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    Enough Mind Paid Member

    Barbara Rhodes was one of the first women in America to be formally recognized as a Zen teacher. A student since 1972 of Zen Master Seung Sahn, founder of the Kwan Um School in the Chogye lineage of Korean Zen, she was given the authority to teach in 1977 and now serves as the Vice School Zen Master of the Kwan Um School of Zen. She has been a registered nurse since 1969 and currently works with patients at Home and Hospice Care of Rhode Island. She lives in Providence with her partner, Mary, and has two grown daughters. Tricycle Editor-in-Chief James Shaheen interviewed her at the New Haven Zen Center in March 2002. You’ve never expressed much discomfort as a woman in your role, although you trained in a lineage that has been traditionally very patriarchal. I tend to fill whatever role I think is needed. I haven’t let anything get in the way of my being a mother, or a nurse, a good friend to someone—or a teacher. You’ve spoken about your first trip to Korea with your husband. Even though he was the less experienced teacher, you say they treated him with more deference and that you responded by working with your own ego. Can you talk about that? Not just working with my own ego, working with everybody’s ego. When you see it that way, there’s no room for personal anger. Look at how human beings relate to one another. There are lots of problems. I’ve been able to see that gender bias is not personal. I can only help women by being a strong woman and believing in myself. So I don’t get upset; I just see that there’s an imbalance in the way people treat one another. In a difficult situation, when do you say, “All right, this is practice,” and when do you say, “This is unacceptable”? It depends on the situation. We have to understand that people have varying needs and find support in different groups, as I do. But I may not need to speak about myself as a woman; I don’t even recognize myself as a woman. Still, it does hurt when someone says you can’t do something because you’re a woman. On a trip to Mexico recently, I approached a man about renting a sailboat. It was quite windy, and he looked at me and said, “You can’t, it’s too rough out there for a woman.” I got pissed. I gave him my American feminist look; I stuck my chest out and said, “I’m a woman and I can do it!” He let me have the boat. I was a feminist in that moment; it made sense. My understanding is that your teacher once told you that women can’t get enlightened. Can you tell me about your response to that? Well, of course it pushed all of my buttons. A woman can’t get enlightened! I was furious. But what he was pointing to was my identification with gender. A woman doesn’t become enlightened, just as a man doesn’t become enlightened—a human being becomes enlightened, that’s all. That was a great exchange. Did your teacher, Seung Sahn, make much of a fuss about gender? We were all treated the same. He’s Korean. He’s autocratic. He doesn’t pretend he isn’t. He doesn’t have us vote on things, for example. He always says, “Someday you’ll be making decisions, and then you can do it any way you like. This is the way I do it.” You can’t opt out of society, and so society must be democratic; but you can opt out of a sangha, or find another teacher if you don’t like his or her style. It’s all voluntary. How do you view your teacher’s style now? A lot of it is, I think, very skillful, and we have accomplished many things. But his style is one way. I’m not so autocratic. This doesn’t represent a schism; it represents a difference in style. Now that I’m older, I think I’d give him a harder time if I lived in the same temple again. I was much younger then, and so it was fine, but it wouldn’t be now! [laughs] How do you account for the difference in style? Is it a cultural difference? Perhaps. And also I think it has to do with our personalities. I find that when I teach, I’m more willing to share my own problems and struggles—these become teaching tools. Zen Master Seung Sahn doesn’t think that kind of openness is skillful. But he’s heard me speak, and he hears good things about me from the students, so he’s happy. He’s just more private. Some Americans are that way, too. Do you find students turn to the therapeutic model in interviews with you? Getting into the specifics of their lives? As I get older, I’m less inclined to let that happen. I just ask, “How do you sit with that?” When I was younger, sometimes I’d get into the personal stuff with students. I’m not a therapist; I wasn’t skillful at it. So now I see it’s not really helpful to go into it. Whether they’re having a problem with their husband or their boss, it almost doesn’t matter. It’s “What are you?” and “How do you work with that?” If you ask yourself these things, then you can quite naturally work with what you have to deal with. You say you need to believe in yourself, and that you need to be yourself. What does this mean, especially when to such a great extent—as a mother, as a nurse, as a teacher—your life is so devoted to the needs of others? Zen Master Seung Sahn didn’t want us to be devotees; he wanted us to believe in ourselves and be strong. As autocratic as he was, he was very accepting about how we led our lives, what our responsibilities were. In Zen, to believe in yourself, to find out who you are, is no different from discovering that there is no self. And when you’re really clear, it becomes obvious that the only thing to do is to help another. When you do something, just do it. It’s been the same with my career. I believed in myself. I always wanted to be a nurse. And it turned out I was right, this made sense. There are a million things to do as a nurse, and I enjoy it. When all my friends went to college, I went to a three-year training school. I didn’t even think about it. I was popular, I had good grades, I had the same background as my friends. But I didn’t think that it was “less than” to go into nursing. I just listened to myself. I went toward that goal. It was a challenging path, but it never veered. In fact, I’ve never understood it when people don’t know what they want to do. I feel that if someone really pays attention, they’ll tap into their skills, their purpose, and their ability to give. I know that if you ask, “What am I?” an answer will appear. What would prevent a person from knowing what his or her path is? Not having a clear vow. If you have a vow to help all people, if you have the Bodhisattva Vow, then the question will appear, “What am I going to do?” The universe is extremely generous. If you just listen and pay attention, the answer will come naturally, and your vocation will appear. I have a favorite Zen story. There was a man whose job it was to kill cows. This was his position in life. His father had done it, his grandfather had done it. He’d use a sledgehammer to hit the cow on the center of its forehead. Although he loved cows and hated killing them, he was obedient, loyal to his family. After a time, he figured out how, with the help of a mantra, to do his job in such a way that he would inflict the least amount of pain possible; the cow wouldn’t know what hit it. One day, having developed great concentration, his mind opened up while killing a cow, and it is said that he attained supreme enlightenment. He became enlightened while killing a cow! So the career you choose is not the point. Do your work with clarity and compassion. You can’t go forward until you know where you’re going to step. You need to practice by asking, “What am I?” Where does that question lead one—“What am I”? It leads you right to this moment. That’s what’s revealing. A teaching term we use is that you have “enough mind.” If you’re in this room now, it means you’re completely taking in this room, this situation, and it’s enough. As your wisdom grows you attain “enough mind,” and that’s how you know where to step next. So asking, “What am I?” develops the state of mind in which everything is enough. You don’t wish you were somewhere else, or someone else, doing something else. You learn to be with each moment, to do what’s in front of you, and that it’s enough, however difficult the situation. Is that where your confidence comes from, “enough mind?” Well, enough mind is more than confidence; it’s enlightenment. It’s being human. You’ve said practice must be rigorous. Where does that fit in? Yes. I always tell people how incredibly fortunate we are to be sitting on that hardwood floor. We’ve learned a profound practice, and now we just need to do it. Keep your eyes open, stay attentive, stay with it. After ten or fifteen minutes, I see someone closing their eyes, slumping, and I say, “Stay with it!” It’s a waste of time otherwise. As I get older, I feel this way more and more strongly. I feel the preciousness of this breath. I’m fifty-four now, and you never know. I see people dying around me every day in my hospice work, and so I don’t take my life for granted. So many people burn out in hospice work. I don’t believe in burnout. If we know our vocation and we have clear direction, we don’t burn out. This may sound corny, but when I pull into my driveway at the end of the day, I can’t believe I’m paid to do hospice work. I learn one lesson after another. I should pay them. That’s not to say that sometimes it’s not difficult. I may be with a difficult family, there may be a lot of cigarette smoke, there may be a lot of anger or a lot of fear, a lot of pain, or difficult people. But I can ask, “What is this? How is it right now?” And if I’m intelligently asking these questions, it’s like being on retreat, and burnout doesn’t make sense; I have far more energy than I otherwise would. When you teach, you often caution against “checking.” Can you explain what you mean by that? Here’s an example of checking: We’re about to eat dinner, and I see you eating a bunch of cookies; I say to myself, “I’m not going to eat those cookies,” and so I don’t. I watch you eat them. Then I start to “check” you, judge you, and the thoughts begin; I think, “God, what a pig! Doesn’t he have more self-control? Boy, I bet he does that all the time.” That’s called “checking.” In our lineage, we say “checking, making, and holding.” Meaning? Well, first I make a judgment, a check. Then, I create a scenario; I can “make” that you eat cookies all the time. “Holding” is when, three days later, I think of you and say, “Boy, he ate like crazy. He’s got a problem.” But when you think about it, the conclusions I’ve arrived at make no sense. I’m worrying about someone else’s problem, someone else’s stomach, and after all, he just ate a few cookies! But we do this all the time. We may be sitting, and we check to see if everyone else is sitting as well as we are, or perhaps better. We might think, “There he goes again, he’s slumping.” Then, “He’s not a committed practitioner, and he’s supposed to be a senior student.” And later, perhaps a week later, “Gee, I can’t believe he’s considered a senior student. He always slumps!” We all check, make, and hold. It’s good to recognize this and understand that it’s not helpful. And of course, you can check yourself: “I’m not able to do this; I don’t practice well,” and so on. What’s the antidote? Just ask, “What is this?” without checking, without making, without holding. Just go forward. And don’t bother saying, “I can’t do it.” Just “don’t know.” It may take you ten years to figure it out. Fine. Your own teacher popularized “Don’t know mind.” He was always saying, “Go straight,” “Just look at what’s in front of you.” Are these suggestions admonitions against checking? Yes, exactly. If you’re doing “don’t know,” you’re not “making” anything. But “just doing it” doesn’t mean never to step back, never to analyze; but if you do those things, do them completely. Forget about wondering, “Should I ever have done this in the first place?” “Will I ever learn?” We waste so much mental energy on checking, making, and holding. Your teacher once said, “Before you can save someone from hell, you have to go to hell.” How did you understand that? The Bodhisattva Vow asks you to go wherever you’re needed. We’re encouraged in most traditions to do this. With my hospice work, I go into really difficult situations. Going to many places with different people teaches me to be skillful, to do whatever’s called for in each situation, whatever and wherever that may be. There’s a deity—we call him Jijang Bosai—who lives in hell to help others. So it means to go anywhere without hesitation, to keep your vow. The way I see it, everything I do can be practice. Being with my partner; being with my mother; being with my daughters; working at the hospice. Everything, even going to the gym. I asked a Seneca Indian friend once, “Do you chant?” She answered, “All the time.” And when she said that, I knew that she meant it, that she never stops chanting: in the bathroom, cooking dinner, cleaning, she is a chant. She was a wonderful teacher. She was eighty at the time and had been practicing her whole life. The way not to squander your energy is to keep practicing, keep asking, “What is this?” “What am I?” Don’t check, don’t make, don’t hold. Because that’s what tires us out. An argument, for instance, can be very draining, but if you’re focused when you’re having the argument, you don’t have to feel drained. You can have an appropriate relationship to the argument, and then not even an argument is tiring! Easier said than done. Yes, even when you sit. For instance, you can check your checking. At that point, you can say, “Just don’t know.” Not knowing is just to be with whatever it is, in the moment. I’ve heard Pema Chodron describe it beautifully. She advised, “Gently let go of the content and come back to this moment.” The word “gently” is key. Everything can be a “don’t know” moment. It’s about not knowing anything but what’s right there, not letting anything get in the way. Otherwise, you’re just drifting, just rambling through associations, wasting time. You see so many people at the end of their lives. How is it to see someone wonder at the end, “Wow, what happened, where did the time go?” Most people who have wasted their time don’t ask that question. I see people die all the time who didn’t have any direction, didn’t have any vow. Right now there are a lot of people walking around who never had a spiritual practice, and of course, some of them are dying. It’s not always so special to die. I see people die with the television set on. So they’re not asking questions. I think we have this image from movies that people get clearer at the end of their lives, but actually their energy is diminishing. They’re just trying to survive, to get a glass of water, to have bedsores treated. They don’t have time for introspection; the time has come and gone. So you have a tremendous sense of their lost opportunity? Well, perhaps. It’s easier to build your dharma energy when you’re younger, although that’s not to say you can’t begin when you’re older. But practice is not something people usually begin when their life is quickly coming to an end. I feel much more of a sense of lost opportunity when I see someone who is thirty years old and not practicing, because they have more time. It’s just the human condition: we’re ignorant. There’s a lot of suffering. The theaters and sports arenas are full, and people spend a lot of money to go to a show or a game. But they won’t go to church, or they won’t practice or work toward awareness. That’s why it’s important to do a lot of retreats now, while you can, to practice, to build your energy. Do you have a reputation for being tough? Some people think so. But a lot of people find me very nurturing because I’m a mother and a nurse. I reveal myself a lot. I’ll say I had a hard day at work, and bring that into my dharma talk. If I have self-doubt, I say it. That self-doubt can be a teacher; I’ll use my anger, my impatience, as fodder for practice. And my students will say, “Well, if she can do it, so can I.” If I pretended otherwise, that would intimidate them, and it wouldn’t be true, anyway. But some people say I’m tough because I do try really hard, and I expect that from others. I say, “Well, if you showed up more often, maybe you wouldn’t be having such a hard time right now. Maybe you should be coming to the retreats more often.” So people think I’m hard that way. What has changed for you after thirty years of practice? I feel much more love and a lot more sadness. And more gratitude. Zen Master Seung Sahn talks about dae ja, da bi, “great love, great sadness.” If you love more, you’re going to be sad more because it’s a sad world. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about trying to become more skillful. I’m just grateful that I can take a step back and see what’s going on with me, and I’m grateful for the teachings I’ve received, and for the people I’ve known. More »
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    Peace Warrior in the West Bank Paid Member

      Neta Golan, a thirty-year-old Israeli peace activist and Buddhist, lives with her Palestinian husband in Ramallah, in the West Bank. Last year she cofounded the International Solidarity Movement, an organization committed to nonviolent resistance to Israel’s occupation of lands captured during the 1967 Arab/Israeli war. On several occasions, from mid-February through early April, Tricycle spoke to Golan by telephone. How does your Buddhist practice inform your activism? Without practice I doubt I’d be an effective activist. Buddhism is not what motivates me, but it’s what gives me the tools to stay sane. Living here with any kind of awareness opens you to a lot of suffering. Being active is my way of dealing. Being engaged makes it bearable. How do you cope with the fear that goes along with living in the West Bank? I try to embrace it, but that is an area in which I need to grow. As Israelis, we learn that Palestinians are somehow more violent than we are, that their culture is crueler. These ideas are deeply embedded in the Israeli psyche. Five years ago, when I started coming to the occupied territories, I used to take a minibus once a week to Ramallah to take part in civilian dialogues between Palestinians and Israelis, and once a week I’d have an anxiety attack. For the first fifteen minutes of the drive, I’d be sure everybody wanted to kill me. And I would know that in another ten or fifteen minutes, I’d calm down, and that I’d be able to look at people, to watch them going to work and going on with their lives. And then the fear would subside. But the next week the fear would come up again. And then, after a year and a half, it stopped coming up every time I got onto the bus. But it still comes up in a crisis situation. Again, I’ll think they’re going to kill me. But because of the teachings, and my practice of embracing my fear, being with it rather than letting it stop me, I am able to go on. I’ve begun to see that healing can take place. I am able to see the Palestinians for the human beings that they are. Without the tools of practice, I’d be too afraid to come here. Most Israelis are trapped in their fear and would never come here, let alone live here, let alone now. Considering the suicide bombings, doesn’t fear make sense? Definitely. The bombings have been brutal. But more than one thousand Palestinians have been killed in the last year and a half, yet we Israelis don’t view ourselves as brutal. Part of that has to do with the weapons we use. When people don’t have sophisticated weapons and they murder with their hands, we consider them cruel. But when people murder by bombing from an F-16 or shelling from a tank or firing from an M-16, we think that it requires less cruelty. Actually, that’s not the case. If we look at numbers, at how many people are murdered, the Israelis have the lead. But murder is murder. And both sides are engaged in terrorism, state-sponsored or otherwise. It’s just that when Israelis do it, it’s immediately assumed they’ve done it in self-defense. When Palestinians do it—even if the victims are armed combatants for an occupying army—it’s still seen as “This is what they’ve done because they hate us; this is what they’ve done because they’re violent.” You continue to work for broader understanding. But given the circumstances, are there moments when you have no hope? Certainly. Since the beginning of the Intifada, it just gets worse and worse. The violence escalates, levels off, and then escalates again. With each escalation I completely break down, I’m lost, I don’t know how this will ever change, how we will go on living. But I know that this is something I have to go through. When the wave of despair passes, I gain new perspective on what I need to be doing. It’s a process that is an essential part of coping, of breaking down and rebuilding.   How do you deal with anger in the face of grave injustice, and the death on both sides? I don’t really have an answer. I’ve spent three weeks away from Palestine since the Intifada started. I spent one week in Plum Village [Thich Nhat Hanh’s community in France]. It wasn’t enough, but it was something. Here there’s no real break, no time for process. And it’s so difficult to keep the teachings in mind. For instance, I’m very committed to nonviolence. When I see what the suicide bombers do—and what they do is gruesome—I see the suffering. And yet there is a tendency to justify violence in some way. At one point, it became a real problem. I would hear about Jewish settlers in the West Bank being killed, and I wouldn’t feel pain. That really worried me. Or Israelis being killed, and I’d feel nothing. And yet, these are my people; it could have been my family. I could see my anger, and the anger was closing my heart. I didn’t like what I was becoming. I found that the anger is a form of aversion, and underneath it is a hell of a lot of pain. At Plum Village, as soon as I took some time to work through a little bit of the pain and the despair, the anger lessened. But most Palestinians, and the settlers, cannot leave. They’re in this pressure cooker every day, and so it’s obvious that they’re all going to be a little nuts. How does your family in Israel respond to you? It’s most difficult for my dad. If he could stop me, he would. But my relationship with him did not begin with this Intifada, and I’d already come to accept the fact that my father doesn’t accept what I do. My mother is an Orthodox Jew and also a true humanist. Despite the fact that she believes this land was promised to the Jewish people, she doesn’t believe that gives us the right to dispossess another people. It’s very challenging for her. Somehow she manages to maintain her humanity. She’s very open, and she understands what’s motivating me. More »
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    The Chinese Hermit Tradition: An Interview with Red Pine Paid Member

    Bill Porter lived for three years in the early seventies as a Buddhist monk in Taiwan where he began his translations of poetry by the famous Chinese poet-recluse Cold Mountain. Porter’s mentor in this undertaking was the Buddhist scholar and translator John Blofield. After leaving monastic life, he married a Chinese woman and continued his translation work. Years later, Porter began the first of many long journeys in mainland China that he chronicled for radio audiences in Hong Kong and Taiwan. He produced over 1,100 short programs about different Chinese locales, embellishing his narratives with details from Chinese history and culture. In recent years he has focused on China’s great Zen monasteries, traveling to scores of the remaining abodes of famous ancient Zen teachers. More »
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    The Power of Solitude Paid Member

                             When I mention my own experience of going into isolated retreat for ten days, most of my friends get a little suspicious. They think of another Ted who spent time in a cabin alone: Ted Kaczynski, the so-called Unabomber. Why do people often have such a negative impression of isolated retreat? We are a very extroverted society. Even though within the Western tradition the practice of seclusion and retreat are very much a part of our own spiritual culture—the contemplative practices of Roman Catholicism, for example—most people are not aware that they are part of our heritage. More »
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    The Taboo of Enlightenment Paid Member

    One of the most popular Buddhist teachers in the San Francisco Bay Area these days is not a Tibetan lama or a traditional Zen master but an unconventional, an American-born lay teacher named Adyashanti. His public talks and dialogues (which he calls satsangs, a term borrowed from India’s Advaita, or "nondual," tradition) attract hundreds of seekers, Buddhists and non-Buddhists alike. At a satsang I attended recently at a church near Lake Merritt, in downtown Oakland, Adyashanti sat on a large chair at the front of the hall, flanked by flowers. After a period of silence and a brief dharma talk, in which he focused on "the futility of seeking what we already are," he invited members of the audience to engage in dialogue with him. More »
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    The Future of Religion Paid Member

    Few people can address the social dimensions of religion with the knowledge, insight, and eloquence of Robert Bellah. Through his teaching and, especially, his writing, Bellah’s ideas have traveled beyond the academy to influence the culture at large. In 2000, in recognition of his accomplishments in joining distinguished scholarship with committed citizenship, he received the National Humanities Medal from President Bill Clinton. More »