a journal of self-propelled dharma
I was in a pickle in Tuscon, Arizona. I needed to get to San Luis Obispo CA and things were going sideways. I was accompanied by a hot young man with whom I was having a little thing. Watcing me with some amusement as I dialed and dashed around town, he led me into an …
In describing Zen practice Robert Aitken said that the schedule is the spine of time. I am Time’s chiropractor. I bend and straighten the bones. They flex and spring back. Breath and blood flow through and around, bringing the structure to life. Time is my medium, as for dancers and singers. I build schedules to …
Impulse and Intuition got into a scrap. Get out, get out, run! screamed Impulse, in reaction to my itchy reluctance to being with what is. Beckoned by the spectre of boredom, consumer capitalism came flying to the rescue: Buy! Buy! Buy!, she cried, Spend some money, make it better! So I tried that. I found …
I am Fukudo! Pelting through the halls at 4:50 am like a zen town crier, clanging a brass bell on a glossy red stick. I begin in the basement zendo, flipping on the lights and gently ringing to bring the corners of the room to wakefulness, finishing up with three big cascading peals to rouse …
Why would a person spend hours and hours staring at a white wall? I ask myself this question a lot. On a spring Saturday sixty of us rise at 5am and hustle to the basement for the monthly one-day sit. We hunker down for another big day in the zendo—sitting, slow-walking, sweeping, eating brown rice …