Psychology + Zen = Philosophy and methods to relieve suffering and reveal happiness.

Psychology:  We project onto others what we reject in ourselves.  Some call it a Shadow.  Healing comes from making the unconscious conscious, taking responsibility for our projections, integrating what is split off as our own thing. 

Zen:  There is no separate self.  When we can be at one with every aspect, then we belong everywhere and we reject no one.  

We heal the world by becoming intimate with our whole selves.   


Entries in Interconnection (27)

Saturday
Jun052021

It's an Athletic Event

I used to say it to my patients/clients when they were sick or had family visits or did overwhelming admin stuff like answer email. It's an athletic event. The idea is to give yourself credit for things that may be commonplace or may be invisible but require a shitload of internal work. The world, the audience, will not cheer you on because they don't know what's going on. But you can. 

ALS is an athletic event. Functioning that was once automatic now has to be skillfully directed by a compassionate sentient attention. Balancing requires making sure that my weight is well distributed on the horizontal planes of my moving foot, and also that my pelvic floor and tailbone are properly compensating for the droop of my head, and also that my eyes are in line with my head even when tiny people or dogs are whipping around my legs or saying "good morning" in that friendly way that I should be grateful for but actually curse. I've thought about wearing a sign around my neck that says, "please, I can't talk, yes it is a beautiful morning, just keep moving and let me concentrate." 

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Friday
May212021

Fuck Gratitude! Amen

Continuing my campaign against gratitude even as people in my community escalate their preaching I feel more and more like an alien. Spring! Prayers! Moments!  Meanwhile I struggle to breathe and talk and walk and I am not fucking grateful. I do not prefer this. If you just give me my body back, why, then, sure I'll be grateful.

So Monday I bent down to check on the water in a vase and I guess my head dropped and my eye landed on a dryish flower. If you've never felt a corneal tear it is hard to convey the intensity of the pain. All consuming, as if your eye is on fire, there is no way to shift attention away from it. My thoughts went immediately to oh my god what if I have to go to a doctor what if I have to go the ER what if I go blind! and then, please god if you make this go away I'll be so grateful...

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Friday
Apr302021

Slow Down

I whisper to myself as I watch the leaves overtake the buds, who, having done their job, having flourished and amazed their audience, simply fall away, no big deal. But it always breaks my heart a little, the brutality of spring. Slow down, I protest, I don't want to miss a thing. It reminds me of when my daughter was very young and very adorable her father and I would joke about an age freezing shot. For sure she has grown more beautiful and more complex, and I am entirely for it, no way would I prefer a toddler. I just want to savor it again, more slowly. 

Time has always seemed to move too fast for me. Trains arrived at my station a minute earlier than I did.

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Friday
Apr022021

Alive and Growing

This morning I tried and failed over and over again to lift branches in a stone vase onto a shelf. I cursed that I couldn't do it alone, and I couldn't bear to wait and ask someone for help. Finally I discovered that if I stand on a yoga block I can raise myself up just enough.

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Friday
Jun192020

Who Was She? Part Two

 

My mother died on February 17th.

In recent years I called her Mum as a repair for the awkwardness in my youth that arose from obeying my father’s insistence that we call her Mother. This stilted salutation, I believe, was to repair the fall from aristocracy that our family suffered by leaving Russia. The proper word really would have been Mama but it didn’t stick, maybe because we were repairing our Russianness too. So much brokenness, never spoken but always implied.

Who was my mother? Who are any of us under all those repairs?

While I was mourning her loss, my Zen teacher, Roshi Joshin, asked if there was an image of her that came to mind, a way that I could sense her presence now. I thought of a butterfly, then changed my mind because butterflies land on things, and my impression of her was that she never really landed. "Perhaps a hummingbird," said my daughter. Perhaps. All I know is that I couldn’t reach her, couldn’t touch her. Or I couldn’t get her to reach me. I’m not sure what the difference is.

Later I realized that she saw me as a butterfly. And when I saw one several days later, seeming to call for my attention at the window, I realized that she was present in the way I see myself. In fact, my first memory is of a blue butterfly crushed by my brother. Maybe I expressed it to my mother. Or maybe I constructed it from things she said. Anyway she wrote a poem called "Blue Butterfly" for my 50th birthday. It memorializes the time when a photographer asked to use my picture in an ad, then saw that my legs were in casts and I could not walk. Here’s an excerpt:

Here was a spotlight on the indifference around, the dismay of a mother,
the trust of a child, and her innocent faith that she would be well,
made so by the grown-ups who loved her. With a turn of the prism,

our powerlessness was bared in the glare. A slight twist cast a softer
yet lucid light on the sweetness of innocence that, much too soon,
would be lost. 

Yet another refraction made blaze the pain that awaited
in the tomorrows, no matter our will or resolve. In the midst of this spin,
there she sat, my blue butterfly, tranquil still in the moment.
Time enough later to learn of the future and change

Refractions upon refractions. Reading her poem now, I understand that my illness (JRA) destroyed her idea of innocence and beauty, and there she was, spinning, while I sat, tranquil still. Of course I had no choice; I couldn’t get up and walk, could I?  And this, in a nutshell, produced my lifelong struggle. She was moving so fast I couldn’t sense her center. I felt like I needed to move faster but I couldn’t. The frustration was immense. When I expressed it, they called it rage. And then it became rage. Such is the tragedy of interconnection, healed somewhat by poetry belated. 

The 9th Zen precept is classically translated as "not being angry." I remembered that the Zen Peacemaker version was something like 'transform suffering into wisdom,' but when I went to look it up, it had changed! Now it is "bearing witness to emotions that arise."

Oh, if only someone had been able to bear witness then! How different our lives could have been if she had been able to bear witness to her dismay and grief instead of trying to escape it; how different had I realized that brokenness is part of the nature of things, to be included, not rejected. What if the photographer had chosen to feature the disabled girl? How different the perceptions of all those consumers of culture, how different our understandings of each other! 

Thankfully the world is trying to change. Thankfully I have access to this wisdom now as I heal and accept my body as it is. I just listened to an On Being podcast with Resmaa Menakem on healing racial trauma through awareness of the body and an understanding of the context of trauma. And our own Village Zendo featured a talk by Tokuyu Hoshi on brokenness. And yesterday I watched a conversation on Disability Justice sponsored by Dance NYC on Facebook. We are bearing witness. We are acting. We are healing. 

was me not you 
I thought
I knew
butterfly adieu
now who? 

 

Related: Who Was She? Part One

June 18, 2020

 

 

 

Tuesday
Jun092020

Open the Country

 

How are you?

Can you answer as you did before the plague, before the knee to the neck, or before you knew about the knee to the neck?

Nowadays you might share how you are coping with it, or your opinion about it, or your feelings about it. For the first time in a long while, we are experiencing the same subject, no need to dither on about the weather, our usual common ground. We’re in it together, in this worldwide connected suffering that bitterly divides us. And we’re in it alone, suffering in our own way, fed by our own history, nourished by what we attend to in our present, and sustained by the story we tell about it.

My story features a hospital ICU, a ventilator, a deep tongue kiss with death, and maybe a recovery. People wish me recovery, and so do I, but the truth is I can’t have back what I had.

How about you? Has it all been taken away? your routine, your people, your purpose? or maybe those things are there but changed so much they are unrecognizable. Mostly when we find ourselves in virgin territory, we reach back for what we know. We want to ‘open the country,’ resume operations, resume shopping and consuming. But many now see this moment as a potential turning point, a moment to start over, to really open the country, open our eyes to the injustice we didn’t want to see, to learn about ourselves, to join together to create meaningful change.

The first tenet of Buddhist practice, classically translated as Cease from Evil, is understood by the Zen Peacemakers as Not Knowing. It’s different from what we experience as uncertainty, which I contend is more like rehearsing scary outcomes. Not knowing means we see the world as it is instead of what we think it is, fresh at every instant, instead of an idea. What is this world as it is? It is impossible to answer; it is only possible to become aware of our ideas, gently let them go, and let the other show itself.

Dropping ideas and starting fresh is not so easy. Ideas and habits re-assert themselves like weeds in the suburban lawn. The Zen koans use weeds as metaphor for our entanglements. We can never really get rid of them, even in a monastery or a mountaintop, but with practice— either meditation, good psychotherapy, a creative process, or all three—the weeds can stop choking our little buds of wisdom.

If I think about what gave me pleasure before—singing and dancing, and I compare that experience with my current condition of labored breath, choking voice and unsteady body, I feel anguish, grief, frustration, and even rage. Those feelings arise from ideas like “I need to get better,” “What happened to my strength?” or “Maybe I’m going to die.” The only action that can follow from those thoughts and feelings is war with my body as it is. Tension then accumulates and makes it even more difficult to breathe or vocalize; if someone speaks to me I snap, or croak. I’m sure they don’t understand. I suffer.

But with practice, I can dive into the experience itself, I can breathe the breeze as it moves through me, chew my food, swallow, flow with the rhythm of my body and the world that I sense. I enter the bitter comparison and I am free of it. I enter the grief and see that nothing is lost. I enter the rage and warm myself by the fire as I do good for others. Such is the enticing paradox.

On Sunday at the Village Zendo, Roshi Joshin invited the community to speak to each other about their experiences. People have been protesting, marching, calling on elected officials, risking their lives to transform the world. And now, in this space we were encouraged to turn inward to notice our responses and share them with each other. When at the end she asked us for one word to describe what we were feeling after the practice, many said ‘opening.’ We opened the borders and were nourished by what we received. And now, back to work.

June 2020

Tuesday
Apr032018

Yanyang's Thing: Ode to Sangha

“Trust the process,” said my new romance, as everything converged.

The spectacular and ridiculous ritual known as Shuso Hossen became the focus that yanked my fragments together last month. Fear was a constant companion but the terror was wildest when I imagined Dharma Combat, the challenge to “Dragons and Elephants” in the Dharma Hall to confront me, to demand answers to potent life questions. Having watched a few of these, each time amazed at the deft handling of such deep inquiry, I was certain that I could never measure up.

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Wednesday
Jan312018

Subway Practice

You know how it is, you want to be home. It’s been a long day, sometimes challenging sometimes delightful but now every moment competes with the imagined rest at home. Naturally there is a massive subway delay. Maybe it’s a power outage, so all trains are re-routed to the local track, politely waiting for each other: stop, lurch, stop, wait, Thank you for your patience... We apologize for any inconvenience.

One night I rushed to get to the train before “Planned Work” eliminated service at my stop. Alas, they decided to start said work early, so thirty minutes on the bus replaced what I would have preferred to do. The next night they did the exact. same. thing. but forgot to notify the buses, so a hundred people stood in biting nine-degree wind for forty minutes.

That’s what it’s like to try to get home. Angry exhaustion. Why do I even live here?

How about when you try to get to work? Now it’s anxiety that dominates. I want to be a model of reliability but rarely allow the extra forty minutes that it would take to diminish the panic when the train halts unexpectedly. The conductor, required to say something, generates a plausible reason that a hundred thousand New Yorkers will be late for appointments, interviews, dates, classes, disappointing a hundred thousand other New Yorkers who counted on them.

Why do I live here? Even when the subway is working properly, a very smelly or a very loud person will seize my attention and ask for a donation. If I tuck into a corner seat to protect myself from “SHOWTIME,” a couple will surround me and chat over my face. ARE YOU LISTENING?!This man played his drum remarkably loud while riffing on judgmental people who refuse to give him attention. He thought it was funny.When I took a photo of him, he turned some venom on me and this man laughed and clapped.

 

 

Riding the subway I cannot avoid human interaction. I cannot live according to plan or desire. I am trapped. Reality is inescapable.

Last week a young man standing near me said “What does this even mean? a government shutdown, what is that?”  I answered and we had a chat. Yesterday there was a booming announcement that the train was skipping all stops and going straight to 207th street because there was a giraffe on the tracks. A young man doing his algebra was stunned, then broke out laughing when we realized it was a joke. He couldn’t work out how the train could get around the giraffe, and another dude, not realizing that Algebra Guy was probably on the autism spectrum, mocked him.

Have a look at the first shot. Before he got off the train, the guy reading a book gave the tiny woman with the bags his scarf. I caught his eye and we were both crying. The tiny woman smiled. 

It’s all here. That’s why I live in NYC and ride the damn train. I would love to say, oh yeah and I breathed into it and the feelings changed and I entered Nirvana and you can too, but it’s messier than that. Sometimes I appreciate the diversity. Sometimes I just want everyone to go away. Sometimes I’m wide open and joy pours through me and out of me. Sometimes I growl and curse, embarrassed by my huge Village Zendo button that perhaps proclaims freedom from Dukkha. Well, no, life is suffering and I’ll take a big helping, thank you.January 2018

And also, there are trees uptown.

 

 

 

Monday
Aug012016

The Main Point, or, a Few Ignoble Truths

You may have noticed that I've been gone a while.  I've been busy doing nothing.  What happened is that I had a pretty good idea and I started to write, but then it went sideways and I had a hundred more ideas, and they led to a hundred more, so I started jotting everything down, and it was all connected, so I couldn't finish it, or, rather, them.  I suffered. 

So I decided to step back and remember the main point.  

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Monday
Dec152014

Black Lives Matter

My heart filled with hope when I witnessed this march, both because of the energetic young black leadership and because of the honesty and participation of white folk.  sorry I didn't realize I could turn my new iphone sideways, but still...