In practice we become aware of having been sacrificed, and we are upset about this fact. We feel that we have been hurt, that we have been misused, that somebody has not treated us the way we should have been treated—and this is true. Though inevitable, it’s still true, and it hurts, or seems to.
The first stage is simply to become aware of the fact of having been sacrificed. The second stage is working with the feelings that come out of that awareness: our anger, our desire to get even, our desire to hurt those who have hurt us. These desires vary greatly in intensity: some are mild, some are powerful and persistent. Many therapies deal with unearthing our experiences of victimization; they differ in what to do about such experiences. In politics we seem to think we have to fight back. We can fight back, or we can do something else. But what would that be?
As we practice, we become aware of our anger about events, our desire to get even, our confusion and withdrawal and coldness; if we continue to practice (maintaining awareness, labeling our thoughts), then something different—though also painful—begins to arise in our consciousness. We begin to see not only how we have been sacrificed, but also how we have sacrificed others. This can be even more painful than our first realization. Especially when we act on our anger and resentment and try to get even, it begins to dawn on us that we are now sacrificing others, just as we have been sacrificed. As the Bible says, the evil is visited upon generation after generation. When our sorrow begins to be as great for what we do to others as for what has been done to us, our practice is maturing.
If we are committed to healing, we want to atone. What does the word atone mean? It means to be “at one.” We can’t wipe out what we have done in the past; we’ve done it. Feeling guilty about it is a way of sacrificing ourselves now because we have sacrificed others in the past. Guilt doesn’t help. Saying that one is sorry—apologizing—is not always atonement, either. Though it may be necessary, it may not be enough. Religious practice is about atonement, practicing with our lives, seeing our desire to sacrifice others because we are angry. We need to see these desires but not act on them.
The process of atonement goes on for a lifetime. That’s what human life is: endless atonement. In contrast, feeling guilty is an expression of the ego: we can feel sorry for ourselves (and a bit noble) if we get lost in our guilt. In true atonement, instead of focusing upon our guilt, we learn to focus more upon our sisters and brothers, upon our children, upon anyone who is suffering. Such efforts can be genuine, however, only if we first deal with the initial layer—which is to become aware of all our thoughts, our feelings, and our anger about what our life has been. Then we have to develop a sharp eye and a sharp sense of our present desire to sacrifice others. This is much more important: not what has been done to us, but what we are doing to others. Somebody has to stop the process. How do we stop it? We stop it when we move out of our bitter thoughts about the past and future and just begin to be here with what is, doing the best we can, noticing what we do. Once this process becomes clear, there is only one thing that we really want to do: to break that chain, to ease the suffering of the world. If one person in ten in the world were to break the chain, the whole cycle would collapse; it would not have enough strength to maintain itself.
What does this have to do with oneness and enlightenment? An enlightened person would be willing, second by second by second, to be the sacrifice that’s necessary to break the cycle of suffering. Being willing to be sacrificed doesn’t mean being “holier than thou”; that’s merely ego. The willingness to be sacrificed is simpler and more basic. As we sit, as our knowledge of ourselves and our lives increases, we get a choice about what we are going to do: we get to choose whether to sacrifice another person. For example, we get to choose whether to snap at somebody. This may seem like a little thing, but it’s not. We get to choose how we relate to the people we are close to. It’s not that we become martyrs; choosing to be a martyr is actually quite self-centered. And it’s not that we give up fun in life. (We certainly don’t want to be around people who never have fun.) The main point is, to become aware of our feelings of having been sacrificed and then to begin to see how we sacrifice others. This stage has to be clear. I often hear, “Why shouldn’t I strike back? Look at what has been done to me!”
STUDENT: Sometimes when I feel guilty, I get into a mode of selfpunishment. How can I get out of that mode?
JOKO : Self-flagellation is simply thinking. We can be aware of this thinking and sense the body tension that goes with it. We can ask ourselves what we accomplish by punishing ourselves over and over. In a way, we like self-flagellation because it is self-centered: it makes us the center of things. A guilt trip is a very self-centered activity.
STUDENT : What about being with people whom I used to be close to and don’t like anymore? Anger comes up, like a shadow. When I think of them, I have a sinking feeling.
JOKO: Just be aware of your feelings; notice what you are thinking. If there is an appropriate time when you need to be with these people, see what that is like. And don’t avoid people who bring up that anger. I’m not suggesting that you necessarily seek them out, but at least don’t avoid them.
STUDENT : I frequently feel guilty that I’m not spending enough quality time with my parents. I have watched myself do this over and over again; yet I keep doing it.
JOKO : You are measuring yourself against a mental ideal. When you are with your parents, just be with them and see what comes up. That’s all. The rest is a fantasy about how you should be. Who knows how you should be? We simply do our best, over and over and over. In time, we lose all interest in our past.
The Promise That Is Never Kept
Our human trouble arises from desire. Not all desires generate problems, however. There are two kinds of desires: demands (“I have to have it”) and preferences. Preferences are harmless; we can have as many as we want. Desire that demands to be satisfied is the problem. It’s as if we feel constantly thirsty, and to quench our thirst, we try to attach a hose to a faucet in the wall of life. We keep thinking that from this or that faucet, we will get the water we demand. As I listen to my students, everyone seems thirsty for something. We may get a bit of water here and there, but it only tantalizes us. Being really thirsty is not fun.
What are some of the faucets we try to attach ourselves to, in order to quench our thirst? One might be a job we feel that we must have. Another might be “the right partner,” or “a child who behaves as he or she should.” Fixing a personal relationship may seem to be the way to get that drink. Many of us also believe that we will finally quench our thirst if we can only fix ourselves. It makes no sense for the self to fix the self, but we persist in trying to do it. What we regard as ourselves is never quite acceptable to us. “I don’t get enough done.” “I’m not sufficiently successful.” “I’m always angry, so I’m worthless.” “I’m a poor student.” We demand countless things of ourselves and the world; almost anything can be seen as desirable, a socket we can attach ourselves to, so that we can finally get the drink we believe we need. Bookstores are full of self-help books, proclaiming various remedies for our thirst: How to Make Your Husband Love You, or How to Build Self-Esteem, and so on. Whether or not we seem to be self-assured, underneath it all we feel that there is something lacking. We feel we have to fix our life, to quench our thirst. We’ve got to get that connection, to hook up our hose to the faucet and draw that water to drink.
The problem is that nothing actually works. We begin to discover that the promise we hold out to ourselves—that somehow, somewhere, our thirst will be quenched—is never kept. I don’t mean that we never enjoy life. Much in life can be greatly enjoyed: certain relationships, certain work, certain activities. But what we want is something absolute. We want to quench our thirst permanently, so that we have all the water we want, all the time. That promise of complete satisfaction is never kept. It can’t be kept. The minute we get something we have desired, we are momentarily satisfied—and then our dissatisfact
ion rises again.
If we have been trying for years to attach our hose to this or that faucet, and each time have discovered that it wasn’t enough, there will come a moment of profound discouragement. We begin to sense that the problem is not with our failure to connect with something out there, but that nothing external can ever satisfy the thirst. This is when we are more likely to begin a serious practice. This can be an awful moment—to realize that nothing is ever going to satisfy. Perhaps we have a good job, a good relationship or family, yet we’re still thirsty—and it dawns on us that nothing really can fulfill our demands. We may even realize that changing our life—rearranging the furniture—isn’t going to work, either. That moment of despair is in fact a blessing, the real beginning.
A strange thing happens when we let go of all our expectations. We catch a glimpse of yet another faucet, one that has been invisible. We attach our hose to it and discover to our delight that water is gushing forth. We think, “I’ve got it now! I’ve got it!” And what happens? Once again, the water dries up. We have brought our demands into practice itself, and we are once again thirsty.
Practice has to be a process of endless disappointment. We have to see that everything we demand (and even get) eventually disappoints us. This discovery is our teacher. It’s why we should be careful with friends who are in trouble, not to give them sympathy by holding out false hopes and reassurances. This kind of sympathy—which is not true compassion—simply delays their learning. In a sense, the best help we can give to anybody is to hasten their disappointment. Though that sounds harsh, it’s not in fact unkind. We help others and ourselves when we begin to see that all of our usual demands are misguided. Eventually we get smart enough to anticipate our next disappointment, to know that our next effort to quench our thirst will also fail. The promise is never kept. Even with long practice, we’ll sometimes seek false solutions, but as we pursue them, we recognize their futility much more rapidly. When this acceleration occurs, our practice is bearing fruit. Good sitting inevitably promotes such acceleration. We must notice the promise that we wish to exact from other people and abandon the dream that they can quench our thirst. We must realize that such an enterprise is hopeless.
Christians call this realization the “dark night of the soul.” We’ve worn out everything we can do, and we don’t see what to do next. And so we suffer. Though it feels miserable at the time, that suffering is the turning point. Practice brings us to such fruitful suffering, and helps us to stay with it. When we do, at some point the suffering begins to transform itself, and the water begins to flow. In order for that to happen, however, all of our pretty dreams about life and practice have to go, including the belief that good practice—or indeed, anything at all—should make us happy. The promise that is never kept is based on belief systems, personally centered thoughts that keep us stuck and thirsty. We have thousands of them. It’s impossible to eliminate them all; we don’t live long enough for that. Practice does not require that we get rid of them, but simply that we see through them and recognize them as empty, as invalid.
We throw these belief systems around like rice at a wedding party. They turn up everywhere. For example, as the Christmas season approaches, we may have expectations that it will be pleasant and fun, a nice time of year. Then when the season doesn’t meet our expectations, we’re depressed and upset. In fact, Christmas will be what it will be, whether our expectations are met or not. Likewise, when we discover Zen practice, we may hold out a hope that it is going to solve our problems and make our life perfect. But Zen practice simply returns us to life as it is. Being our lives more and more is what Zen practice is about. Our lives are simply what they are, and Zen helps us to recognize that fact. The thought “If I do this practice patiently enough, everything will be different” is simply another belief system, another version of the promise that is never kept. What are some other belief systems?
STUDENT: If I work hard, I’ll make it.
JOKO: Yes, that’s a good American belief system.
STUDENT: If I’m nice to people, they won’t hurt my feelings.
JOKO: Yes, that one often disappoints us. People will be as they will be, that’s all. No guarantees.
STUDENT: I have a belief that we’re all doing the best we can.
JOKO: That’s a belief system I share.
STUDENT: If I exercise daily, I’ll be healthy.
JOKO: I just heard of a fellow who exercises regularly who tripped and shattered his hip.
STUDENT: If I lived elsewhere, I would enjoy life more.
STUDENT: If I help other people, I’m a good person.
JOKO : That’s a real pitfall, a seductive belief system that will get us in trouble. Of course, we should do what’s appropriate and necessary; in a deeper sense, however, we can’t help another person.
STUDENT: I’ve been sitting for so long, I shouldn’t be angry anymore. JOKO: If you’re angry, you’re angry.
STUDENT: If my car starts right away, my day will go smoothly.
STUDENT: If I work for a worthy cause, the world will be a better place.
STUDENT: The pain that I experience should make me a better person.
JOKO: You’re already fine as you are.
It’s useful to review our belief systems in this way, because there’s always one that we don’t see. In each belief system we hide a promise. As for Zen practice: the only promise we can count upon is that when we wake up to our lives, we’ll be freer persons. If we wake up to the way we see life and deal with it, we will slowly be freer—not necessarily happier or better, but freer.
Every unhappy person I’ve ever seen has been caught in a belief system that holds out some promise, a promise that has not been kept. Persons who have practiced well for some time are different only in the fact that they recognize this mechanism that generates unhappiness and are learning to maintain awareness of it—which is very different from trying to change it or fix it. In itself, the process is as simple as it can be; yet we human beings find it extremely difficult. We have absolutely no interest in maintaining our awareness. We want to be thinking about something else, anything else. And so our lives give us endless discouragement, the perfect gift.
When people hear this, they want to get up and leave. Yet life pursues them; their belief systems keep making them miserable. We want to hold onto our belief systems; but if we do, we suffer. In a sense, everything works perfectly. I never care whether anyone leaves practice or enters practice, it doesn’t make any difference; inevitably, the process goes on. It’s true that some people in their entire lifetime never seem to learn anything about this process. We all know some people like this. Still, the process goes on, even when they ignore it. Practice lessens our ability to ignore it; after a certain amount of practice, even if we say, “Well, I’m not going to do this practice, it’s too hard,” we can’t avoid it. After a while we just practice. Once the awareness is awakened, we can’t stuff it back in the box.
The basic concepts of practice are really quite simple. But to do the practice and to gain a genuine understanding of it takes time. Many suppose within the first two years that they clearly understand it. In fact, if we get practice straight in ten or fifteen years, we’re doing pretty well. For most, twenty years is what it takes. That’s when a practice is reasonably clear and we’re doing it as much as we can from the time we wake up in the morning to the time we go to bed at night. Then, practice even goes on all night in one’s sleep. So there’s no “quick fix.” As we continue to practice, however, it becomes more enjoyable, even fun. Our knees may ache, we may face all sorts of problems in our lives, but practice can be fun, even while it is difficult, painful, frustrating.
STUDENT: At times, it’s exhilarating. Whenever I become pain-free in practice, I start to laugh.
JOKO: Because you see something you haven’t seen before?
STUDENT: Yes, of course.
STUDENT: You suggested that in a sense, there’s no such thing as Zen practice. Could y
ou explain?
JOKO : There’s a practice of maintaining awareness; in that sense, Zen practice exists. But so long as we’re alive, there’s the question of awareness. We can’t avoid it. In that sense, there’s no way to avoid practice, or even to do it. It’s just being alive. Though there are certain formal activities that assist us in waking up (which we can call Zen practice if we want), real “Zen practice” is just being here right now and not adding anything to this.
STUDENT: Back to the analogy of the wall with little faucets on it: when we find a faucet and attach ourselves to it, we do get some water out, don’t we?
JOKO : Yes, for a while we quench our thirst slightly. For example, suppose for six months you have wanted to take a girl out on a date, and finally you get up the courage to ask her and she says yes. For a brief moment there’s tremendous elation. We could call that getting water, though whether you are truly satisfied is another question. Sooner or later, the elation subsides, and life again seems to present us with new problems. I’m talking about a way of living in which life itself is no problem. We have problems, but there’s no problem in dealing with them. Everyone probably has a glimpse of that now and then.
Nothing Special: Living Zen Page 5
