out of control- lots of sex, lots of partying, and too much drama. Deshimaru went to the Soto-Shu to be formally recognized as a teacher.
And Deshimaru didn’t give Robert dharma transmission. Robert also went to the Soto-Shu, after studying with Deshimaru for 20 years.

Is the Soto-Shu a quik shop of Zen certification?

By the time I got to my Dad’s house, I didn’t get it, didn’t want to get it, and settled that Robert is turning 76, has been practicing Zen for 36 years, and he hasn’t told me to jump off any bridges. He’s told me to eat my vegetables, sit up straight, and to ride one horse without looking back. He’s my teacher, and he needed a birthday cake, and I didn’t know what kind he wanted, and that’s what I should be thinking about.

Wedding cake. Chocolate cake. No, I like chocolate cake. Healthy cake? Carrot Cake! I know it’s not really healthy, but there is a pound of carrots in one double layer carrot cake. And about 3 cups of sugar when you count the cream cheese icing. What really made this carrot cake special was the lemon zest/juice in the icing. Its tangy taste produced a thirst for more and more of it.
The cakes were done by 1 am and I woke up at 7am to start the icing. By the time I was done garnishing, it was 11. By the time I got back to the temple and went over the grocery list with Jeff, it was 12. After visiting the farmer’s market, whole foods, and a Middle Eastern place, it was 1:40pm. Jeff was driving like a maniac and I was stricken stiff with the idea that if I could just keep myself from being jostled around, I could keep my brains from escaping if we crashed. I became the seat belt.

2:00PM, the party was at 4:00PM, and my helpers forgot to come. Here was my menu: Humus, Bruschetta, and 40 Vietnamese spring rolls. Jeff complained that there wasn’t any meat, so I put some Sangha members on that task, because I don’t cook meat. You know how it’s ironic that most meat eaters don’t hunt? Well, this one doesn’t even want to microwave a piece of flesh. However, if you offer me an oyster po-boy, sure enough, I’ll get down on that.
I started the spring rolls first. I had a punch bowl full of cabbage, green onions, bean sprouts, rice noodles, and carrots. Each roll would get a couple slices of avocado.

Roll. Roll is the operative word.

My first “roll” looked like a membrane with bright guts. It looked like a kombucha fetus. And it was 2:10. I had 39 to make.

After making a few “Spring Burritos” I had a great idea. Why don’t I follow some directions? Oh, it says 2 table spoons, not two handfulls of filling. This changed everything, and I was on my way.

Help arrived. Elliot first, who brought shrimp cocktail. Then Jeff, who brought Zen.
Elliot was making the brucshetta, toasting slices of baguettes in the oven. Jeff looked in and said, “Is someone watching these?”
“I just put them in.” Elliot said.
“How toasty do you want them?”
“Oh, lightly browned.”
“Flyingpig, how toasty do you want them?” Jeff said.
“Um, until you can hear them being poured into a bowl.” I said.
And that was an awkward exchange, as Jeff tried to assert that I was Tenzo. He kind of threw his hands up and asked what the Tenzo wanted. Both of these guys are older and have been practicing longer. I wanted to say, “The Tenzo wants you to touch your nose, then use your brain and do what needs to be done.” Instead, I told Jeff to make the humus. Then his wife volunteered, and I asked her to make the peanut sauce. I never moved from my spring roll assembly line- Dip the rice paper, a small hand full of filling, one slice of avocado, tuck-tuck, tighten, roll.

By 4:30pm, the food was on the table and people were showing up. There was a pile of dishes. I jumped in. Jeff took me aside and said, “You’re the Tenzo, let others do that. Survey the scene. What needs to be done?”

I turned on the track lights and arranged some food and watched people wash dishes I wanted to wash. At this dojo, people treat the residents like golden children. For many who come to practice here, we’re some kind of symbol, though we mostly keep the lights on, the floor swept, and the gongs going. I feel uncomfortable because of conversations like this:

A guy pulled me aside and whispered about Robert:
“So Robert’s…” And he wanted to say something about enlightenment, but instead made all kinds of strange gestures with his eyebrows.
“The teacher. The Roshi.”
“And how do you become that?”
“Another teacher recognizes you as ready to teach.”
“And your position here?”
“I’m a student.”

At that, he looked kind of confused. Because he’s a student. And I’m a student. Anyway, aside from some others that really know me, and have been here longer, most people who come in here won’t really interact with me. You know, I’m allowed to date now, but I doubt if that’s ever going to happen, because as soon as people see where I live, they take a step back. I figure they think one of two things: I’m too pious, or I’m in a cult.

So I wanted to hide in those dishes, but Jeff had a lot to teach me, if I would let him. Next lesson: How to sing happy birthday to a Roshi who upon finding out that we were calling a birthday party for him diverted the attention to the founding of our temple. And I knew, knew, knew, with every last scintilla of force in the universe, he didn’t want a friggin’ song and some candles. But Jeff prompted me.

I recruited some other core members that Robert would recognize to sing back up in the second line. I cut the cake, lit the candles, and started singing. He was trapped on the couch, talking about some photos with some newcomers. He blew the candle out, said thanks, and handed the cake back. Turns out, he doesn’t like cake at all. His wife liked it though.

John Coltrane, Robert’s favorite, played in the background. People were starting to filter out. I sat at the coffee table, tired and relieved. There were picture Albums that started in the 70s, pictures of Deshimaru dedicating bells, dedicating temples, kissing pretty girls on the cheek. Robert sat down and Jeff joined us. Robert started pointing out his shadows, and naming people we might know in the pictures. Bucolic and bohemian, it was nothing like our temple. There were fields and horses, naked monks and nuns (we still use that term) bathing in streams, pictures of talent shows where everyone looked a little like David Bowie- a little bit like a man, a little bit like a woman.

And then there was this one picture of a beautiful woman, and I saw Robert pause, and then he explained. “Great gal, she could sing, could dance, but you know what she did? After that sesshin, she went back to Paris and got all dressed up. She went sat in this apartment, next to the dojo, where monks lived, poured gasoline all over herself and set herself on fire.”
And then we got into Robert’s students.

He kept pointing- “He’s dead, bone cancer. He jumped off a bridge. This guy went to Brooklyn, where they didn’t think much of him, and he jumped. This one had aids, died. This guy shot himself. I’ve got a great influence on these guys, huh?”

Again, he’s never asked me to jump off a bridge.

And then he paused on his “puddy cat.”

“Oh, this poor guy, he ate morning glories. Really horrible. Paralyzed, and man, he suffered.”
That was the end. He gave us hugs, said thank you, and left. A couple people hung around and drank. Jeff and I relaxed, he with a glass of wine, me with a cup of chamomile tea. We joked about the friction, about Robert.

Robert. I think he carries a lot of regret about becoming a teacher. He says Deshimaru asked him to teach, and he’s just following orders now. He’d rather teach cats and plants.
Jeff said, “He treats us like plants. Sprinkles a little here, and a little there. He’s not trying to get immediate results.”

I thought about all the monks he used to live here, who have scattered. I thought about how there are only five of us who keep this place running. And I thought about why I always want to leave.

Robert is never going to give intellectual candy. He doesn’t say things to sound eloquent or Zen. Instead of considering what his words look like, he considers what effect they’ll have on his students. He can seem erratic. I see him treat other students so gently, while I feel he is tough on me.

I don’t trust him exactly, and maybe I am a little afraid of him. I think that’s what keeps me poking around. And I don’t mind the effect; I stand up straighter and strive.

Does the Roshi like carrot cake?

2009-01-30T22:29:00.000-08:00

What kind of birthday cake does a Roshi want? I made him a carrot.

Actually, I made two, double layer, 8 inch carrot cakes. The last two are baking and will be done in half an hour.

I used a kitchen aid mixer cook book. I think this is the first cake I've made from scratch.

Frustrated, I struggled to make good time. I started baking these cakes at 9pm and it's going for 1am, and I haven't made the icing. I expected to be good at baking.

My dad was a marine for 21 years and his M.O.S was cooking. He's an accomplished baker, trained at Johnson and Wales. He whips up gourmet goodies on a whim. No matter how late it is on a saturday night, he bakes his muffins for Sunday mass. I expected some of that experience to rub off on me.

Am I trying too hard to make this Sangha party successful?

The genmai was watery today.

2009-01-30T14:57:00.000-08:00

I struggle to be the teacher I want to be because of the teacher I need to be right now.

I'm surviving in the New Orleans Recovery School District where my classroom management consists guerilla tactics. There is no discipline program-there are reactionary measures, but there is no discipline. We attempt positive behavior support, but that consists of what the teachers can afford, and in a district that doesn’t pay you on time (or like this week-the wrong salary), that’s not much.

I know that when I build resentments, I shut down. When I start noticing how indecent everyone is, my Bodhisattva attitude goes right out of the window, and instead of helping, I start thinking- what is help? Am I helping? Could I possibly help?

The long answer to that is: no. I often feel like I’m a storm trooper. I work for a for-profit charter that is making money off of the poor, while pushing a state standardized test that I see de-skilling our work force, let alone depriving citizens from a real education. I can see why one doesn’t abandon the Deathstar- it’s because you’re so dizzy, so caught up in the chaos, you can’t help yourself, let alone others. I can’t fight the system while I teach for an extended school day with no planning. So whether or not I am aiding in this debauchery is a dilemma for me.
But the short answer to that is: yes. I know when I’m doing wrong. Like when I don’t turn in my lesson plans, when I don’t grade my papers in a timely fashion, when I take advantage of the poorly planned schedule, or go off on a child. I’ve crushed as many students as I’ve inspired. I walk in everyday with the notion of keeping it undercontrol, but when you’ve been spit on, or told off, or directly insulted, it’s tough.

I’m better than I was; I’ve only fought two students this year, and hit one in the head with a book. This may sound shocking, but last year a student was arrested while waiting in the parking lot with a lead pipe. Last year, I screamed myself hoarse. Last year, I cried myself out of the classroom while kids called me a "pussy."

This must sound horrible. The fights need explanation, but what can I say? I was attacked and defended myself. My kids are big. Overage. They outnumber me. I’m white, short, and everyone thinks I’m gay. They’ve been thinking I was going to quit since the day I walked in. So when they put their hands on me, I strike back. I’ve only been in two fights this year because I rear naked choked one student and arm bared another. (Of school grounds-in both cases, I was surrounded by adolecents who know no fear and threatened to take my bike) No one wants a shot at the title. I’ve never struck anyone, thanks to Jiu-jitsu.
The book slipped out of my hand in the middle of a rant and hit a student in his head during class.

Of course, I’ve thought long and hard about how I attracted this action. I was really violent all through my youth. The son of a Marine and Sicilian mother, who believes she’s a gangster, who’s own mother was stabbed by her husband, my grand father.
Can I get a, "All my ancient twisted karma..." ?
But I’m a path...I claim progress, not perfection.

And the worst part is, sometimes, in the back of my mind, I’m thinking: "I don’t need this job. I live at a temple, and I know I can live at other ones, and I don’t need this world."
Which is totally contradictory to what I believe a Bodhisattva should be. Also, my teacher discourages "professional monks", arguing that we need to be out in the chaos. He is hesitant to ordain anyone, and I know I’m not ready anyway.

When I say that I want to be priest or a monk, I mean to say that I love the way and the three treasures, that I want to give my life to preserving these things, learning about these things, and that by wearing a kesa, I’m asking for help. I know that struggle is good, I know that I’m right where I need to be and I’m not quitting. I’ve been doing it for two years, and I’m still sitting, still observing. But eventually, I’ll leave this temple and find another teacher. This teacher will strengthen your hara, but neglects the mind and the heart. I’m still giving him a chance and hearing him out, but I don’t think it’s a good match.
But for now, I’ve committed to learning how to teach. It’s a daily struggle, and I’m heartbroken more than inspired. Things don’t always go my way. That’s a tough for me to accept. I’m uncomfortable, like those tough days of zazen, when your knees feel like they’re going to explode.

But I don’t ring my own gong.

I will go to work, I will go to work, I will go to work.

2009-01-29T13:58:00.000-08:00

I went to work.

I'm done being vague- who's going to find me out? Maybe I want to be found. After reading the last few posts, I realized I'm protecting the organizations I belong to. And who knows, maybe there is nothing to protect.

I have three lives right now- I'm a teacher in the New Orleans Recovery School District, I'm a resident at the New Orleans Zen Temple, and I'm in A.A. I've been teaching for almost two years, at the temple just as long (as a resident,5 months), and sober for three months. When I'm not grading papers, sitting zazen or doing samu, or working the 12 steps, I like to take a Bikram yoga class. I'm also studying for the GRE, which I'm not completely sure is worthwhile, but since my students are so test focused, I wanted to join them in their anxiety. It's not the same though, because my studying is going well and I don't expect to do well on math. And there are no stakes. My anxiety comes from elsewhere.

For instance, my Roshi's 76th birthday party (also the anniversary of our temple). Robert's senior student put me in charge. I'm the 2nd and last resident, which bumps me ahead of some other lay practitioners who have been around longer. Anyway, I can't imagine I'll make anything Robert will like.

I remember my jukai, last year. Jeff prepared a feast: rack of lamb, asparagus, roasted potatoes, and choice wines and cheeses. We're a Deshimaru lineage and Robert lived in France with him for at least 20 years. So not only do we break a lot of "rules" by eating meat, smoking, and drinking, but we do it well, with class and style.

Despite what I thought was a grand meal, Robert delivered a scathing review.

My Zen teacher is a surly guy who thinks with his kyosaku. I like him, but I'm not sure how far I'll go with him. He's fine for right now.

I don't drink anymore, so Jeff is in charge of beverages. I also don't prepare meat; I'm not a vegetarian, as I take what's in my bowl, or on the menu, but I don't cook with meat. I was vegan when I came to New Orleans, but it didn't last long.

So here is my menu of light fare: Humus, vegetables/pita, spring rolls, egg rolls(with pork!), and bruchetta w/toasted baguette slices.

I made a practice batch of egg rolls last night. The sauce was a little off and the filling was a little bland.

I think this is my debut as tenzo. I'll try and serve the supreme meal.

10 Original Dharma Heirs

2009-01-28T09:57:00.000-08:00

I left work early yesterday. I was sitting in my office, staring at curriculum, and the sun was so bright outside. So I left, went and sat in the park, near the water, near the geese.

I woke up today, sat zazen, but could not breath. I couldn't keep my legs together either. I felt nauseous. My head pounded. After ceremony, we had our breakfast ceremony, and the genmai was too thick, too hot, and I was the one who prepared it. It wasn't my turn and I woke up late, but someone must have woke up even later, because he never made it to the temple.

After breakfast, my head still hurt, and I was feeling grey. I called in and said my eyeballs hurt. I didn't say that much, but I said I didn't feel well. I skip a lot of work.

Jeff and I talked about our teacher. I walked into the office the other day and said hello, how was your day, and he responded, "Don't bother me with that shit, I'm busy."

I should have said, "What are you doing here? Don't you have cats to feed?"

I just walked away. At 76 years old, you're off the hook.

I'm spending my day looking at other zen temples. Thinking about why I want to be a priest. Also thinking about why I want to go back to school. Thinking about why I want and if any of it makes sense.

I've always wanted to write. I don't mean publish; I mean I want to sit quietly and write.

Since I've started to practice Zen, I have thought about becoming a priest; I don't mean I want to teach, but I want to wear the kesa and follow the way.

These are the two things I can do. This is what I'm good for, meaning, I'll show up on time and try really hard to do a good job. Getting mixed up in teaching was bad for the universe. My heart's not in it. Never was.

I felt obligated.

I'm also editing a book for the temple. If I ever disclose where I am and who my teacher is, maybe I'll name it. I'll be vague for now, as to not slander the sangha.

Zen Master Came to Town.

2009-01-25T18:02:00.000-08:00

Roshi came today. I was standing at the door of the zendo, waiting to hit the han, and there he was, looking wan, and dressed in black. I shook his hand and didn't say a word. Jeff, the other zen temple resident, looked like he saw his own wraith. Of course, my roll down on the wood was filled with nervous energy.

Durning zazen, I kept thinking- did I leave my cellphone on? Then I heard his familar voice during kusen, "Head presses the sky." So I forgot about it.

After ceremony, he mimicked our weak chanting and told us to be louder. He told me I played the mukugyo too fast. During mundo, I asked how we are supposed to take refuge in the three treasures and he told me that I sit on my Zafu crooked.

Perfect. Afterward, I felt inspired by his presence. I started editing our edition of Deshimaru's Hannya Shingyo. I watched Empire Strikes Back. I melted choclate chips and peanutbutter and mixed it with cereal.

Now I'll study for the GRE and get ready for bed.

I think I need a Shuso, or I'm going to spend my time in this temple like a 12 year old kid without parents.