Zen Scatalogy - A Personal Journey through the Way of Zen.

 Posted: 26/5/2014

Zen Scatology – A Personal Journey through the Way of Zen

Zen Buddhism, as I discovered it, came into my life while I was studying at the University of Wisconsin. As a part-time librarian, I stumbled upon The Way of Zen by the late Alan Watts. That book became the gateway to a lifelong fascination and personal journey with Zen. Years later, while living at Green Gulch Farm in California, I would occasionally join a few Zen buddies, bringing along a bottle of sake to visit Alan Watts' memorial, nestled on a hill slope nearby. Alongside his plaque was another memorial for a young man—stabbed to death in a San Francisco alley—who, I believe, was the seventeen-year-old son of the author of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

Reading Alan Watts awakened something deep in me. I felt Zen was worth exploring as a way to begin healing myself. The teachings of Mahayana Buddhism—especially the Rinzai and Soto Zen traditions—offered me what felt like the Sword of Wisdom of Manjushri: a sharp clarity that severs illusions and attachments, revealing the light of wisdom and compassion.

I bring up my Zen training now because I feel the need to reflect—honestly—on the depth and breadth of my knowledge and experience. I don’t want it said that I merely copied others or mimicked what I read, although in some sense, we all do that. But I have always chosen my references carefully. I don't claim any mastery, neither in understanding nor in practice, but what I have grasped has guided me profoundly.

Alan Watts led me to the writings of D.T. Suzuki and Shunryu Suzuki Roshi. Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind became one of my go-to texts—my touchstone whenever I lost the thread. I read Philip Kapleau, Fritjof Capra, Norman Fischer, Dainin Katagiri Roshi, and many more. During my time as a Zen practice student at the Green Dragon Zen Temple at Green Gulch, I sat Zazen three times a day, worked in the organic gardens, and spent hours in the library devouring every book on Zen I could find.

My instructors included Lou and Blanche Hartman, Norman and Kathy Fischer, Paul Discoe, and Edward Brown. I worked under Peter Rudnick and Wendy Johnson in the gardens. I shared my days with fellow practitioners like David Chadwick and his wife, David Carlson, David Lueck, Jim Abrams, and Terry Sutton. Each one taught me, directly or indirectly, what it meant to walk the Zen path in the American landscape. Zen found fertile ground in the United States, and California was one of its most vibrant gardens.

Ask me outright what Zen is, and I’ll likely fail to answer. Even before I open my mouth, I've already missed the mark. Hence, Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind. Instead, I might hand you The Way of Zen and say, “Read this.” And that too, would be Zen.

Zen in Japanese is Chan in Chinese, and Dhyana in Sanskrit—the meditative path of the Buddha. The way of emptiness and form, of sitting and breathing, of chanting and composting—all done with full awareness. Whether meditating in stillness or working in the dirt, every act becomes a sacred ceremony when performed with mindfulness.

That, in essence, is Zen to me: the art of rambling, the practice of “non-doing doing,” what the Taoists called Wu Wei. Being fully present. Hearing the rain outside your window and letting it be the whole of your meditation. Trungpa Rinpoche called it “meditation in action.”

Just two nights ago, my Indonesian companion Shawal brought in a freshly caught red Tilapia from the pond and asked me to cook it. As I cleaned the fish—still very much alive in my hands—I was filled with deep remorse. I thought of The Bhagavad Gita, of Krishna's teachings to Arjuna: there is no doer, no done-to, only action without ego. I whispered under my breath, “May you become a Buddha in your next life.” It was a moment of silent grief, of humble offering. And this too, is Zen.

We were alone at the organic farm in Lintang, surrounded by forest. When you are that isolated, every act, especially the taking of a life, takes on deeper meaning. It stays with you. The memory of that fish will be one more knot in the tangled web of karma I carry. But this is part of Zen practice too: facing our shadows with compassion and clarity.

This is my Zen scatology—my “shit bucket.” The daily, moment-by-moment effort of cleaning the mind, removing mental waste, and untangling the tangle. Rambling in every direction—past, present, and future. Striving toward effortless being.

Whenever I stray, I return to this core: the effortlessness of breath, of being, of doing without clinging. Like plucking a lotus without wetting your fingers. I may be far from success, but I keep trying. That too is Zen.

If you ask me again what Zen is, I might give you a slap—an old Zen joke, of course.

Zen, to me, is not a system of thought, not a philosophy to be mastered. It is a way of unlearning, of returning to the quiet mind. A mind empty of preconceptions, free from attachments. Zazen—sitting meditation—is the path to this clarity. Gautama Buddha sat for forty days and nights, transcending the mind to reach awakening. “No mind is Buddha mind.”

Form is emptiness, emptiness is form. Feelings, perceptions, impulses, and consciousness—all marked by emptiness. So says the Heart Sutra, the core chant of Soto Zen, recited daily at dawn and dusk. It is a profound text, one that can shake the foundations of your mind if you let it.

So that, in a nutshell, is my understanding of Zen.

I came upon it by chance, and now, after all these years, I am more confused than ever.

And that, too, is Zen.