87 Breath

When we had all tried various alternatives and each of us had arrived at whatever posture seemed best for us, the master demonstrated how we were to place our hands palms up on our thighs, rock gently left and right to find the vertical, stop, lean forward, arch the small of our backs, and then slowly lean back up to find the vertical again. Then the master demonstrated the mudra, the right hand, palm up, resting in the lap just below the navel, the left hand, palm up, resting in the right palm, thumb tips lightly touching at about the level of the navel. Our mouths were to be shut, teeth and lips together. The master demonstrated how we were to tuck in our chins slightly and to cast our gaze down and out at a forty-five degree angle. We should not close our eyes, he said, but if we wanted we could allow our eyes to go out of focus.

"In Zen we sit with our eyes open," the master explained.

I had just recently begun doing so at home thanks to instruction from my dharma friends John and Billy. We do not try either to stop or to control our thoughts, the master said; we let come up whatever wants to come up and, whatever comes up, no matter what, we let it go and we return to our breath. We breathe softly through our nose, the master explained. We do not try either to hold our breath or to control our breath. We allow our breath to do whatever it wants. If it wants to be shallow and short we let it be shallow and short, he explained, and if it wants to be long and deep we let it be long and deep.

"We follow our breath out," the master said. "Then we follow our breath in."

We breathed.

We sat.

"Out and in," said the master, "out and in."

With this instruction I was already familiar. In 1975 this was the practice I had followed at my friend John's direction when I first tried sitting meditation on my own and then tried again later after reading Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. Later still, instead of sitting, I had lain flat on my back in meditation before sleep, my practice for nine years, and simply followed my breath, allowed my feelings and thoughts to arise and to pass away, and returned to my breath when I caught myself riding away from the present on the train of discursive thinking, reverie, or daydream. This practice of following my breath in and out, letting thoughts rise and evaporate, and returning to my breath when I got lost in thought had been also my basic practice the ten years that I combined my meditation with my exercise walking. Now we eight, all of us strangers to one another, sat silent and still on our cushions and followed our breath for fifteen minutes in the dim quiet buddha hall.

We sat.

We breathed.

We sat.

We breathed.

We sat.

Time passed.

"If consciousness arises," the master said, in a slow, calm, steady, measured tone, and he paused then for one long full inhalation before he finished his sentence, "the present moment is not being attended to."

The master paused.

"If consciousness arises," quietly, slowly, the master said, "correct your posture and return to your breath."

Time passed.

"Follow your breath in," the master said.

The master paused.

"Follow your breath out."

I heard the master speak these words many times in the five years of our association and they never failed to reassure me, to calm me, to comfort me, and to encourage me in my Zen practice. Remembering them two years ago as I wrote the first draft of this book brought up in me a swelling tide of emotion from my heart—gratitude, appreciation, and love. On that first night after several more minutes of our sitting zazen the master struck a small bell he held in his hand—I learned later that it is called an inkin—to end our sitting and he then invited whatever questions we had first about our experience and then about Zen and about Buddhism in general. On the following Thursday we were taught kinhin, Zen walking meditation, in which on the exhalation we slowly and deliberately stepped forward and then on the inhalation we shifted our weight to the front foot. As we walked single file in a circle we carried our forearms across our middle a few inches above the navel, fingers of the left hand wrapped lightly around the left thumb, the right hand over the left, forearms parallel to the floor. When we arrived at the temple each Thursday evening we first sat on our cushions in a circle and asked or answered questions about our practice at home. Then, unless the master had something new to show us, we sat, we walked, we sat some more. Then we regrouped in our circle to ask whatever questions we had about our experience that evening. We asked about posture, legs, pain, breath, thought, emotion, mind, distraction, bowing, altar, icon, samsara, nirvana. The master responded patiently but briefly to each question. To me both questions and answers seemed ordinary and predictable. The master showed us how to bow, how to sit, how to breathe, how to stand, how to walk. Bowing, sitting, walking, asking—this was our basic agenda every Thursday evening from 6:30 to 8:00 for five weeks. The master told us we should practice sitting at home for ten minutes at least, or for twenty, or for forty if possible, every day in the same place at the same time. This I was already doing.

"You will find it best to sit first thing in the morning," the master said, "because if you put it off you'll find excuses to put it off again and again all day long until it's so late and you're so tired you'll find good reason not to sit at all."

Fine advice.

I had already learned the truth of it.