How to Train a Wild Elephant_ And Other Adventures in Mindfulness - Jan Chozen Bays [42]
Of course we do not want to fill our mind with constant, anxious thoughts about mortality, but an awareness of impermanence can help us cherish the people we encounter every day. When the veil is parted, and we experience the truth that every human life is brief, our conversations change. Instead of talking “to” someone, with a mind half full of other thoughts, we bring more presence to each encounter. This quiet attentiveness is an unusual occurrence in the world of ordinary human beings.
We fall asleep each night in complete trust that we will awaken. When we realize that we, too, could die tonight, we can become more present, more alive within each moment of our life.
At our Zen monastery, we have a chant that is sung at the end of each day of a silent retreat. You may wish to recite it each night for a week before you go to sleep:
May I respectfully remind you,
Life and death are of supreme importance.
Time swiftly passes by and opportunity is lost.
When this day has passed, our days of life will be decreased by one.
Each of us should strive to awaken.
Awaken!
Take heed!
Do not squander your life!
Final Words: Becoming aware of death opens our awareness to this single, vivid moment of life.
33
Hot and Cold
The Exercise: Pay attention during this week to the sensations of heat and cold. Notice any physical or emotional reaction to temperature or temperature changes. Practice being at ease no matter what the temperature is.
REMINDING YOURSELF
You can put up little signs with an image of a thermometer, or with the words “Hot and Cold.”
DISCOVERIES
Doing this exercise, we watch our aversion to temperatures outside of a small range. Each person’s range is different. We complain, “It’s too hot!” or “It’s too cold!” as if it shouldn’t be that way—the sun, clouds, and air have conspired to make us uncomfortable. We’re always doing something to adjust the temperature, turning heaters and air conditioners on and off, opening and closing windows and doors, donning and shedding clothing. We’re never satisfied for long. When the temperature rises above 90 degrees, we long for cooler weather; during the cold, rainy winters, we long for sun.
I can remember childhood summers in Missouri. The vinyl upholstery in the car scalded our legs as we got in and there were pools of sweat under us as we got out. We played outside, got sticky, sweaty, and never complained. It was just the way it was. Parents of young children often remark that when they go to the beach, their kids will get in the water and have a ball no matter what the temperature of the ocean. What happens as we mature that makes us intolerant of the way things are?
Once, we were on peace pilgrimage in Japan in August, where stepping out the door felt like we were entering a sauna. Within a few minutes our clothes were soaked through with sweat. After a few hours salt encrusted our skin and made white rings on our clothes. It was so hard not to give vent to our discomfort. But we noticed that the Japanese people, from babies to very old people, were just going about their business, apparently unaffected. It inspired us to let go of complaining-mind and just be present with things as they were, sensations as merely sensations, the wet and dry places, the hot exterior and cool interior, the tickling of trickling sweat. The suffering inflicted by the mind lifted and we became much happier pilgrims.
A woman came to me during a retreat saying that despite extra layers of clothing and a hot-water bottle, she felt cold all the time. She also realized that she was frightened about feeling cold. She knew the