A visit to the temple

Yesterday afternoon, I found myself once again at Gold Mountain Monastery, a small Chinese temple on Sacremento and Grant. I had not been for a few weeks, and I had never been on a Sunday before, so I was suprised to witness so many people there to participate in the afternoon's recitation session. We chanted the final portion of the Medicine Master Repantance, which took about two and a half hours. It was almost entirely unfamiliar to me, and as my Chinese reading skills are basically non-existent, I really had very little idea of what we were chanting about.

But the melodies of Chinese Buddhist chants are hauntingly beautiful. There is a considerable amount of musical variation over the course of the ceremony, but not so much that the music becomes distracting. Drums, bells, and chimes accompany a lively array of major and minor modes of the pentatonic scale, with tonal modulations and rhythmic changes at important points of transition in the text. In the Chinese tradition of Buddhism, recitation is seen as a centering spiritual practice akin to seated meditation. And indeed, there is a wonderfully subtle and serene meditative quality to the practice.

Officially, I first starting coming to Gold Mountain Monastery as part of a school project. But I will admit that I was attracted to finding such a place even before that project began. The temple represents a side of Buddhism that it at once deeply devotional and yet makes sense to me, as one who is familiar with the (healthy and unhealthly) skepticism of (primarily white) Western Buddhism. In a little more than a week I will be living about a block from the temple, so I may try to come more often.

After the service, one of the laywomen gestured for me to come to a meditation and study session being held upstairs with two of the resident nuns. The discussion, led by the nuns, took place in the mixture of Cantonese and Mandarin I have become accostomed to hearing. After trying to follow the discussion for a while by examining an English translation of the sutra passage that was the subject of the discussion, I spent a good while trying to formulate a question I had about the passage in Mandarin. In the end, I pretended that I didn't know a word of what was said.

I later wondered what would have happened had I asked the question. First of all, my pronunciation is likely too poor for me to have been understood, so I probably would been detracting from the overall flow of the discussion. But moreover, I wonder about the complex array of racial and cultural dynamics that were incumbent upon my entry into the room.

I feel spiritually nourished and at home at Gold Mountain Monastery, and I connect with the people there on that level, where words and cultural barriers are no longer of any great importance. But I am also curious of the racial and cultural dynamics of the situation. Why, for instance, were the laywomen so eager to have me come to the discussion? They are genuine and incredibly kind people, for sure, and I don't intend to discount that. But at the same time I can't be a young, white male and fit in on a certain level. How do people react to my coming to this temple? Am I always going to be an outsider?

Well, in any event, I really don't know. But I am certainly made more aware of the partularities of my race, my age and my upbringing. My identity does not only affect myself and my own perceptions, but also others and their own perceptions. When I see how each individual life, such as my own, exists only in the context of others, I get a sense of how mutually intertwined our lives really are. I take a breath, and smile.

Religious Dialogue

As an independent project this year, me and another student have been conducting a comparative study of two religious congregations in San Francisco's Chinatown. As part of our research, we have been interviewing clergy and lay members at both places. Today was our last interview, with the pastor of the church. It was a remarkable interview on many levels, but it struck me deeply for a few reasons.

First of all, the pastor is wise, tender, brilliant, and open-minded-- a remarkable combination of characteristics in a religious person. His life story was quite compelling, and was very different from how I would have imagined that of Christian pastor to have been.

I came to Buddhism after a period of intense skepticism for religion in general. In my early childhood, my parents brought me and my brother to the local Presbyterian Church. My memories of this time are somewhat vague, but I do remember worship, Sunday school, and the music. I have not really repressed these memories, but I never really cherished them either, perhaps out of skepticism for religion. Christianity made no sense to me, and until recently, I have always felt this way.

Our conversations with the pastor today were illuminating. Although I am now familiar with his church and feel welcomed by the congregation, it was very heartwarming to see a man who faced many of the religious and philosophical questions, and probably many more, that I had faced. Like me, he said that he believes that truth is not limited to one particular religion or sect, and that it is indeed this kind of close-mindedness that has been responsible for many wars and an enormous amount of suffering. I am used to talking to fellow Buddhists who share such views, but it was quite inspiring to hear a Christian with such a tolerant and ecumenical attitude. I was very close-minded myself about Christianity, and the opportunity to have a conversation with this man allowed me to his religion from a new perspective.

What I was most impressed with about this man, however, was that I could be honest with him about my own spiritual aspirations and experiences. His living, loving faith encouraged me in my practice of mindfulness, and his commitment and dedication to service and justice inspired me to further my efforts. It seems to me that our greatest teachers are those who allow us to fully encompass and embrace who we are.

What are you doing?

What am I doing with my life?

When I ask myself this question, it gives me an opportunity to see how closely my interpretation of my life matches up with what I am actually doing. That is, it forces me to make an effort to live honestly, earnestly, truthfully.

I notice that almost any activity can be worthwhile with the right attitude. What is this attitude? For me, it seems that when I am open-minded and not particularly attached to the merits or faults of an activity, I can proceed mindfully and with a spirit of inquiry, a willingness to learn. But I am not so good at keeping an open mind or maintaining mindfulness in all situations-- indeed, in any situation. For instance, writing or typing can be a very thoughtful and meaningful process, one that aids the process of finding meaning in life and peace with the world. But when it is done without care and mindful awareness, I find it to be a waste of time. The moments in which I can step back, relax, breathe, and be thoughful (rather than being controlled by my thoughts) are very precious because they are few and far between. I don't know if it is possible to always live mindfully, but I would like to try, even if I fail every time.

What I am doing with my life? What can I do that is truly worthwhile, of benefit to all? I don't have an answer to this yet, and I may never. It seems that I usually choose to do things that are benificial to me and that may or may not be benificial to others. But I don't think this is a question of morality or of human nature. It's a question of living moment by moment; slowly, but dearly. If I slow down and become attentive to my motivations and actions, I more often do things that help others, or at the very least do not hurt them.

What I am doing with my life? What are we doing with our life? The only way I can respond to these questions is to slow down and become aware and settled in the present.

Watermelon Meditation

I often notice that my life unfolds in cyclical patterns. My ability to concentrate, the attention I pay to the present moment, the sense of appreciation I have for being alive-- all these come and go, ebbing and flowing in cycles. Sometimes I am swept up in a current of energy and lose control of life. Sometimes I find myself mired in thoughts of longing and discontent. Sometimes I wake up and my breath is right there at the tip of nose, my mind is clear, colors are vivid but my eyes are soft, my shoulders are relaxed, and a smile comes to my face-- this is how I want to live. When I wake up like this I wish that all people could be happy, healthy, and at peace.

Most of my thoughts are pretty useless. More than useless, even-- the way I react to them causes suffering. But I find when I remember to come back to the breath, during class, walking on the sidewalk, standing on a crowded bus, typing at the computer or any other moment of the day, I realize the futility of thinking in endless circles, mulling over the same few stories. Then I laugh at myself, or perhaps with myself, and smile. (breath)

From time to time, it can be useful to step back and take a look at what thoughts float around in my brain. I often think about what I'm going to do next. Or what I'm going to write next. This sort of thinking doesn't really create more suffering for me; in fact, it seems to a natural and necessary part of the beauty of human lucidity. But when I get annoyed at my own thinking, the annoyance is extra. Or when I get attached to particular thought, that cycle of thinking does not foster happiness. Thoughts by themselves come and go. I find that if a thought is really important, it will translate into action quickly. Thoughts that I tend to dwell produce a tangled web of thoughts from which it is easy for me to lose a sense of well-being. Whoa! That was confusing to write about! (breath) Maybe I don't understand my mind at all.

Now, I appreciate being able to think; I appreciate my thoughts. But I do find it wonderful to be able to step back from my own thinking and return to what it actually happening. (breath)

Perhaps what I'm writing makes no sense. But the real point is that I feel that I have been away for a long time, maybe since August, maybe for my whole life, maybe for a very, very long time. I've certainly been going to school, enjoying the people around me, laughing, playing music, singing, and other things, but I do not feel like I have been here, in touch my the inklings in my heart, with my deepest intention. I want to come back. I want to return, to be alive, awake in each moment.

I don't really have any regrets about how I have been living, however. My teachers--humans, animals, plants-- always inspire me to live more truly to what the heart says. I endeavor to spend more time with trees and flowers, more time breathing with the wind, walking with the sky. When I say "more time," I don't mean more actual time, as the clock tells it, but more "real" time, time spent in touch with reality. (breath)

But my life so often seems to go in cycles. For a while, I feel in touch with the world, in touch with the miracle of life. But then I forget, and I suffer, not on the outside, where I am almost always enjoying myself and other people, but on the inside, where I notice my spiritual energy waning, where I notice my attention fading. This kind of suffering is not really a big deal-- it is not physical suffering, it is not emotional suffering. But it seems it might be at the root of both. This suffering is like a vague sense of discontent, of loneliness, of restlessness. When I become aware of this deep level of suffering, I feel motivated to return to its source and discover the cause. I don't know what the cause is. But I wake up from my thinking and tune into this suffering.

If it is such a gift to be alive, why are we not happy all the time?

Watermelon!
Watermelon!
(To feel better, visualize a watermelon. Watermelons are really big!)

Maybe happy is not the right word. Why are we not at peace?

(breath)