Today is International Women’s Day. A heartwarmed cheer to all of you who take the time to share your insights!  May you feel honoured today as you so deserve!

Over the weekend, I have been reflecting on the various women in my life who have influenced – some only by nefarious comparison – not only my choices but also my way of being.  Growing up equally willing to climb trees and play with dolls, I never really thought of gender as a defining aspect of my life.  Some time in my educational path, someone pointed out that my unresolved feelings towards my mother underlay my love of all things unconventional for females.  “There are things unconventional for females?” I asked.  “Whoddathunk.”

But seriously.  I admit a penchant for strong, uncompromising women.  Coming from a matriarchal lineage of such types, it is not surprising that my first role model was a professor called the “Tasmanian Devil.”  Others have been equally powerful and relentless in their determination to stand up for their values and never apologize for their standards.  If all this sounds too harsh, I’ll freely admit, it can be and has been.  I learned many lessons at their feet; some I’ve modified a tad because apparently, it’s not de rigeur to bring grown men to tears, even in the cause of saving the world. For the most part, I feel a measure of success in taking what was good in their teachings.

I also feel a measure of failure.  There are still times when I desire community so much I will sacrifice common sense.  Times when exclusionary tactics trigger a cloying “oh please let me in.”  Times when I want to be that limpet in the front row, sighing at the dharma teacher, exuding “save me!”  In a recent email exchange with a Zen Woman, I was asked pointedly if I really did not desire “the Good Daddy” to make this spiritual path “all better.”  The truth?  I don’t anymore – if I ever did.  Certainly, I’ve been caught in the games of emotional vampires who demanded adoration in exchange for protection, who baited the hook of their needs with morsels of dharma.  And, I’m proud of the scars left from tearing out the hooks they embedded deep in my being.

So, on this one day of honouring my women ancestors, I remember some of the most important teachings.

I am not just this bent and sometimes broken creature,who can only be saved through dependence and subversion.

I am more than any one person can see through their own needs.

I am strength beyond words, weakness beyond cries, concepts extinguished so absolutely that I can only be met in a gaze that sears all guile.

As are you.

So, on this day of honouring my women ancestors, I invite you~

To walk away from all that keeps you too small for your world.

To see yourself as beyond labels and injunctions.

To take what is truly you, in all its power and surrender, and throw it into the face of what holds you back.

To know that you are not the first to be told you will be someone’s saviour, someone’s salvation, someone’s cause – even if you are in this one instance.

To see that refusing to be a Saviour, bring Salvation, be a Cause, is to keep yourself for what is far more challenging: an honest relationship.

To understand that turning away from sainthood is turning towards your humanity.

To be wary of anything that elevates you up from the solid ground into which your roots are driven.

To be open to all things that make your eyes widen with awe and wonder – especially if it’s your reflection in the clarity of your actions.

To be your own best friend, lover, and partner to the last moments of that marathon, that walk, that day, that breath.

Thank you for practicing,

Genju

In all this chasing after concepts of emptiness, it’s easy to lose sight of the essentials.

“Old Lady O-San” was an enlightened student of Zen master Tetsumon.  She was later tested by Hakuin who posed the koan about one hand clapping.  Ever the pragmatist she replied:

Rather than listen
to Hakuin’s sound
of one hand clapping,
clap both hands
and do business!

from Zen Antics: 100 Stories of Enlightenment transl. & ed. by Thomas Cleary

Shall we get on with our lives?  What needs two hands to grasp, hold, hug, support?

Be kind, be sweet, take a stand, get grouchy, and if he’s not available go for dopey – he’s always been my favourite anyway.

See the universe through the reeds, the forest through the trees.

Thank you for practicing,

Genju

I certainly did not expect this to greet me on my return from far away places.

Best Buddhist Women Bloggers of 2009

I’m quite speechless.

Of course, thankfully, that was a brief moment of aphasia before John Pappas, intrepid householder practitioner, threw up this challenge:  Vote for the Hottest Male Buddhist Blogger.

Now, I’m fascinated.  Do I smell a cultural reversal?  Not that I’m complaining, mind you.  Other than a lack of …ahem…. “life-seasoned” bloggers, that’s a nice collection of  … er… intelligent young men.  My daughter might have been proud to partake in the poll if she wasn’t busy riding wild ponies in New Zealand.

And there are interesting statistics unfolding.  Within minutes of John’s Hottest Male post, the views soared to 302 with 11 comments.  The Women Buddhist Bloggers?  Interestingly, 73 views and 2 comments (as at 1343 today).  So, it would seem that even when we (playfully) objectify the men (karmic payback?) and extoll the intellect of the women, something doesn’t fire up the engines.  Sadly, I wonder what the numbers would have been if John had done a “Vote for The Buddhist Hottie Blogger of 2009″ and linked it to Bitterroot Badgers’ self-portrait.  I’m willing to bet without mention of gender, the clicks would have melted laptops everywhere and expectations would have been trashed (Sorry, BBBB!  It’s an instrumental exploitation of your cute mug!)

Well, I’m glad The Dalai Grandma lead our pack.  We need some sane, steady Wise Women at the helm. I’m proud to be supported by and surrounded by the women in my life who have the strong back and soft front of practice.

In all seriousness (as much as I can muster):  Thank you, John, for your consistent support of everyone without discrimination or preference.  Zen Dust, Zen Dirt is an important vehicle for householder practitioners.  You do a great job being in service – and isn’t being in service the true intent of practice.

I leave you all, on this snowy day, with a piece of poem Hawthorn by David Whyte:

Our pilgrim journey
apart or together,
like
the thirst
of everything
to find its true form,
the grain of the wood
around the hatched knot
still
straightening
toward the light.

Thank you practicing,

Genju

Human life consists of meetings and partings,
In the end but froth and foam.
Gazing back at the vast expanse, I am moved
by thoughts of our past excursion.

Shenyi from Zen Women by Grace Schireson

We end the week of enso traces in Enso: Zen Circles of Enlightenment with No. 55 Mu by Kojima Kendo who was one of the leading Soto Zen female monastics of the 2oth century.  She was 97 and in the last year of her life when she traced her Mu Enso.  The calligraphy combined the enso and the regular script for mu off-set to create white space for the mind to fall into.   Kojima Kendo dedicated her life to social service and creating equity of practice opportunities among monks and nuns.  In her time as abbess, she fought for moral and financial support of the order of nuns whose ordinations and transmissions were not recognized.  Sadly, not too much different from today.

In preparation for my precepts ceremony, jukai, at Upaya Zen Center, I became engrossed by the matriarch lineage I had to prepare.  The penetrating influence of Dragon Lady teachers like Roshi Joan Halifax and Sensei Beate Stolte intensifies the strength of being Zen Women.  Daily, I practised Kojima Kendo’s Mu Enso, starting first in the tradition of calligraphy students by copying it as faithfully as I could.

But mu and enso don’t lend themselves to being borrowed.  Eventually, Kojima Kendo’s playful and energetic enso gave way and set mine free to be just what it is.

Of course, no enso practice is complete without a bow to the ultimate process enso: the Ox Herding Pictures.  For that I defer to my dear dharma friend & a quietly irreverent teacher, Barry Briggs at Ox Herding who has challenged my no-mind since I entered this virtual realm.

I would also encourage reading John Daido Loori’s teachings in Riding the Ox Home:

Thank you for practising,

Genju

This might be the flip side of yesterday’s post.  Or not.

A long time ago, just after DOS and before Google, I discovered and inhabited several message boards.  Some were putatively professional; all were mainly entertainment.  Those were exciting times of vitriolic flamings, on-line romances (none of which I partook) and the occasional useful discussion on the merits of catch-and-release on rainbow trout populations in Montana.  After one particularly vicious skirmish, I sought refuge with a psychologist colleague and tried to determine what I had done to provoke the imprecations about my sexual mores.  I wanted him to know under no uncertain terms that I had not, repeat had not, been acting in a way that could have been interpreted as sexual.  I was a lapsed Catholic, for goodness sake, who still practiced guilt fervently.  His response shocked me: “So what?”  So what?  “That’s right.  So what if you had been flirtatious or even – heavens – brazen?”

I did what I always do when I don’t like the direction a deconstruction is going.  I got a second opinion.  This one arrived from a friend who had witnessed the online exchanges.  The long and short of his explanation was that women who project a “strong, smart, funny” persona sometimes are seen as “seductive.”  (“Seductive” was not his word, by the way.)  It apparently has something to do with feeling emasculated if bested by a “girl” in an intellectual battle.  The upshot of it all is that it’s easier to cast aspersions on the female’s sexual morals than to say, “You’re wrong.  So there!”  I trusted his opinion because not only does he earn his living deconstructing language, he is the owner of an intellectually formidable male brain.

Thankfully, my online days ended soon thereafter and the issue became moot.  But over time, in the RL, I’ve learned to tread carefully as the “strong, smart, funny” persona elicits a very different response than the “i-need-help” or “i-need-rescuing.”  (For the record, I don’t have an “i-need-rescuing” persona; it’s more like “shut-up-and-listen-because-i’m-trying-to-drain-the-swamp” persona.)

Zen content:   Schireson describes Zen Women who don’t permit rescuing.  They face rejection after rejection from the Zen masters they approach hoping to be accepted as students.  They fight to be seen for who they are: strong, smart, funny – vibrant, devoted, and yes, even sexual.  They accept being sent home to care for family as part of their commitment to following the path.  And they return to the Zen master when they have met their familial obligations.  They didn’t beg, plead, offer their bodies or spirit to get their way; they neither asked for help nor needed to be rescued from injustice by anyone.  Not only could they “not afford to take (perceived or actual) inequity personally,” they had to “let go of (their) demand that Buddhism meet (their) needs perfectly.”

Strength of practice is in not letting actions or judgments of others direct the way we want to be in relationship.  Buddhism as a practice of the relational enhances the dynamic tension between the “strong, smart, funny” and the “i-need-help” aspects of self. That’s a mouthful of a sentence.  Simply put: our commitment to save all beings has us sensitive to “help-me-rescue-me” vibes.  If unaware of this tendency, we can and will fall prey to bolstering our own value through the vulnerability of the Other.  And we will miss the power of relating through the strong, smart, funny nature we share.

“Strong, smart, funny” says we’re in charge of our own way of being, open to a boundless relating.

It’s not a come-on.

It’s an invitation to the Other to meet as an equal.

Thank you for practising,

Genju

There has been a confluence of blog posts in the last few days that have me wondering if my practice has turned me into a buddhablob.  It started with Nate’s post Happy Bodhi Day 2009 on Precious Metal and that darned cute picture of a bodhi-mas tree.  I got all warm and fuzzy thinking about how special it was for him.  That should have been the first sign of impending disaster: as sincere as my wishes to Nate are, I’m not the warm and fuzzy type.  Never mind those Beanie Babies on my bookshelf; they are leftovers from the days I thought I would be able to finance my daughter’s education by hoarding BB’s and selling them on Ebay.  After the Great Beanie Crash of ’99, I switched back to unicorns – if you think they’re cute, you’ve never seen what a unicorn horn can do to protect a virgin.

Then there was John’s post on Orc-Sex.  Whatever merit I had accrued from my practice over the last 10 years got sacrificed faster than anyone can Google kama sutra. I hit ‘publish comment’ and then read my comment – some people reverse letters, I go one better.  There She was.  I must admit, I’ve missed me: that Me who had an opinion, who leapt fearlessly if somewhat stupidly into a fray, who rarely let a bunch of gentleman-folk talking about sex, drink and fly fishing (or visualizations) stop her from joining in, who gets really perplexed by the weird reaction when she sends a letter that says “Dear Joe, I want you to know I’ve always treasured our friendship…”

I can thank Barry from Ox Herding for the insight that I can blame my gender-blindness and its consequences on not being held enough as a child.  And on growing up with 5 boys (cousins) and one older brother.  Which is why I have not figured out that men think differently from women about relationships.

Don’t get me wrong: it’s not like I’ve had an indulgence of men falling for me.  Hell, there are a number of women who shall go nameless who now have all the men I didn’t even know I was meant to love and leave.  So when a guy comes along who becomes a good buddy… and I really did treasure his friendship… when he says “let’s go fly fishing,” how was I to know … (Note to Self: G-rated blog; stop before you have to say you’re sorry!)

It occurs to me that in getting past the wormy confusion of misconstrued exchanges, I may have taken this practice of “mindful living” a bit to far.  Don’t get me wrong (again): I hate that cutesy, flower child speak I hear that passes for loving kindness or conflict avoidance that passes for consensus.  But when did equanimity become a refusal to engage in relationships that are edgy, challenging, and meaningful in ways that I don’t think uni-gendered relationships can be?

It’s tough being a gender-blind female in a world that is relationally bimodal by gender.  Whether assimilated or segregated, you become outcast to some aspect of the relational.  Schireson makes that point really clear in Zen Women.  Early “female Zen masters” are portrayed in the same image and idiom as male Zen masters, as chang-fu – manly men.  Assimilated into the male, they have no relational markers of being female; even Schireson fails to find the female version of Zen “master” other than to use the male term and avoid using its antonym, “mistress.”  Where they aren’t chang-fu but segregated in their female role, women who became fully realized in their Zen practice have complicated, entangled lives riddled with misconstrued relationships to self and (usually male) Others. It’s enough to make a grown woman cry.

I enjoyed Kyle’s post on the Reformed Buddhist and though it was all in good fun, it made me wonder if, in building meaningful sanghas, we’re doomed to end up with smoking rooms and sewing circles (notwithstanding or perhaps thankfully for the Lady Lamas).

The secret to the Zen art of telling a man he’s a good friend lies deep in the watery cave of the Nagas.  It’s the esoteric last verse of the Prajnaparamita: form cannot be sacrificed for interbeing.  So, before I convince myself that the Buddha had it right when he separated male and female disciples because otherwise it just would have been a (t)horny mess, I think I’ll take up fly fishing again.

Thank you for practising,

Genju

Those of you who visit regularly (Thank you!) can see from the new blog format I was in a renovating mood yesterday.  It was a good day for changing the way the brain perceives things.  After all, it was Bodhi Day – the day we honor the Buddha’s enlightenment.  This time of year, with deeper darkness encroaching, it’s a good time to celebrate anything that requires lots of candles and cookies.  That’s what we did in sangha.  Everyone brought cookies and candles.  We sat three rounds of meditation, limped walking meditation in between, and closed a circle for cookies and tea.  An earlier call for a Dharma cookie swap resulted in ginger cookies, green tea shortbread, regular shortbread, oatmeal chocolate chip, and a bottle of mixed nuts.  Good nourishment for this collection of enquiring minds.

The question of the night was whether the Buddha was a dead beat dad.  From today’s perspective, I suspect one might call him that.  Leaving wife and kid in the middle of the night, throwing over his responsibilities, wandering around homeless.  How else to view it?  It’s an eternal question: how to respect the teachings if the teacher isn’t living up to our standards.  I might have gone on a bit in the Buddha’s defense, that we have to see the story of the Buddha as allegory and, if taken literally, see it in the context of the sociocultural structure and mores of the times.  There are volumes written on this and I am no scholar on the topic.  What I struggle with when I consider the roots and then the branches and fruit of this practice is how to reconcile enlightenment as relational and a history that says differently.

No answers there.  I just struggle with it.  Maybe the renovations will happen next year.  For now I’m enjoying Grace Schireson’s Zen Women.  She’s much better at working through the details of how practice is relational.

I see today my dharma brother Barry at Ox Herding has captured the essence of Buddha-hood in this day and age.

Why are people called Buddhas

After they die?

Because they don’t grumble any more.

Because they don’t make a nuisance of themselves any more.

Ikkyu

It makes me feel better now, when I grouse at our sangha.  It would be terrible if they thought I was a Buddha and missed the opportunity to practice loving kindness at my every grumble and nuisance.

I hope you enjoy the new digs.

Thank you for practising,

Genju

This morning opens with a chapter from Sallie Tisdale’s Women of the Way:Discovering 2,500 years of Buddhist wisdom.  It’s the story of Ryonen Genso.  Born into a noble family, she longed for life as a monastic.  Her family’s demands however lead her to a marriage to a man 16 years her senior.  Somewhat craftily, she negotiates her release from the marriage if she gives him an heir, which she does.  She had a life long relationship of the deep intimacy with Yoshi, her childhood friend and companion.  When Yoshi dies, Fusa finally enters the monastic life, is given the name Ryonen Genso, and begins her life of commitment to the Dharma.

Searching for a teacher, Ryonen encounters painful barriers ostensibly because of her physical beauty.  One teacher refuses to take her because she would be a distraction to his monks who, he feared, would not be able to control themselves.  Have we become more subtle in three centuries since, I wonder?  Another teacher, Hakuo, sees her inner beauty but still is compelled to refuse her because of his fears of his own vulnerability to her, of the damage to his reputation, and of what the neighbours would think.

patience

I can only imagine what she must have felt, returning to the inn, looking at herself in whatever reflected her image.  “This face, this body, this form is not me.”  Did she think that, say it, cry it out?  Did she realize that in any form, she would have been seen as a threat to the undisciplined or the emotionally unaware?

Whatever she thought, her pain seemed unbounded; she disfigured her face with hot coals.  And, you guessed it, the teacher admits her to his school.  Interestingly, I don’t think it would have been because she was now less beautiful.  Hakuo had looked deeply into her heart and knew who she was.  I like to think he was awakened to his own entrenchment in form.  It makes me reflect on the many times we are willing to burn away who we are for the sake of true intimacy.  Such is the mystery of relationship.

Ryonen wrote these poems after she burned her face:

When I was a girl, we played in court, burning incense.
Now I burn my face, to study Zen.
Each season flows easily into the other, and
I do not know who writes this in a world of change.

Then,

This is the living world,
but my face has been burned away.
I would be a sorry thing if I didn’t know
it is the firewood that burns up my delusion.

Thank you for practising,

Genju

matriarch's bloodline

The bloodline of female teachers in Buddhism is not often discussed and I’m somewhat embarrassed to say I actually never thought about it.  In fact (and this is really embarassing), it’s taken me a few years to see the many disconnected dots on my bookshelves.  Maurine Stuart is there.  As is Sallie Tisdale‘s penetrating stories beginning with Maha Maya.  There is Ayya Khema.  And the Therigatha, the poems of the women elders.  Of course, Sharon Salzberg, Sylvia Boorstein, Pema Chodron, and Joko Beck.  Evidence of my face-to-face teachings with my Dear Hearts is tucked into the spaces above and between the books: Myozen, Roshi Joan, and Sister Annabelle (Chan Duc) Laity.  Why then, did I not question who was the face of these women before they were?

Add that preparing a matriarch’s lineage is part of taking the precepts (jukai) and I have to wonder if I should surrender a piece of my X-chromosomes.

This is particularly perplexing because I’m no fainting flower of femininity.  Nor am I a feminist.  I have done things that many would say are outside the box of conventional female pursuits.  Perhaps.  I tend not to experience things that way yet I also have felt in my body and heart/mind the yin and yang of every practice center that has held me.

In university, there were several of us who broke the barriers of being women in the physical sciences.  My mentor was not-so-affectionately called the “Tasmanian Devil” for her whirlwind way of decimating anyone she perceived as only using their minimum of two neurons.  For the longest while, our role in our careers was to educate our bosses (who were usually always and seemed evermore to be men) that we were not hired to wash the glassware, sweep the floors or bake cookies for Friday socials.  Although we founded organizations like W.I.S.E. (Women in Science and Engineering) and did our best to encourage the next generation of women to see science and all careers as equally available to them, I eventually walked away from all that because it felt too much like religious fervour.

Several years later, while writing my dissertation, I got bored and went for a drive.  There in a store window was a call for volunteer firefighters.  It wasn’t and never had been an issue of challenging male bastions.  It just interested me to push my own boundaries of physical and mental tolerance.  Zen as now.  And in this now, my day job takes me to interesting places and things.  It’s only in retrospect that I am likely to notice I’m in the company of only one or two other women colleagues.

So I wonder.  This essential part of my spiritual history.   Call it female and it’s wrong.  Call it not and it’s wrong too.  What is it?

What a question!  What a great day for it to appear!

The true life of our Zen practice comes from sitting quietly, doing nothing, and then getting up quietly and acting dynamically and directly in our everyday lives.

from Our own light, in Subtle Sound: the Zen teachings of Maurine Stuart, ed. Roko Sherry Chayat

The way of being human is beyond all shapes.  It has no form.  When we use words like “Buddha” or “Tathagata” there is some danger that we think of this as something apart from us.  Searching for the mystery outside oneself leads us astray.  The mystery is right here.

from Who is the real you?, in Subtle Sound: the Zen teachings of Maurine Stuart, ed. Roko Sherry Chayat

Thank you for practicing,

Genju