The shift in the story of Sen-jo and her soul, the unexpected strike at the heart of our assumptions, is the revelation that the split is not what we anticipated; it is not about resolving Sen-jo’s separation from her parents. Sen-jo has been her bedroom all these years since her loved one left. Within the culture, Sen-jo’s actions would have been an affront to the community, perhaps even bringing shame on her parents. The metaphysical analysis aside, the revelation of two Sen-jo’s is important in moving us into examining the dualistic view we have of our roles.

First, we see our suffering as different and separate from the other when it is intertwined. Despite her parents’ right to disown her, they appear to have kept her safe and nourished in their home. The suffering of Sen-jo in her exile has been shared by parents who lived with their emotionally inaccessible daughter. Regardless of the parents’ own conflict between seeing their daughter happy and following their cultural imperative, they have responded with what appears to be compassion. Reunited, Sen-jo and her parents experience Interbeing (Hanh, 1998b); they have an interconnected experience of feeling out of alignment with their aspirations as parents and child.

Second, the appearance of two Sen-jo’s shifts our own perspective; we see differently how deep suffering divides us against ourselves. Sen-jo who left to marry is incomplete without Sen-jo who embodies commitment. Sen-jo who is unable rise from her bed is incomplete without Sen-jo who embodies passion. Although the traditional question asks which the real Sen-jo is, the koan provides the answer before the question was born. Sen-jo and her soul are separated. The Greek word for soul is pneuma or breath. Sen-jo and her breath are separated; the vitality that animates her is no longer there.

The question of whether the Sen-jo who left or the one who remained behind is the real one is, in fact, irrelevant; the paradox is artificial and designed to create discomfort. Neither is animated by their passion and dedication; neither is aligned with their aspirations. Sen-jo and her soul are not separate; in fact, they have never been so (Shibayama, 2000). What had transpired was Sen-jo’s abrogation of her awareness of her true nature. She surrendered her self-stewardship. In a single breath, she had the possibility of becoming whole, of re-claiming her birthright of self-realization. With that we strike at the heart of this koan in our life.

….The heart of the koan is the revelation of boundlessness.  It is in how we sew together the patches of our work and personal lives.  Conventionally, when dealing with issues of burnout, the individual is encouraged to set boundaries, develop assertiveness, learn how to do what is required without becoming caught in the politics and drama of the organization.  These strategies are designed to conserve our role, our territory, and our power.  Although necessary and useful, especially in abusive situations, we remain at the level of rules and protocols of work-related distress.  When we focus on the literal nature of what we do and identify ourselves by these criteria, we risk falling into a separated state, isolating one aspect of our way of being from another.  Defined by the organization or by a narrow vision of who we are, we are held in the thrall of values and expectations that are not always congruent with who we are or want to be.  As we see in the story of Sen-jo and in Maslach’s concept of burnout (Maslach, 1982/2003), choices and questions that are formulated as dualistic ignore the boundless and seamless nature of how we relate to self, family and colleagues, home and work environment, and what represents the transcendental to us.

from Burnout and Spiritual Incongruence, Lynette Monteiro, ©2012