I live for that “aha” moment.
In the past few weeks I’ve had the privilege of instructing several people on meditation. In these cases, it wasn’t a direct demonstration of practice, but a correcting of understanding of what it is. In two out of three of these instances, they thought that they couldn’t meditate, that it wasn’t for them; and that it was either too complicated or that they lacked the discipline to do it. In the other instance, this person did meditate, but only to develop a “deep meditative state” for good feeling.
Let’s just with that last one.
On a particularly rainy friday evening a few weeks ago, after coming back from Brooklyn Swings (a Lindy Hop joint I often go to) in Williamsburg, I was about to go through the turnstile at the L train. A woman there, who soon told me her name was Carol, told me we had just missed the train. Carol was trying to get down to south Brooklyn in order to catch the bus back to Staten Island where she lived. So we talked about the various ways she could get there, and then she thanked me and shared with me some of her chocolate mousse (“the very best chocolate mousse you’ll get anywhere,” she told me. It was from a pizzeria across the street). Over chocolate mousse—which was, indeed, quite good—we got talking, and I told her that I was going to a Zen center the next morning, at which I was leading practice. She got very excited and told me she practiced Dahn Yoga. (note: I was aware of the controversy surrounding this practice, which has been accused of being a cult, but I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want her to get defensive.)
Carol told me about going to this retreat center in Arizona, during which she had sunk into the “deepest meditative state” I’d ever heard of. I asked her, “what is the metric to determine deep or shallow meditative states?” She told me that she was meditating on a rock and felt an earthquake; when she was done she checked in with everyone else, and no one else had felt it. “I mean, it was like, woaaaah man!” She excitedly exclaimed. I smiled, then asked her if that had any application for her normal, everyday life. She frowned, and then said no. I then told her that my teachers often say, if you’re meditating for some good feeling and nothing else, then what is the point? I relayed to her this case:
Joju asked Zen Master Nam Cheon, “What is the true way?”
Nam Cheon replied, “Everyday mind is the true way.”
Joju said, “Then should I try to keep it or not?”
“If you try to keep it, you are already mistaken.”
“But if I do not try, how can I understand the true way?”Nam Cheon said, “The true way is not dependent on understanding or not understanding. Understanding is illusion; not understanding is blankness. If you completely attain the true way of not thinking, it is like space, clear and void. So, why do you make right and wrong?”
At this, Joju attained enlightenment.
Hearing this, Carol’s eyes widened, shook her head, and had the appearance like this was the most profound thing she’d ever heard in her life. At this time, the train came, so we got on. I continued: if you practice this way, then it becomes about connecting with the particular shape of each moment that you find yourself in. Your mind becomes like a mirror that clearly reflects whatever is before it: white comes, the mirror reflects white; red comes, the mirror reflects red. But then you must go a step further: if a hungry person appears, what? Do you also become hungry? No—someone hungry appears, you give them food. Someone thirsty appears, you give them something to drink. Moment by moment, the mind you keep is very clear and meticulous: “how can I help you?” Carol again shook her head, wide-eyed, and said, “wow, that’s so simple! But also really difficult too!”
We exchanged information, and I had to get off the train at this point, so I thanked her for the chocolate mousse.