I was reminded recently of Karen Blixen's story of the Stork.

Referring to this story, she writes in a letter to her mother, "Just when one feels one is floundering in the deepest despair,--'fall into a ditch, get out again,'--is when one is perfecting the work of art of one's life. . . the greatest moments have been those when I have been able to glimpse the stork" (Letters from Africa, p. 49).

I've been wondering at what point do we get to perform a postmortem on the events of our past? When is the vantage (ever) right to know which turn was good, which bad? Are we indeed as Blixen suggests, stumbling our way, through the mud of life, in the dark, towards some sort of unity of meaning?

The power is in the impetus to get up, the drive to get out of the ditch, the desire to learn to walk on the path. Something I've been reading recently (Pema Chodron, perhaps) has been making much of the importance of this moment: when we notice "ah hell, I am in the ditch... again!" and thus we scramble up its muddy sides and plant our feet and return.

“That [transformative] thing the nature of which is totally unknown to you is usually what you need to find, and finding it is a matter of getting lost.  The word 'lost' comes from the Old Norse los, meaning the disbanding of an army, and this origin suggests soldiers falling out of formation  to go home, a truce with the wide world.” (Solnit, p 7)

This is how I feel, as if I have been slowly, slowly, disbanding an internal army of contraction and confusion. There is a palpable softening around my heart, when I drop my struggle and relax into loss.  But its not an easy process, nor is it a one way street, its a heaving mass of contradiction: as one thing loosens, something else seems to tighten in response, in compensation, in fear.

The idea of disbanding your army reminds me of Pema Chodron's description of the ego as "a room of your own, a room with a view, with the temperature and the smells and the music that you like... But the more you think that way, the more you try to get life to come out so that it will always suit you, the more your fear of other people and what's outside your room grows. Rather than becoming more relaxed, you start to pull down the shares and locking the door. .. You become touchier, more fearful, more irritable than ever...


Now you begin to relate with those feelings. You develop some compassion, connecting with the soft spot. You relate with what begins to happen when you're not protecting yourself so much. Then gradually [...] you become more curious than afraid. To be fearless isn't really to overcome fear; it's to come to know its nature. Just open the door more and more and at some point you'll feel capable of inviting all sentient beings as your guests." (Start Where You Are)
 
She also talks about bodhicitta ('the soft spot') as analogous to “the rawness of a broken heart. Sometimes this broken heart gives birth to anxiety and panic, sometimes to anger, resentment, and blame. But under the hardness of that armor there is the tenderness of genuine sadness. This is our link with all those who have ever loved. This genuine heart of sadness can teach us great compassion. It can humble us when we’re arrogant and soften us when we are unkind. It awakens us when we prefer to sleep and pierces through our indifference. This continual ache of the heart is a blessing that when accepted fully can be shared with all.” (The Places that Scare You)

 I witnessed this beautiful actuality in friends of mine recently. Friends who were thrust deep into the fires of grief when their best friend was murdered. I saw how this deep grief had burnt their hearts wide open so they were soft and present and joyful.  It was astounding, and instructive.
 

I've been reading Jack Kornfield's fabulous After the Ecstacy, the Laundry in which he makes wonderful use of the spiritual life experiences of many spiritual teachers and practitioners from across traditions. He writes of different gateways to experiences of enlightenment and of cycles of return to the detritus of Mara, of falling from grace, of the dark nights of the soul. Particularly resonant for me at the moment were the words of Theravdin monastry abbot Ajahn Sumedho:


and Kornfield writes,
I count "letting go" as a primary meditation practice; derived from the Open Dharma teachings of deep rest.  In some ways, the simplicity of it is simply exquisitely beautiful... to just allow yourself to rest, to be with your breath, to sink into yourself, to just be, to let go...  And yet, at the same time, there is also, as Kornfield and Sumedho suggest, a continually emerging complexity to it. For the challenge of letting go of dropping the struggle of many manifestations of  the minds "compulsive thinking and grasping" is, for me at least, enormous, astounding, and continuous.
Letting go - one hand ecstacy: one hand laundry.

I've been musing recently about commitment.

Zen teacher Elizabeth Hamilton writes that "The mere mention of commitment can send the small mind into high gear. It gives us a close look at the interplay between the issues of commitment and identity; so it’s worth asking, “Who do we take ourselves to be, when the issue of commitment arises?” When asked “what’s your commitment”, some say “realizing the awakened way”, and others mention commitment to living in alignment with their deepest values."

I have passaged through a mass of emotional turmoil in the last few months and from within this  a real, deepening commitment to myself, to genuine self nurturing, has emerged. In excavating myself to locate my deepest values the desire to commit to living in alignment with them and to be in harmony with myself, has developed in a visceral way. And  it seems clear that it is only through this self commitment that commitment to another begins to make sense.


 Elizabeth Hamilton's full artilce on commitment:

WHAT’S YOUR COMMITMENT?

Commitment is always a timely topic. Several recent dharma talks have explored commitment, and some folks have expressed interest in exploring the possibility of a Practice Commitment. Besides, confusion about commitment is an ongoing theme.


In many traditions, the year’s end and beginning are times of reflection, renewal, and rekindling aspiration. Personal or existential upheaval may come along as well, as we alternate between feeling certain about what’s most important, and then dipping into doubt, disheartenment or depression.

This isn’t bad news; as Rollo May points out, “Commitment is healthiest when it’s not without doubt, but in spite of doubt.” Humans, like nature, tend to cycle through seasons, from wintry dormancy, to Zen’s “mindflower blooming in eternal spring” - a reference to the Buddha holding up a flower and Mahakasyapa, a committed practitioner in the community, smiling. The Buddha saw that smile as a sign that Mahakasyapa’s appreciation of the nature of existence was flowering.

This fluctuation of interior seasons seems to reflect our apparent hardwiring with opposite, if not equal, commitments: one, a commitment to fortifying the ego-self; the other, the commitment to awaken to the nature of reality, to the whole self - which isn’t separate from the small self. If we aren’t yet acquainted with this vast self, we can at least take it as a hypothesis, to be confirmed or denied experientially.

Recently a fair number of folks have expressed interest in what a deeper practice commitment might entail. Commitment is a seed of awakening, an inherent capacity that encompasses persistence, intention, determination, motivation, and aspiration. All of these require cultivation, through skillful efforts, and all are susceptible to going through dry spots. If that weren’t the case, things like Zen training might not be necessary.

What does a Practice Commitment look like to you? There are many ways that commitment to practice is expressed: some groups have religiously-based ceremonies, including ordination as a layperson or monastic in Zen Buddhism. Sometimes life-change events like marriage include receiving or renewing the Precepts, guideposts for living-as-if-awake, along with other commitment vows. In some traditions, participants are asked to make a commitment to a particular teacher or center. At ZCSD, vows and commitments are expressed and renewed during each meditation block, with the Morning Verse, the Practice Principles, the weekly Service readings and dedications, and periodic ceremonies such as Remorse and Reconciliation.

The mere mention of commitment can send the small mind into high gear. It gives us a close look at the interplay between the issues of commitment and identity; so it’s worth asking, “Who do we take ourselves to be, when the issue of commitment arises?” When asked “what’s your commitment”, some say “realizing the awakened way”, and others mention commitment to living in alignment with their deepest values. Some regard commitment as just one more burden, in an already over-busy life. Then there are those who confess to being committed to being uncommitted – iffy or yes-butting - saying “Look, I’ve got commitment issues!” Many of us have also encountered periods of deep discouragement, where our main commitment seems to be giving up.

One way to discover what our primary commitment is, as of now, is to hold up an objective mirror to our life: where do our energy and resources go? Are we committed to maintaining awareness in daily activities? Do we know what our “underground commitments” are, from indulging in unhealthy behavior patterns, to keeping a particular self-image intact – what’s yours? Part of commitment is recognizing what obscures commitment, since our longstanding ego-conditioning is bound to put in cameo appearances, even after many years of dedicated practice.

Could additional supports be helpful for clarifying and actualizing our commitment to the path of awakening? Starting with formal Zen training, we can ask: to what extent do I make use of regularly scheduled practice opportunities, even when stuckness and resistance are running high? We can be very stuck, for a very long time, yet avoid the microscope and telescope of practice, which stand ready to help illuminate and penetrate the very stuckness that binds us and blinds us.

It helps to come back to basics regularly, and ask: are we committed to still, silent sitting meditation, as a crucible for learning to practice presence? Are we committed to maintaining awareness of the breathing, the body, and our larger body, the environmental soundscape? All of these form a diving board into actualizing the Second Primary Precept, the commitment to living beneficially: attention focused in the here and now is a prerequisite to a life that reflects our innate kindness, spaciousness, and interconnectedness.

Given the recently established national Day of Service, it’s also timely to reflect on the words we say during meals: “…We eat … to practice serving”: what is our commitment to serving?

Without a conscious commitment, things meander. It’s easy to go along blindly, without questioning the point of various practice modalities. Then we can end up wondering what we’re “getting out of practice” – a sure sign that the ego-self has taken charge.

If you have questions about what a practice commitment might look like, please bring them up. We need to be honest with ourselves about this, and to consider how honest we’re willing to be with those who can be of some assistance.

In addition to questioning “what is my commitment” over the years, it’s helpful to raise the question as a koan, allowing it to drop into our being, and reverberate around on its own, rather than remaining solely an intellectual consideration. Given the right conditions - clarity about basic practice, and a big enough pasture - the question is bound to bear fruit.