Zen and the Art of Report Writing

I was nervous as I entered the center that morning. I wasn't sure I'd found the right door or whether I was late or not. As I walked in, a group of people were standing by the door. They welcomed me inside and motioned me to remove my shoes. I did as I was told. The man went on to introduce himself and the Minnesota Zen Center itself. He gave us a brief tour of the first floor, which included two rooms for meditations and talks. A shrine to the center's founder, Katagiri-roshi, was at the wall of one room and the other room's wall had a small display with a Buddha statue, a candle, and flowers. The smell of the candle and incense wafted through the air. Though the building that housed this center was originally designed in an Italian fashion, it was nicely converted from a home to a temple of Zen study.

We followed the man up the wooden stairs, gripping the cast iron railing. Myself, along with this group of about seven others, were about to receive our introduction to Zen Buddhism. In the small, third floor room there were cushions, or zabuton, already encircled on the floor. We hesitantly sat down, unsure as how we were supposed to sit. I sat on my knees as I knew was appropriate for a woman in Japanese society, and assuming Zen is Japanese I felt it to be appropriate. The man, whose name I have forgotten already, then began introducing us to Zen itself.

For those who are unaware, Zen is a particular sect of Mahayana Buddhism. It began in China, but soon made its way to the rest of east Asia including Japan, where the word Zen and many of the traditions associated with Zen originate from. Zen differs from other sects in that it focuses largely on sitting meditation, or zazen. During zazen, one sits perfectly still and just meditates. No chants or music are used. These sessions usually last from thirty to forty minutes.

As our introduction came to a close, our teacher then said, "Let's try a fifteen minute sit, shall we?" He rang a small, concave bell with a tiny wooden mallet twice. We closed our eyes and he guided us in to our meditative states. "Focus on your breath and allow yourself to let go," he told us in a soft, subdued tone. The room was silent when he wasn't speaking with the exception of some noise from outside like an airplane passing overhead. Everyone was quiet, still, unmoving. We were all falling in to a deep state of meditation.

At first, the meditation was not very deep for me, being that I have an anxiety disorder that causes my thoughts to rapidly race at a consistent pace. Slowing down that thought process was a challenge to say the least. As I tried to concentrate on my breathing, thoughts such as wondering what my friends were doing, what I would eat for lunch, when I might be able to return to this peaceful place, and other insignificant things plagued my mind. I would bring myself back to my breathing, but my mind would soon wander off again like a curious child wanting to see and feel everything. My brain wanted to wrap itself around anything and everything it could get a hold of while the rest of my body was in a state of relaxation.

I found myself finally able to concentrate on my breath by counting the individual breaths. One... two... three... I counted each breath in my mind. Things became calm and serene. Despite the fact that my legs had fallen asleep and I was rather uncomfortable where I was sitting, I didn't care. I felt at peace with myself and the world. My brain was floating in its own realm away from the hectic life I lead into a place of tranquility.

After approximately ten seconds of reaching this state of calm, the bell rang out twice more. It was over. "So, what'd you think?" our teacher inquired. Two women shared that they had fallen asleep. Another man relayed how relaxed he felt. I, on the other hand, brought up how I had a difficult time concentrating on my breath because of my various mental maladies. Our teacher was fascinated that I came up with the technique of counting my breaths on my own as that is what he would have suggested had I not brought it up.

Following this discussion we were introduced to the center's head priest, Tim Burkett. He came up to say hello to us all before we were lead downstairs to listen to his Sunday morning dharma talk. Before entering the room where the talk took place we bowed and stepped forward with our left feet first as we were taught earlier. I sat myself in a chair near the back. Others were seated on the floor on zabuton and a man rang a loud bell as Mr. Burkett entered the room. Before his talk began, we chanted words that were written on a piece of paper handed to us before we entered. His talk then began, and his topic was the following:

Emptiness here, emptiness there

But the infinite universe stands always before our eyes.

The infinitely small is as large as the invinitely great.
Limits are nonexistent things.
The infinitely large is as small as the infinitely minute.
No eye can see their boundaries.

What is, is not.
What is not, is.

Until you have grasped this fact your position is untenable.

Oneness is all things,
All things are one thing.

If this is for you, there is no need to worry about non-perfection.

His talk was something I found to be rather fascinating even if I didn't understand all that he spoke of. I don't remember it word for word, though I do remember that it had a significant impact on me. Another thing I found interesting outside of the talk itself was watching the others in the room as the listened. Some seemed to almost be meditating as he talked; they sat still with their eyes closed the entire time. The serenity of the entire environment could be felt in the air and in his voice.

One story that Mr. Burkett told which I found to be rather significant was a story about wild strawberries. When his son was very young, he absolutely loved wild strawberries. So, he went out and picked enough strawberries for him, his wife, and his son for breakfast. The only problem being that before his wife could eat her strawberries the son had eaten hers already. Mr. Burkett apologized to his wife and she said, "That's okay. They were delicious." Her reply struck me as both incredibly kind-hearted and very Zen at the same time. Throughout this experience I realized that this was the best definition of Zen I'd heard yet. It's a difficult concept to understand and explain, and I believe that Mr. Burkett explained it best when he told this story.

To explain what Zen is not, Mr. Burkett told us a story from when he was just beginning his Zen practice. He'd had an incredible experience when meditating once and felt compelled to tell his teacher about this. He went to the Zen center to tell his teacher about his experience. "I had this amazing experience while meditating!" he told his Zen teacher. The teacher replied, "That's wonderful! But that's not Zen." Because he explained his experience as being in the past, he was dwelling on an event that had already happened rather than living in the present and, as his teacher had said, that is not Zen.

Through these lessons and the anecdotes of Mr. Burkett, I learned a great deal about Zen Buddhism. I enjoyed it so much that, in fact, I believe I'll attend the center again. Perhaps I'll be able to incorporate this beautiful philosophy of life in to my own path so that I can become a little more Zen-like. I may or may not, but that's something I will attempt to not dwell on as that's in the future. The future isn't Zen. Instead, I will take from this something most imperative: live in the present and take a little time every once in awhile to just sit.