This is the rough transcript of a talk I gave to the Zenways Sangha on Sunday 28 August 2022.
In the last few weeks, I have been revisiting a couple of books that I first read some time ago. The first is Wild Ivy, the spiritual autobiography of Zen Master Hakuin. The second is The Undying Lamp of Zen, by Zen Master Tōrei.
A passage in Hakuin’s book inspired this talk. He speaks about three essentials of Zen practice: a great root of faith, a feeling of great doubt and a great burning aspiration. He describes this aspiration as an intense determination to move forward.
Then, while reading Tōrei, I came across something with a very similar spirit. He talks about practising with a determination not to give up, continuing until we penetrate deeply into our own nature.
These ideas — aspiration, determination and not giving up — made me think about my own experience of practice.
When I was young, I was an aspiring professional cyclist. I knew very well what it meant to have a goal and to spend many hours training towards it.
A professional cyclist has not developed supernatural powers. Through training and practice, they have developed certain skills that allow them to perform at a particular level. The same is true of professional runners and people practising other sports. They train, repeat, make mistakes, learn and continue.
This made me wonder whether there might be a parallel with Zen practice.
What would it mean to become a “professional” human?
I don’t mean becoming some special or spiritually superior person. By “professional” I simply mean becoming the best possible human being that I can be, developing more skilful ways of responding to life and, as far as possible, avoiding causing unnecessary suffering to myself and to others.
If you have listened to talks by our teachers Shinzan and Daizan, you have probably heard them emphasise the importance of kenshō. Kenshō is usually translated as seeing one’s true nature.
Tōrei speaks about practising until we penetrate our essential nature. This is a central part of the Zen tradition and something we can investigate through our own practice.
But how do we practise?
This is where Hakuin’s “fearless determination” becomes interesting to me.
In zazen we sit upright and relaxed. We might initially use the breath to settle the mind and anchor our awareness. Then, little by little, we allow thoughts, memories, sensations and emotions to arise and pass without deliberately following them.
It sounds simple.
It isn’t always easy.
Sometimes what appears can be uncomfortable. Speaking from my own experience, things can arise that I find frightening or that I might feel ashamed to share with other people. Thoughts can appear that certainly don’t make me proud of myself. Emotions can arise that seem capable of pulling me towards very dark places.
Perhaps this is where determination becomes more than a nice idea from an old Zen book.
Can I remain here with this?
Can I notice what has appeared without immediately running away from it or becoming completely lost in it?
I don’t always manage it.
But perhaps that too is part of the training.
We notice that we have been carried away and we return.
Zen practice, of course, is not limited to zazen. We can also practise through movement and through the ordinary activities of our lives.
One expression used in Zen is Nari Kiru. I understand it as giving ourselves completely to the activity we are doing.
Cycling is an obvious example for me.
When I am cycling, I do my best simply to cycle. Inevitably, thoughts appear. Stories begin. I start thinking about something that happened yesterday, something I need to do tomorrow or something completely unrelated to the road underneath my wheels.
Then, at some point, I notice.
And I return to cycling.
Of course, I fail many times. Sometimes I have to remind myself again and again.
But perhaps this is exactly why I find the comparison with training useful.
A cyclist does not stop being a cyclist because one training session goes badly. You train again.
In the same way, perhaps being a “professional” human does not mean reaching some state in which we never become distracted, angry, frightened, selfish or confused.
We practise.
We notice.
We return.
When cycling, cycle. When driving, drive. When walking, walk. When talking, talk. When listening, listen. When washing the dishes, wash the dishes.
And when we discover that we have disappeared into a story again, we begin again.
A professional cyclist does not become professional by reading about cycling.
They train.
Perhaps our practice is not so different.
We sit. We walk. We pay attention. We get lost. We return. Something difficult arises and, when we can, we stay with it. Then tomorrow we practise again.
Hakuin called it a great burning aspiration. Tōrei spoke about the determination not to give up.
Perhaps we can bring some of that spirit into our practice together now.
Not because we are trying to become some extraordinary spiritual person.
Simply because we are practising this strange and difficult business of being human.
So let’s keep training.
