Oh, and this shit-stick koan gives me a good belly laugh!
Robert Aitken’s teacher in the Zen path was Koun Yamada, one of the great Zen masters of the twentieth century and the author of a commentary on Zen koans called The Gateless Gate. In his discussion of a koan called “Tozan’s Sixty Blows,” Yamada tells the story of the ancient Zen master Bokushi, who was known for his severe approach. If a student wasn’t ready to receive the teachings, Bokushi would shove him out the door and slam it. One day, Bokushi was pushing his student Unmon out the door and Unmon’s leg got caught and broke. Yamada writes:
“Ouch!” he cried, and in that instant Unmon suddenly attained great enlightenment. Just “Ouch!,” nothing else, no subject or object, neither relative nor absolute, just “Ouch!” This was Unmon’s great enlightenment.
This story always inspires me. It’s a vivid reminder that bringing undivided attention to the pain in our bodies or in our minds just might shock us into awakening — or at least give us a taste of it. No subject or object. Just life as it is, chronic illness and all.
Don’t-Know Mind
Many Zen koans begin by posing a question:
“If you say there is no self, who is saying that?”
“Does a dog have Buddha nature?”
“What is the self?”
These koans used to frustrate me. Now I treat them as questions without answers. To put a different spin on “No self, no problem,” I respond to these koans with “No answer, no problem.” I used to react with anxiety and with anger to the question of whether I’ll ever get over this mysterious illness. Now I try to treat it as a koan. “Will I get well?” — four words and a question mark, arising in the mind, with no answer. Treating it as a koan changes my relationship to this question, which arises periodically whether I want it to or not. It allows me to hold it more lightly and wait for it to pass on through the mind.
“Will this antiviral cure me?” When I’d start a new treatment, attachment to the outcome came right along with popping the new pill. Now I try to treat the question of whether a treatment will cure or even help me as a koan — a question without an answer. The Korean Zen master Seung Sahn called this keeping a “Don’t-Know Mind.”
Don’t-Know Mind is a major survival tool for me. During that period of several sleepless nights when I began to spin stressful stories about what it would be like if I couldn’t sleep ever again, I’d stop and remember Seung Sahn’s Don’t-Know Mind. As I approached bedtime, I’d silently say, “I don’t know if I’ll sleep or not, so I won’t make an assumption one way or the other.” That thought would calm me and soon after beginning to practice with it, I again started to sleep. I got through those difficult days by keeping a Don’t-Know Mind and by using the practice described in chapter 10 — consciously moving the mind from the unpleasant physical sensation that accompanies a body deprived of sleep to the cultivation of one of the sublime states.
Thich Nhat Hanh comes at this Zen view of life from a different angle. He encourages us to examine each thought or precede each action with the reflection, “Am I sure?” This is a powerful teaching since attachment to views and opinions is such a source of suffering. I discovered the value of Thich Nhat Hanh’s teaching many years before becoming sick. It started in the most mundane of settings — in front of a counter at a department store along with several other people, as I waited to buy a pair of pants. The clerk looked up and said, “Who’s next?” A woman on my right stepped forward. I was about to say politely, “Excuse me, but I was here first,” when Thich Nhat Hanh’s “Am I sure?” popped into my mind, and so I let the other woman go ahead of me. I was 99 percent sure I was first, but allowing the other woman to check out before me had the most wonderful effect. It became an act of generosity to her, not only because she’d get out of the store before I would but also because I may have saved her from the embarrassment of mistakenly thinking it was her turn to go to the register. And, of course, in the end, was I 100 percent sure I was there first? No, just 99 percent sure.
That mundane setting planted the seed for a practice that is central to my life as a chronically ill person.
“This doctor doesn’t want to treat me.” Am I sure? Maybe he’s terribly overbooked today.
“This friend doesn’t care about me anymore.” Am I sure? Maybe her attention has to be focused on her family or on problems at work.
“I’ll never get better.” Am I sure?
“I’m not leading a productive life anymore.” Am I sure?
I have used Thich Nhat Hanh’s three short words hundreds of times to let go of assumptions and opinions, an act that allows the world to unfold as it will. I find this practice works particularly well in conjunction with Byron Katie’s method for investigating the validity of our thoughts.
The Poetry of Zen
Zen teachings tend to be short and to the point. In addition to koans, they often take the form of gathas (short verses reminding us to be mindful) and haiku. The distinctive style and rhythms of these writing forms are poetic to the ear. They can be insightful, they can be soothing, and they too can make us chuckle.
Gathas help us dwell in the present moment as we engage in tasks of everyday living. In his book of gathas, Present Moment Wonderful Moment, Thich Nhat Hanh says that gathas are “exercises in both meditation and poetry.” Here’s his gatha for washing our feet:
Peace and joy in each toe —
my own peace and joy.
And his gatha for throwing out the garbage:
In the garbage I see a rose.
In the rose, I see the garbage.
Everything is in transformation.
Even permanence is impermanent.
In my early years of Buddhist practice, when mindfulness of the present moment was new to me, I carried this little gem of a book everywhere.
I also love a book of gathas called The Dragon Who Never Sleeps, by Robert Aitken. His gathas are indeed exercises in meditation and poetry. Many of them also make me laugh. Poetic mindfulness plus a laugh — great medicine for the chronically ill.
Here’s a sampling of Aitken’s gathas:
When wayward thoughts are persistent
I vow with all beings
To imagine that even the Buddha
Had silly ideas sometimes.
When traffic is bumper to bumper
I vow with all beings
To move when the world starts moving
and rest when it pauses again.
Raking the leaves from my yard
I vow with all beings
To compost extraneous thoughts
And cultivate beans of the Tao.
Haiku is a form of Japanese poetry that follows a set structure. They are a favorite form of expression for Zen masters and Zen students. My favorite haiku master is the eighteenth-century poet Kobayashi Issa. He lost his mother at the tender age of two and lost three of his own children when they were infants. And yet the haiku he wrote — especially about little creatures — never fail to make me smile:
Climb Mount Fuji,
O snail,
but slowly, slowly.
Mosquito at my ear,
does it think
I’m deaf?
I’m going out,
flies, so relax —
make love.
I am so moved by how this man, whose life was filled with personal tragedy, could write poems of such careful observation, of such creativity, and often of such unbridled joy. I’ll close with a haiku from Issa that illustrates all three ways in which “Zen helps”:
The world of dew
is the world of dew
And yet, and yet . . .
Issa’s poetic use of words enables me to see the world through new eyes — eyes that keep a Don’t-Know Mind. “Dew is dew,” he appears to assert, but the last line of the haiku tells me that nothing is certain. The fleeting nature of dew is such that almost as soon as we see it, it changes into something else. Finally, the last line of the haiku s
hocks me out of the mind groove that’s worn into my consciousness — that groove of the seemingly fixed identity: sick person. And so I could change Issa’s words to:
A sick person
is a sick person
And yet, and yet . . .
Yes, Zen helps.
Balancing Community and Isolation
16
Communicating with Care
Take care not to: talk too much talk too fast speak grandly of enlightenment speak in an obnoxious manner yell at children ignore the people to whom you are speaking speak of things of which you have no knowledge
— RYOKAN, FROM “MY PRECEPTS”
EVEN THOUGH BEING chronically ill means spending a lot of time alone — which is the subject of the next chapter — those of us who struggle with our health still communicate with others, just like everyone else. And many of the actions that cause the greatest suffering or bring about the greatest benefit in our lives are centered on one part of the body: the mouth. Just as the Buddha taught us that we create worlds with our mind, we also create worlds with our speech, so it is important to take great care in how we use it. For the chronically ill, speech — including letters, email, texting, and other written messages — can be supportive and nourishing or increase isolation and alienation.
According to the Buddha, wise speech is endowed with five qualities. It is truthful, spoken with good will, spoken beneficially, spoken affectionately, and spoken at the right time. These are usually shortened to three considerations: speak only when what you have to say is true, kind, and helpful.
It’s hard to always be true, kind, and helpful in our speech, but we can undertake wise speech as a practice by setting the intention to keep those three qualities in mind before we open our mouths. Even the Zen poet Ryokan in the epigraph that opens this chapter precedes his list of precepts regarding speech with the gentle phrase, “Take care not to . . .” I know that, now and then, I won’t speak truthfully and I’ll also speak unkindly or in an unhelpful manner. But because I’ve set the intention to practice wise speech, as opposed to making it a pass/fail commandment, I can forgive myself when I come up short. Then I can consider how I might communicate more skillfully — and start anew. Practice is the operative word. With practice, we can make it a habit to put our words through the filter of true, kind, and helpful before we speak out loud — or click Send.
I’ve found that it’s often easy to meet two of the criteria, but not all three. For example, it may be true that a friend of yours hasn’t been in touch for a month, but would it be helpful to confront him or her about it? Before sending a “Why haven’t you been in touch?” email, if you replace the intention to confront with the intention to inquire (“How are you doing?”), the communication might become kind and helpful. You may discover that the friend hasn’t been in touch because he or she is having work or family problems, and this information gives you the opportunity to respond with compassion and support rather than focusing on your own desires and disappointments.
After becoming chronically ill, I faced an unexpected challenge in practicing wise speech. I assumed that anyone who cared about me would want to know, in detail, everything about the illness and my attempted treatments. For the first five years, after every appointment with a new specialist or after starting a new treatment, I’d write a long, detailed email, which I would then send to Jamal and Mara and a friend or two. In response, I’d typically get a few supportive sentences.
Not only did I assume that those to whom I was closest wanted to know every detail about my illness, but I now believe that I was also trying to make sure they realized just how sick I was. These detailed descriptions passed the Buddha’s test of truthfulness, but in sending them out, I wasn’t stopping to reflect on whether they were kind and helpful to those receiving them. Yes, I was sick, but everyone’s life has its share of unpleasant experiences — they’re right in that list from the first noble truth — and I wasn’t speaking wisely when I failed to consider this. If Jamal was in the midst of a painful lower back flare or if Mara was overly busy with the many activities she juggles each day, surely it’s neither kind nor helpful to ask them to read and respond in kind to a two-page email that’s loaded with medical jargon and a detailed account of my symptoms. I was chronically ill for five years before it dawned on me that I needed to reevaluate whether I was communicating with care in regard to my illness.
When I looked more deeply, I saw that my relationship with family and friends would be richer and more enjoyable for all of us if I didn’t always talk about my health. Included in the notion of wise speech is what the Buddha called noble silence — knowing when not to speak. So not only did I stop describing my experience with every new specialist and every new treatment, but I also looked for things to talk about with family and friends that would bring interest and joy to our relationships. Now I’m much more likely to ask about their lives instead of talking about my illness.
One time, for example, when I had a cold — “sick upon sick” I call it — I phoned Jamal on a Sunday to say hello. I opened my mouth with the intention to tell him about the cold but caught myself and, instead, asked him what he was up to. We chatted for a half-hour and I never mentioned the cold. I hung up, feeling great about our conversation. It had lifted my spirits and I hope it lifted his.
I no longer even share with Tony the details of every treatment — those to alleviate symptoms, or to help me sleep, or for the long-shot cure. I decided that I didn’t want my relationship with him to be only about the illness. He’s exposed to it every day as it is. Even when he’s out of town, he checks in with me regularly. If I sat him down each day to analyze my symptoms, he’d listen. But unless I need feedback or advice, sharing with Tony the details of every symptom and response to a treatment would be neither kind nor helpful, even though it would meet the truthfulness test.
Noble silence doesn’t spare Tony from listening during my moments of greater need — the occasional two A.M. sob-soaked outpouring of frustration or the two P.M. poor-me rant as I complain about things I can no longer do. Tony never fails to comfort me when these meltdowns occur. He’s the most unselfish person I know.
When it comes to communicating with others, the chronically ill have to find a good balance. On the one hand, if we share with friends and family every detail of our illness, including any treatment we’re trying or have tried, they may be overwhelmed. On the other hand, not talking to them means we’re not sharing a major part of our lives. This increases our sense of isolation, and that doesn’t feel good. Not a day goes by without this illness impacting my life in some way. Being able to talk to friends or family members about it brings me closer to them. That said, I don’t want to overwhelm them, because I know they have problems of their own. This need to keep assessing what to share and what not to share with others can be exhausting. No wonder I mentioned in an earlier chapter that being chronically ill can feel like a full-time job!
Chatting
In one source, when asked what constitutes wise speech, the Buddha said to practice abstaining from lying, divisive speech, abusive speech, and idle chatter. The first three are obvious, but the last one is more problematic. The Buddha cautioned against idle chatter, not only because it often includes vicious gossip but also because idle chatter — frivolous and meaningless speech — is a distraction from truly important matters such as cultivating compassion and mindfulness. In addition, engaging in frivolous talk, even innocent gossip, can give rise to envy and other mental states that are a source of suffering. Having acknowledged the pitfalls of idle chatter, now I must confess: since becoming chronically ill, it’s the very type of speech I miss the most. Sometimes I long to feel healthy enough to spend the evening idly chatting away, exchanging trivial anecdotes with family and friends. Chatting can be a way to share a warm exchange, and it can lighten the burden of always focusing on serious matters.
I’m sure that caregivers also wish they had the luxury to idly chat with others m
ore often. Tony and I live in a small town where he was once an elected official. It’s hard for him to go anywhere without encountering someone he knows. For example, he frequently runs into people as he’s walking down the aisles of the grocery store. They immediately ask, “How is Toni?” He’s not going to lie and tell them I’m better, so inevitably he says, “She’s about the same.” He tells me that this calculated-to-be-as-short-as-possible response is a conversation killer no matter how lightheartedly he says it. There are lots of grocery aisle topics — idle chatter though they may be — that would be fun for him to engage in: local politics, what our respective children are doing, even the weather! But my ongoing illness is the elephant in the aisle, and it’s hard to get around the beast.
No doubt other caregivers face this dilemma. Tony and I have talked about how he can work around it. He’s tried being the one to initiate the conversation by quickly asking how the other person is doing. (He reports mixed success.) And, as soon as he’s said, “She’s about the same,” he’s tried moving to a subject that’s topical and has nothing to do with our respective families. (He reports better success.)
Dividing and Abusing
Idly chatting about how your family is doing or your plans for the upcoming week is usually at worst neutral, but I think a key concern the Buddha had about idle chatter was that it can easily degrade into divisive and abusive speech. Not only can this type of speech harm others, but it can also harm the speaker.
The antonyms for divisive and abusive are unifying and cordial, respectively. When we speak cordially to others, with the intent to bring unity to the interaction, we are being kind. In this way, wise speech goes hand in hand with our cultivation of the sublime states. In addition, we are being kind to ourselves, since divisive and abusive speech gives rise to mental states such as envy, anger, and resentment, all of which are sources of mental suffering and can worsen our physical symptoms.
How to Be Sick Page 14
