Addiction

As the Covid-19 pandemic rages out of control, addiction once again is rising to the top of the news feed. Whenever crises rise, addiction rises in tandem and those so inclined scrambles for relief.
 

This post is thus particularly relevant in light of the present day problems to a wide variety of a host of objective “stuff.” Our common-coin manner of understanding addiction is too limited. When we think of someone addicted we see images in our mind of drug addicts or derelicts who were unable to overcome excessive opioid consumption. Maybe we’ll even go so far as to include someone who can’t control his or her consumption of food or sex. Whatever object is chosen—another person, drugs, alcohol, food, the greed for money or sex, becomes the god we must have to fill a sensed emptiness. Rarely, however, do we consider the average person exhibiting expressions of addiction, and that’s a problem.

Addiction, properly understood at the base level is craving: an excessive desire. Everybody falls victim to that. Whenever our normal comforts are disrupted, such as now, anxiety goes wild and we crave their return. We either crave what we like or resist what we don’t. Both are forms of craving (excessive desire). To get to the bottom of this dilemma we need to ask, “which part of me is craving and why?” Someone who is complete, doesn’t crave anything, so it must be the incomplete part of us—the part of us that says, “I need that to experience myself as complete and satisfied, and without getting that I will suffer.”

Meister Eckhart (the 14th century Christian German theologian, philosopher and mystic) said, “To be full of things is to be empty of God. To be empty of things is to be full of God. Man’s last and highest parting occurs when for God’s sake he takes leave of god. St. Paul took leave of god for God’s sake and gave up all that he might get from god as well as all he might give—together with every idea of god. In parting with these he parted with god for God’s sake and God remained in him as God is in his own nature—not as he is conceived by anyone to be—nor yet as something yet to be achieved, but more as an is-ness, as God really is. Then he and God were a unit, that is pure unity. Thus one becomes that real person for whom there can be no suffering, any more than the divine essence can suffer.”

A while ago I heard a man say, “I can understand how Christ can be in me, but how is it possible for me to be in Christ?” Clearly, this person had a rather limited view of both himself and of Christ and apparently didn’t believe what his own scripture told him about the nature of God. Christian scripture says that the nature of God is omnipresent. If this man truly believed this, the answer to his question would be clear: there is no place that God is not, so how is it possible for anyone to not be in Christ? The entire sea in which we swim is God. Fish are in the water and we are in God.

In our unknowing, we imagine that we are separate from the fullness of our creator, that we are not a unit and this, in turn, leads to a deep desire to become what we are already, thus we suffer. The Buddha also spoke in the Nipata Sutra about what happens due to ignorance:

“What is it that smothers the world? What makes the world so hard to see? What would you say pollutes the world and threatens it the most?’ ‘It is ignorance which smothers’ the Buddha replied, ‘and it heedlessness and greed which make the world invisible. The hunger of desire pollutes the world, and the great source of fear is the pain of suffering.” 

All people fear the pain of suffering and this makes us blind to the suffering of others. While locked in the grip of our egos, we think we’re the only ones suffering, and in that state of mind, we become greedy and uncaring. At the center of suffering lays this idea that we are separate and incomplete and that leads to the craving for what we have already.

The ancient Daoist admonition applies here, “Resist nothing and embrace everything today. The perfect day and night are within you. Let it all unfold like a blossom.” Picking and trying to retain only the good, while resisting what we imagine will darken our day, is the true addiction and that leads inevitably to suffering.

Selling snowballs to Eskimos

There’s a fundamental law of economics: People will purchase things they feel they need. No perceived need=No demand=No sale. The entire economic engine begins with that fundamental understanding. The next principle that emerges from that one is that demand must be stimulated. People may actually have a need but are not aware of solutions. Or, no, actually, there is no need, but instead, there is a want. 

That’s where marketing and advertising come into play. As an ex-marketing man, I understand both of these building blocks, which are foundational to economic success. If I wanted to create a commercial success, it was first necessary to persuade someone that what they experienced as a want, was actually a need, and the best way to do that is by telling half-truths. 

I have never seen a successful marketing campaign that told the whole truth. Instead, marketing people dwell on the part, which appeals to people they wish to convert and intentionally avoid discussing the downside. The downside always comes along for the ride anyway, and often times that downside becomes apparent later, but by then, the sale has been made, and it’s too late to get your money back. There is no such thing as any product or service that is 100% good. In our ignorance, we are easily hoodwinked into being sold a bill of goods that looks to be without flaw.

I am no longer a marketing man. I am now a spiritual man. So what in the world does this have to do with spiritual matters? Simple: Snowballs. The most fundamental of all sales jobs is to persuade people that they are inadequate, in any and every way. If that can be done, then the rest is a piece of cake. What we believe about ourselves, fundamentally, lays the ground for everything that follows. If I think I am inadequate, then I will be open to making choices and buying things I don’t need but believe that I do. Nobody is going to be vulnerable and want to buy things when they are already adequate. That would be nuts. So the first task is to bring adequacy into question.

Fundamentally, that is what commercial life is all about: nothing more. Virtually from birth onwards to the grave, we are being sold a bill of goods about being inadequate. We are Eskimos with plenty of snowballs but are being duped into believing that we need more. If you want to put that into a spiritual context, try this on for size: “Like one in water crying, ‘I thirst!’ Like the son of a rich man wandering poor on this earth we endlessly circle the six worlds.” 

That piece of wisdom comes from a very famous Zen Master (Hakuin Ekaku). If you prefer the same message from a Christian context, try the story of the Prodigal Son, who wandered away from his birthright of splendor and ate from the trough of pigs. And if you wonder how this might translate into the economic context of today’s world, click here and watch a humorous yet insightful summation of the challenges of our world today: The growing gap between the ultra-wealthy and the rest of us, international trade wars (for that matter, any war), an out-of-control Federal Debt, global climate change, massive world-wide immigration problems, restructuring the fabric of nations, the corruption of cherished values (such as telling the truth) and how our freedoms are compromised.

The half-truth of life is that we are inadequate. The whole truth is we are inadequate, and we are also adequate and complete already, at the same time. Both of these are true together. Neither is true alone. That’s the whole truth, and when we realize this whole truth, then only do we cease lusting for what we have already.

Lessons from a hurricane—The great paradox.

Things are not as they appear, nor are they otherwise.

Complacency and apathy are indeed comfortable. These attitudes lull us into the illusion that all is well when the wolf is near our door. Disasters may fall upon others but not us. Just when we think all is well, the storm of change comes upon us. 

We so wanted the security of eternal bliss, but it rushes suddenly away like a hurricane through our fingers, ripping our pleasure apart and leaves us with a devastated spirit. All spiritual traditions address this looming catastrophe, yet we assume it won’t happen to us. In 1 Thessalonians 5, the Apostle Paul wrote,  

“…for you know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night. While people are saying, ‘Peace and safety,’ destruction will come on them suddenly, as labor pains on a pregnant woman, and they will not escape.”

What is this “day of the Lord?” Many would argue it is the final day of reckoning when we must stand before God and be held accountable for our actions. Judgment seems to be the ultimate form of justice that will at last prevail, or so we’ve been led to believe. However, there is an alternative that is worth considering.

An aspect of being human is to think that our way alone is secure while all others are in jeopardy. There is a psychological term to explain this. It’s called either optimism or normalcy bias and is central to the nature of self-destruction. While in such a state of denial, we justify our choices because of our self-centered sensed need. Destruction is someone else’s problem, but certainly not ours. A viral pandemic will strike others, but not us. Our attitude is governed by a self-understanding that appears to keep us apart from others, secure in our sense of superiority. Today there are many who choose to live in states of denial, and they will discover too late that, contrary to belief, they are not apart. What we choose collectively affects us all, and this is made clear when amid a hurricane that indiscriminately rips everything apart. 

While in such a state of mind, we are sure that, given our sense of self as unique and special, we are above the suffering of others. But all too often, we make choices we are not proud of because we misidentify as someone unworthy, far beneath the unrealistic standards of perfection we set for ourselves. Or we may do the opposite and imagine that we alone are superior. The moment we awaken from our sleep of self-centered ignorance is our personal day of reckoning, our “day of the Lord.” At that very moment, we discover that we are no more special than anyone else, yet they and we are pure of heart. Before that moment, we lived in a state of complacency and delusion, sometimes called normal.

The very first of the Buddha’s Four Nobel Truths explains the nature of suffering, and it has three aspects:

• The obvious suffering of physical and mental illness, growing old, and dying;

• The anxiety or stress of trying to hold onto things that are constantly changing; and,

• A subtle dissatisfaction pervading all forms of life, because all forms are impermanent and constantly changing.

The second of his truths is that the origin of suffering is craving, conditioned by ignorance of the true nature of things (most particularly ourselves). The third truth is that the complete cessation of suffering is possible when we unveil this true nature, but to do that, we must first let go of what we previously thought. And the final truth is the way to this awakening: the Eight Fold Path. What we discover along this path to a higher level of consciousness is the same driving force of suffering that moves us out of ignorance and towards awakening: the first truth. It is both the cause and the compelling force of change. 

“Things are not always as they seem; the first appearance deceives many.”—Phaedrus, circa 15 BCE

Little Bear and Lily Pads

The kingdom of magic.

Many years ago I had an experience, which irrevocably changed my life. When it happened I knew it was transforming but I had no idea to what extent, nor did I have any contextual framework into which to fit the occurrence. 

It took many years more before I fully comprehended what had taken place, and the impact on my life. It is hard to speak of the experience in terms, which can be understood, but I’ll give it my best shot since I know how important it is to share what happened⎯not for my benefit but for those who may read this. 

In metaphorical terms, the floor of my bucket collapsed and I fell through Alice’s rabbit hole into a vast and unknown realm. I had lived 40 years by then with no clue that my sense of reality was questionable. It wasn’t what I hoped for but I never thought there was any other possibility. I was living just like everyone else, based on the notion that I knew who I was. I had a name, a career, relationships, and a long history. I functioned in all of the ordinary ways—in short, I had a well-defined identity and I was miserable even though by any conventional measure it appeared as if I were successful. 

I eventually reached a point when I took a serious look at the life I had fashioned and asked myself a hard question: Did I want to spend the rest of my days doing more of the same, and getting the same result? I decided that I didn’t, but by then I had a lot invested in a bad game with no idea what the alternatives might be. In spite of this dilemma I saw that if I was ever going to find the answer, I had better consider again, from the beginning, with the time I had left. So with that realization, I cut loose from my moorings and plunged into foreign waters.

Through a convoluted set of circumstances, I soon found myself living in a Zen monastery, which I first thought of like a halfway house to give me time to solve my mystery and chart a new life path. Little did I know that this choice would open the door to a wholly different realm, which would radically transform how I looked at the world and myself. When I say, “the floor of my bucket collapsed” what I mean is that my floor—the foundation of my life up to that point: my imagined identity; ego—was blocking discovery of my real, true nature. It was like wearing a coat that obscured my naked and real self. 

I had not been at the monastery very long and can’t explain why the collapse happened so soon. I have since read many stories about Zen monks spending years in dedicated practice before experiencing this metamorphous. I don’t know why it happened to me as it did. All I know is that when it happened it felt like I was being flushed down a toilet and when it was over “I” no longer existed. The “me”—identity, which was my floor, died there. And I was transformed from an isolated individual into an integrated sojourner and I joined the world for the first time, spiritually fresh, clean, naked, and raw.

As I look back over what I’ve just written it looks unbelievable and strange. I know that, but I also know—after having lived many years beyond that magical moment—that it is worth the risk of possible scorn to share it. If even a single person believes this story, they will know that it is possible for them to be transformed also. And if that means they will take a similar risk to cast aside what they think is real and discover the same reality that I did, then a good outcome will have resulted. You might be tempted to think this experience made me special. It had the opposite effect. I realized that we are all the same; none any more special than anyone else. In fact, I now realize that this whole wish to be special is a major obstacle to waking up to who we really are.

I am not a Zen master. I did not spend years of dedicated practice to achieve this transformation. There is no reason whatsoever that it should have come when it did, but it did. And if it happened for me it can happen for anyone. What I have learned since that moment of transformation is this new and unknown realm is neither new nor unknown. It is like a story I used to read to my daughter when she was very young—the story of Little Bear, who discovered that he didn’t need to wear a coat since he already had one. We too don’t need the extraneous cloak of an ego. We already have a true nature, which is always there beneath the cloak. I can only tell you that my deepest nature is infinitely finer than the extraneous one.

If you take the time to read Zen literature you’ll find this underlying, true nature called many names—Buddha-Nature, the One Mind, pure consciousness, True man without rank—the names don’t matter. Call it what you choose. Maybe the best name is Lily—the flower of life. The water lily grows on a pad floating on water, rooted in the muck, which is hidden in the deep. In many icons, the Buddha is shown sitting on that pad. What we all would be wise to not do is to gild our lilies, or put coats on bears who already have one.

Birds of Paradise.

The natural way.

A recent blogger said she was tired of waking up to the litany of gloom and doom economic news but instead has been taking refuge in the simple recognition of migrating birds. I find this perspective refreshing. 

It’s so very easy to fall into a reactionary mindset of what comes our way. On the one hand who can deny the harsh result of billions (if not trillions) of dollars being drained away reacting to one crisis after another— that we create? Lives are being destroyed. On the other hand, all is well. How is it possible that such polar opposites could co-exist? Without diminishing broad-spread mortal suffering I would like to provide some insight.

Birds fly south when they deem a changing of the season, and north when it goes the other way. They do this without recognition of economic news either good or bad. Migration has been happening since the dawn of time. Animals and people move when necessary. It’s a natural way. 

This natural way puts the expression “bird brain” in the most different light. The unnatural way is to first create conditions that prompt a survival mode to move (e.g., wars, violence, the devastation of means to exist such as global warming, withdrawal of support to nations that won’t do things our way, trade wars that destroy jobs—on both sides) and then build walls to stop the natural way to move. 

A dog will not live in the same space where they defecate, yet we humans seem determined to so destroy our habitat it is turning into much the same thing. There are times when it seems we humans are the most brutal and stupid of all creatures! 

Every day the sun rises and sets without consulting our opinions, judgments, or the news. And it’s a good thing. Think about what would happen if this was not so. Maybe the sun would rise (or not) dependent upon our mood that day. Maybe birds would fly south, or not, dependent upon economic ups and downs. If life depended, we’d all be in deep trouble since we never seem to agree on anything. We are enslaved by our differences and the results of those enslavements. We are attached to the way things should be and ignore the way they are and that creates very big difficulties.

Where is it written that the stock market always moves upward? Who says that goodness is perpetually inevitable? Where is it written that those we love will always move in directions we think they should? That one vector continues without fail? These fixed ideas (and our attachment to them) is what creates euphoria and fear, which in turn creates the ups and downs. Life is change. Birds know this and we don’t. There is a season for flying south and another for flying north. Seasons change and we need to adapt. Yet we don’t. Why?

The answer is ego possessiveness and attachment (to what we desire) and resistance (to what we repudiate). We go by way of what we see and ignore what we can’t. Birds don’t do that but we do. What we see is either beautiful or ugly (on the surface) and we respond to such appearances. If we were wise we’d notice that even our own forms are in the process of decay but our true nature is eternal. 

The truth is that there was a time when I was a mortally handsome fellow and now I’m just a decaying and wrinkled bag of bones. Does it matter? Not a whit! Nobody gets out of here mortally alive anyway. It happens to us all. What can be seen will always fade but what is eternal and immortal never fades. Paradise is either here and now, or it isn’t. It all depends, mortally. And it doesn’t, immortally.

Q and A: Beyond Boxes

Image via Wikipedia

“Thinking outside the box”—A familiar expression that suggests creativity beyond normal limitations. Everyone has heard this expression and in a general way understands the intent. But let’s push this a bit. Let’s do some Q and A outside the box about boxes.

Q: What’s a box?
A: A container within which something exists.
Q: What else?
A: The container establishes boundaries and limitations.
Q: What if there is nothing in the box?
A: It still contains air. Air is not “nothing” but is “no-thing.”
Q: What does that mean?
A: It means that air is not a thing but rather the absence of things and without the absence, it would be impossible to place “things” in the box.
Q: So does that mean that both things (form) and no-things (emptiness) are interdependent?
A: Exactly.

Lao Tsu pointed this out centuries ago yet we dwell on forms and ignore emptiness. Here is what he had to say...

“Thirty spokes share the wheel’s hub;
It is the center that makes it useful.
Shape clay into a vessel;
It is the space within that makes it useful.
Cut doors and windows for a room;
It is the holes which make it useful.
Therefore profit comes from what is there;
Usefulness from what is not there”
Stanza 11—Tao Te Ching

You might ask what value is it to 21st-century people to consider this arcane, centuries-old musing of an ancient Chinese sage? The answer is mutual respect. Every human who has ever lived knows their form and profit but it is rare to find anyone who knows their emptiness (and usefulness). 

When we place limits on our form we diminish our potential (usefulness). Profit comes from form; Usefulness from emptiness. We may profit by acknowledging what we know, but how useful are we to ourselves and others when we ignore or denigrate what we don’t know? When we box things in we see them within limitations which we ourselves establish. Space and emptiness have no limits but form does. When we define with concepts we create, we limit both form and emptiness and force ourselves to stay within those limits.

To cherish only what we know at the expense of difference is a violation and diminution of our space and that of others. Why are we so afraid of what we can’t perceive? Why do we fear differences? Why do we prefer boxes and limitations when we can have infinity? 

Is it that we have no eyes to see or ears to hear? A box is useful when we acknowledge both the contents and the context and it matters little whether the box belongs to us or another. In any event, immortal space is shared space; only mortal form limits and changes. Genuine emancipation happens when we can release our attachment to mortality and embrace the emptiness of immortality, without confining it to conceptual limitations.

Tick, tick, tick.

The invisible connected links.

Observation—seeing clearly—should not be confused with making judgments. It is simply seeing what’s present, right now and acting appropriately. What was present in times past is now gone and what may have been an appropriate action then, is no longer. 

Why is it that we cling to yesterday’s decisions and feel compelled to justify, or even apologize, for those past, now-gone conditions? Then was then and it is now today, replete with a brand new set of circumstances—opportunities to make choices based on what is now present. We can release ourselves from both errors (which may not have been errors) and victories (which in hindsight could be seen as errors) by noticing the tick, tick, tick of changing space/time.

But alas we are not noticing that tick, tick, tick except when we pause, look inward, and track the dots that lead us all to where we are today. Disparaging our, perhaps, poor choices, of the past with thoughts about, “If I had it all to do over again” is somewhat delusional and a waste of time, since such a thing is an impossibility. We can’t return to the past, and even if we could who can say we’d take with us the wisdom acquired by making past choices and learning the lessons that can only be learned within constantly changing circumstances.

If you haven’t yet watched the movie “The Butterfly Effect” you may want to come up to speed with this idea of If I had it all to do over again. It is a story about a young man who could do it all over again and every time he made a different choice the result made things worse. The movie was based on chaos theory, a branch of mathematics focusing on the behavior of dynamic systems that are highly sensitive to initial conditions. The theory was first put forth by American mathematician and meteorologist Edward Norton Lorenz. 

The documentary about this is available on Prime Video and the movie, based on the theory, is available on Netflix. I suppose you could label this by another name called “The domino theory” which was the political justification for many wars fought to ensure the dominos fell in a chosen direction. Of course, they never did, since eventually one decision led to an unpredictable set of other conditions such as those illustrated at the designated link—The War to end all wars. It’s the same principle with a different label. Furthermore, we have a rather dismal historical record of forecasting the most significant waves of change, as pointed out by Nassim Nicholas Taleb in his book “The Black Swan.” Our crystal ball of significant future events is without doubt, cloudy.

Many years ago, when I first stepped onto the path of Zen, I read a book about this constantly changing landscape. It was called The Wisdom of Insecurity by Alan Watts. At the time it seemed a shocking idea, simply because I too had not been noticing the tick, tick, tick. And after reading his book, it wasn’t so shocking. I then began to notice, and the path of Zen became deeper and deeper until it ultimately led me to the state of immanent Self-discovery. 

All that time I thought I knew who I was. The world was telling me. I was making error upon error (or so I thought at the time) and getting the expected feedback. The dominos kept falling and eventually the world summed up their evaluations and I bought their feedback hook, line, and sinker. I had been trapped, without knowing, in a state of clinging to all of those judgments which led me to a point of crisis and that in turn led me an implosion of my sense of self (ego), which in turn led me to the discovery of the indefinable state of my true Self-nature—the source or capacity of perception we know as pure, undefiled consciousness, completely lacking description, but is the same in every sentient being. From that moment on, I knew precisely what (who?) I was, and I also then knew what I was not—the ego formation we all fabricate out of whatever we perceive and bounded within the framework of what can be perceived, and never the one who perceives.

Like everyone else I could not return to my past (nor can I now) and reconstruct anything, but what I could do was construct a future (only for me) based on two fundamental matters: Choices that arose from that core awareness (e.g., who I was and who I was not) plus accepting the constant flow of change. I can assure you that the same is within reach of every living being. It sounds easy in words but is incredibly difficult in the doing. Learning how to not think—How Bodhidharma defined Zen—is most difficult but is the pathway leading from intuition: The state beyond rational thought—the motherload of all wisdom.

Journey thru Hell to Heaven

I didn’t grow up with any religious or spiritual inclinations at all. I didn’t have any desire to ponder what I considered un-useful speculations. It was only after I was 40 years of age, having traveled far, suffered much and stood at death’s door twice that I began to reach into the unreachable for a practical reason: I wanted to live but knew there was something very wrong with the way I had lived thus far.

At that juncture, I chose to leave “the world” behind and close myself off from one dimension and close myself into another, and my choice was Zen. I chose that path because it held out the hope that I could learn to get beyond the horrors I had experienced that dwelled in memories too egregious to live with. These horrors occupied my unending thoughts, and Zen was all about cleansing my mind by suspending thought. I lived in a Zen monastery for nine months, during which time I joined hands with Dante and walked through the bowels of the Hell I had created. When my journey came to an end, I had drained myself of the infinite swamp of corruption that dwelt in memory only and cleansed my heart and mind of contamination.

I discovered something very rare and special during that time: when all cognitive processes are gone, what remained was emptiness—the face of God. By the time I arrived at seminary, I had seen that face and knew that God was the source of everything. So I began to construct a new life blending thoughts with no thoughts: God in my heart and thoughts in my head.

Seminary was a most curious experience for me. Theology is all about words, thinking, and objectifying what I knew could never be adequately expressed in words. The study of theology was thus most frustrating as I grappled with fusing my ineffable experience with an abstraction of the same thing. It was a process that took me years beyond to assimilate the two with some continuous and substantial academic study. I found myself in constant conflict with people who wanted to do what I had rejected: fill their heads with words and abstractions of an experience I knew was a road to nowhere.

However, one of the most helpful of all words came from Zen Master Bassui Tokusho, who said: 

“One moment seeing your own mind is better than reading ten thousand volumes of scriptures and incantations a day for ten thousand years; these formal practices form only causal conditions for a day of blessings, but when those blessings are exhausted again, you suffer the pains of miserable forms of existence. A moment of meditational effort, however, because it leads eventually to enlightenment, becomes a cause for the attainment of buddhahood.”

Nevertheless, I realized that if I was ever going to be able to convey the experience I had been graced with I had to travel the path they had chosen. It took me 30 years more before I was ready. I suppose it was like a pianist who must practice until the music comes out of them naturally.

There was a message spoken by Jesus in the middle of the beatitudes that says, “Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.” (Mat. 5:8) The passage is not well understood, but it spoke directly to me. I had to read that passage in Koine Greek: the language used to write the New Testament, to really grasp the essence of that statement and when I did I found the key that unlocked the bridge between Zen (the discipline transcendent to words) and Christianity (a religion of words). To Zen, words are reflections: illusions of matters too deep to grasp with our true mind—dreams that dance on hot pavement and create heat waves. To the ordinary Christian, the heat waves are all there is.

So what was the key contained in that passage (Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.)? First, it’s necessary to understand what the authors of the New Testament meant by the Greek word λόγος (Logos, the English translation for The Word). Unlike our contemporary understanding of concepts, λόγος meant the embodiment of meaning expressed abstractly of the ineffable: the very matter that bent my brain for years on end. What Jesus intended in that statement of purity was to cleanse our hearts of an admixture of thoughts, whether good or evil.

When Western man imagines heart, they think of the organ that pumps blood. But to the Greeks, the heart was the center of life. However, to people of Zen, there is no difference between the heart and the mind and was known first by the Chinese as “xin” and later by the Japanese as “shin,” and there is a profound statement in both Chinese Zen (Chan) and Japanese: “Mu shin, Shin.” The little “shin” means that admixture of thought that affects our hearts, whether good or evil. When the admixture is gone, then “Shin” arises: the face of God—that space of emptiness out of which emerges our true nature and everything else. Shin is the unity between our corporeal selves and the source of all, and these two, as it turns out, are really not two. They are the two bound together aspects of life (embodiment): one part limited and objective and the other part eternal. Shin IS the embodiment of God within this limited body, and when anyone experiences that fusion, the world is changed forever.

So now I stand between the two worlds of East and West, and my challenge is to fuse the two just as they were for me, and neither the East nor the West seems to have any interest in fusing with anything not like them.

One of the greatest mystical poets of all time is Rabindranath Tagore.  Sadly, while he lived, he was little known outside of the Calcutta area, and not known at all outside of India, but he captured the essence of my journey when he said,

“The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end.” 

The Road Less Traveled to Tipperary.

The mortal Tipperary.

“It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” Henry James “Harry” Williams wrote that song (heard at this link) back in 1912 and it became popular during the “War to end all wars”—WWI. 

As we know it didn’t end all wars but instead set the stage for the next World War, as all wars do. They never end, the carnage continues, unabated, and we never seem to learn the needed lessons of why wars exist at all.

The greatest war—the one that will end all wars, is an internal war (the ultimate battle) and involves identity and mis-identity: the battle between the ego (the great impostor) and our real, hidden nature that lies dormant awaiting discovery. Many great pieces of literature have been written about this internal battle, not the least of which is The Bhagavad Gita. But we, in the West, remain mostly unaware of such wisdom and thus continue fighting the wrong wars—the mortal ones—that continue forever.

I went through that internal war (as well as an external one—The Vietnam War that damaged me for the rest of my mortal life) and experienced the battle that awakened me to the real, hidden me, but it was a Long Way to Tipperary—that stretched from my ordinary road of seeking fleeting mortal success, hitting the road-bump that brought into question that pursuit, arrived at the critical juncture of choosing to stay on that road to nowhere (with utter familiarity) or going down that other road to fear, trembling, ego confrontation, THE battle, and final victory. 

It wasn’t fun and honestly, there were many times when I asked myself “what the hell have I gotten myself into?” Tipperary, in this case, was finding that internal, hidden treasure. After that, I reached another crossroads and had to choose again, which road I would follow, and which I would thus leave behind. What I never considered when I made the first choice to travel that road less traveled was there were some really bad demons waiting to ambush me down that path,  and facing and regurgitating all of the misery I had buried within. 

But to get to the hidden treasure, by necessity, entailed reaching further, down into the deepest mud of consciousness, where both the demons and the angels co-existed. I had no other choice than the one that led to the ever-increasing internal space of darkness. Consequently, it was a dice-roll with both demons and angels coming along as a package deal, at the same time. And eventually, these splitting paths came out onto a meadow: a point of union, that was bathed in pure, vibrant light. But when that battle first began, I didn't know convergence would ever occur.  Thus the lid on Pandora’s Box was thrown open and the demons attacked with a vengeance.

I came to know, gradually, that the previous pursuit—the ordinary mortal one—was leading me step by step to complete despair and the inescapable conclusion that I had invested 40 years of my life building a castle in the sky. I had a lot of skin in that game and it was extraordinarily hard to fess up to making wrong choices. My ego hated that confession (it never wants to acknowledge error and doubles down with the mantra of “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again”) and if I had been willing to see clearly earlier I would have come to that juncture sooner. 

But I didn’t but bought into that programmed mantra. After all, a Marine never quits, and sadly most never know when to quit. Sometimes it is better to retreat and fight another day. The question is not to fight (or not) but rather the question is choosing the right war to fight. It’s the same for us all. Which one do we choose? The one that never ends? Or the war that will end all wars and does lead to Tipperary. But, the road to that meadow of light had to go through darkness and into a new world!

Chop wood; Carry water.

Before and after.

“Enlightenment, when it comes, will come in a flash. There can be no gradual, no partial, Enlightenment. The highly trained and zealous adept may be said to have prepared himself for Enlightenment, but by no means can he be regarded as partially Enlightened—just as a drop of water may get hotter and hotter and then, suddenly, boil; at no stage is it partly boiling, and, until the very moment of boiling, no qualitative change has occurred. In effect, however, we may go through three stages—two of non-Enlightenment and one of Enlightenment. 

To the great majority of people, the moon is the moon and the trees are trees. The next stage (not really higher than the first) is to perceive that moon and trees are not at all what they seem to be, since ‘all is the One Mind.’ When this stage is achieved, we have the concept of a vast uniformity in which all distinctions are void; and, to some adepts, this concept may come as an actual perception, as ‘real’ to them as were the moon and the trees before. It is said that, when Enlightenment really comes, the moon is again very much the moon and the trees exactly trees; but with a difference, for the Enlightened man is capable of perceiving both unity and multiplicity without the least contradiction between them!”—The Zen Teachings of Huang Po: On The Transmission Of Mind

Hindsight is 20/20.

Looking in the rear-view mirror appears to be advantageous to looking ahead. The past tells you from where you’ve come, but it doesn’t necessarily tell you where you’re going. It may, however, enable you to see a vector pointing forward. But what if that backward view says, you’re on the wrong road and heading for an abyss? Robert Frost best conveyed this dilemma in his poem The Road Not Taken.

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both,
And be one traveler, long I stood,
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay,
In leaves, no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

Frost’s poetic journey into the unknown could be seen as foolhardy unless that vector was fraught with doubts about your life and where it suggested you were going next. That was certainly true in my case. As I looked back over 40 years, I could see abundant evidence that I was on the wrong path and had come to the inescapable conclusion that something was seriously wrong. But what? At that critical juncture—the dividing of ways forward, I felt without value and was in a state of existential crisis. When every indicator says to continue with fear and tribulation, leaping into the unknown isn’t as foolhardy as it might otherwise seem.

Without a clue, I was a ripe candidate for what I later learned was called the Southern School of Chan (sudden enlightenment)—The way began by Shenhui, a disciple of Zen Master Huineng back in China during the 7th century CE and developed into what is now Rinzai Zen. As I look back, taking the right fork in the road, seems providential, and maybe even coincidental. At that time, I didn’t even know about the roots of Rinzai or how it was different from Soto. It has taken me almost that long to become educated about that leap. All I knew then was what lay behind me was self-destructive, and unless I found a better path forward, my goose was cooked.

As it turned out, my teacher was the blend of both Soto and Rinzai, and his dharma name was Eido (the combination of Eisai/Yōsai Zenji and Dōgen Zenji)—The two Zen masters responsible for fostering Soto and Rinzai Zen in Japan. I can say, without any hesitation, that under his guidance, my life was transformed, and I came to experience my complete worth. 

It took me the first 40 to reach the point of sensing utter worthlessness, an instance to realize transformation, and the next 40 to mature. If there was ever proof of dependent arising, I would be it. 

In the 8th century CE, an Indian Buddhist philosopher by the name of Śhāntideva said that to be able to deny something, we first have to know what it is we’re denying. The logic of that statement is peerless. He went on to say, 

“Without contacting the entity that is imputed, you will not apprehend the absence of the entity.” The value of first knowing vacillating despair made it possible to see the firmness of fulfillment.

During the years following our meeting, Eido Roshi fell into disrepute for sexual misconduct. I can’t condone what he did in that respect, but I will be forever grateful for what he did for me. The founder of the Rinzai Zen (Lin Chi) used the idiom “True Man of no rank” because, within our ineffable, transcendent sphere, there is no conditional right nor wrong. Eido lived, as he taught—on two levels at the same time. The level that erred is the same level we all endure. That level is flawed, but Eido’s “True Man of no rank” was without blemish. And this is true for us all.

It is not up to me or anyone to judge and condemn his actions. The Buddha said, “Do not be the judge of people; do not make assumptions about others. A person is destroyed by holding judgments about others.”  Sage advise we should all take to heart.

Eido Roshi died February 18, 2018, at Shōgen-ji, Minokamo, in Gifu Prefecture, Japan, and will be buried at Dai Bosatsu Zendo (where we met so many years ago, and the place of my transformation) on Tuesday, April 24, 2081. Gassho Eido!