The Best Buddhist Writing 2010 - Melvin McLeod [103]
We say in our practice that to realize the dharma is to forget the self. Dharma is a word that means “the teaching,” or “the truth.” It has different nuances of meaning in different contexts. We have a lineage, going all the way back to fifth-century China, of incredible teachers who would deliberately do to students what the Mad Hatter and his friends are doing to Alice—knock her out of her thinking mind. When you ask people to recall a time when they were happy, they often describe a time of being with friends, or hiking in nature, or swimming in the ocean, a time when they were in a state of mind beyond thinking.
In the movie Serpico, a New York City policeman meets a young woman and asks, “What are you?” And she says, “I’m an actress, a dancer, a writer, and a Buddhist.” B my name is Bob and I’m a Buddhist. Don’t be a Buddhist. If you’re sure you’re a Buddhist, then you’re not looking at what else you might be in that moment. When Bodhidharma was asked who he was by the emperor of China, he answered, “I don’t know.” Bodhidharma is the legendary figure who brought Buddhism from India to China. It is said he lived to be 110 years old. He is known for meditating in a cave for many years. He was very brave and very truthful. He didn’t just tell the truth; he sang it like a great soaring eagle.
Buddhism is not going to make us a Buddha. Nobody is going to make us a Buddha. We’re already a Buddha. Buddha just means someone who is awakened. What do we have to do to be awakened? Wake up to the present moment.
Waking up to the present moment means stopping the relentless chatter of our associative minds. The sad part is that most of the chatter isn’t very pleasant anyway; the chatter in our mind is often about fear, blame, anger, and all those wonderful things. The practice of stopping thoughts is one I often ask students to work on. I remember the first time I discovered I could do that. What a sense of freedom to realize that when I didn’t know what else to do, when I didn’t know the answer, I could simply stop. I could wake up. This experience was key to me wanting to practice. But it’s hard to wake up when we have all these ideas. We need a reminder, a gentle shove. When we walk outside, the trees and the sun can be reminders to stop and wake up. If it snows, if the wind blows, these are also reminders. If there is someone in the house when you come home, and they smile at you, that is also a lovely reminder. We can begin to appreciate all the gifts that are pouring into our eyes and ears and that surround us at every moment.
I met my wife Caryn at Zen Mountain Monastery over thirty years ago. Eventually we moved into a place called Esopus House, which was deep in the country. The Northeast winters were very cold and Esopus House was small and drafty. The little woodstove didn’t even keep the place heated through the night. Early every morning we would walk down the road for morning meditation. Across the road was the Esopus—the stream the house was named for. One particular morning, we opened the sliding doors to an incredible roar of water. Spring had come and the Esopus was surging free in the darkness of the morning. There was nothing in the world for us but that stream. Caryn and I looked at each other in awe; not here, there, or anywhere. We were out of our minds with wonder.
Suppose we are able to touch this Wonderland for a moment. Then we are, like Alice, brought back to the familiar world. What can we do? Let’s say we have a moment where we’re not resisting anything anymore. What are we going to do? Well, many of us then try to hold on to the One Mind.