‘Stepping into intimacy through our bodies, through our sense doors, through the basic acknowledgment of our aliveness, is the first step. But we are creatures of the mind as much as (if not more than) creatures of our bodies. In some ways, our bodies are always intimate, for that is their nature: to dwell in the world, to be in contact (with the ground, with objects, with the air, with other people), and to respond.

But what we do with that intimacy internally, how we process it through our thoughts, predilections, personality, and emotions, is often a more complex event. And the kitchen is as much a place of feeling as it is a simple room in our house where cooking occurs. Our relationship to food, to eating, to nourishment, to pleasure and pain, our ideas of scarcity and abundance, of our own worthiness and our sense of responsibility to our families – all of this is present and played out here. The hearth is the heart, and the true nature of the heart cannot be hidden, at least not for long. What’s the true nature of your heart? How are you expressing it? What does the world look like to you when you’re fully in, responding to its request?

If those questions baffle you, yet at the same time you feel their power as they tug and beckon, then you are hearing their call to intimacy, to a deeper knowing of who you are and how you fit into the world around you. By allowing intimacy to deepen our experience, we create a more informed and therefore a more trustworthy response to our lives. We aren’t reacting just to our impulses and neuroses and old, broken patterns. Were relating to the world, face-to-face, in a very direct and meaningful way.’ (Finding Ourselves in the Kitchen)

The student who had been reading Gesshin’s book had also read and enjoyed her book on food, which reminded me of Dana’s lovely work, which I will lend to my student next time I see him.

‘In my experience, there is a lot of basic trust involved in Buddhist practice. First of all, I trust in my basic potential to wake up. This is a basic, fundamental trust that I touch in with every time I sit down on a meditation cushion. If I didn’t trust that I have capacity and basic goodness, then wouldn’t be doing any of this. Even if, as a famous teacher once said, “Zazen is good for nothing,” I still trust that it’s a good thing to do. Figure that one out. I also trust – or suspect, or hope – that my teachers and my tradition know what they’re talking about. This is a big one. The tradition of Buddhism has been around for a few thousand years, and it’s included some of the most brilliant, dedicated religious figures throughout time all getting together to study, meditate, practice, and debate these issues. So… maybe it has something useful to say, you know? Maybe my limited twenty-nine years of existence on this planet can learn something from the Buddhist practice, which people have been dedicating their entire lives to developing for more than twenty-five hundred years.’ (Bow First, Ask Questions Later)

One of my students has been reading this book, and wanted to discuss a few passages from it in the group. This section, and the surrounding paragraphs, was the basis of a rich conversation this week.

‘One day Chongxin asked Zen Master Daowu, “Since I’ve come here, you’ve never taught me about essential mind.”
Daowu said, “Since you came here, I’ve never stopped giving you instruction about your essential mind.”
Chongxin said, “Where have you pointed it out?”
Daowu said, When you bring tea to me, I receive it for you. When you bring food to me, I receive it for you. When you do prostrations before me, I bow my head. Where have I not given instruction about your essential mind?”
Chongxin bowed his head for a long time.
Daowu said, “Look at it directly. If you try to think about it you’ll miss it.”
Upon hearing these words, Chongxin woke up.
Chongxin then asked Daowu, “How does one uphold it?”
Daowu said, “Live in an unfettered manner, in accord with circumstances. Give yourself over to everyday mind, for there is nothing sacred to be realized outside of this.“ (Zen’s Chinese Heritage)

I think when I first came across this story, I felt it to be a little facile. These days I find it deeper. How about you?

‘There is no fixed word for “I” in the Japanese language. The nuanced complexities of navigating selves as fundamentally relational beings is evident in the fact that there are fifteen ways to say “I’ in contemporary Japanese, each one designating an aspect of the self depending on what one wants present to another person. You can indicate gender, stress social status, negotiate levels of formality, note age, or convey a combination of any of these.’ (Bringing Zen Home)  

‘Everyone, consciously or unconsciously, is seeking for something trustworthy, something dependable, beyond worldly affairs, from which one can’t find feel relief. This is why we suffer. In Buddhism, this is the “inception of suffering”. Even though we feel happy, there is suffering, because we want to hold on to happiness. Constantly, whatever our lifestyle may be, whether we are happy or unhappy, there is always suffering, there is always some feeling of dissatisfaction. We want to grasp something perfectly trustworthy, or completely dependable. This is the goal. This goal is not something we can get in the realm of the conscious world, nor in the realm of the unconscious world. It comes from something more than these worlds. We don’t know what it is, but we are seeking for it every day, and no matter what we achieve. In the realm of worldly affairs, we aren’t satisfied. We still seek for something . We still seek for something more than we have. This is pretty deep; no one knows what it is, but we are all seeking.’ (Living By Vow)