Unitarian Universalist Meeting of
“Buddhism’s Seventh Step: Right Mindfulness”
Rev. Kathy Duhon
As we follow the Eightfold Path of
Buddhism, we are nearing the end, with the seventh step, which is why we are
all so peaceful and awake and close to Enlightenment, having been at this for
several months. No, we are small ones
along the way, hoping to glean wisdom, understanding, and especially
mindfulness, the seventh step.
The story about Ryokan
is a good one. He has done much
meditation, which allows him to become quite present. Pema Chodron writes that after much meditation, “in our daily
lives. Out of nowhere we stop struggling
and relax. We stop talking to ourselves
and come back to the freshness of the present moment…. meditation is about
opening and relaxing with whatever arises, without picking and choosing.”
So first Ryokan
has stopped struggling, isn’t talking to himself, and is present enough to hear
a boy cry. Most of us would be that
present, that mindful, at least on our good days. Of course, people have been known to walk
right by, or drive right by, the most amazing happenings and scenes, and not
notice, because their minds were overfull.
Thomas Merton said, “Our minds are like crows. They pick up everything that glitters, no
matter how uncomfortable our nests get with all that metal in them.” Not to have noticed the boy cry is to be
awfully uncomfortable, to be stuck in shiny metal mind.
Like Ryokan,
we would have rescued the boy. Would we
have noticed what the whole story of the boy’s predicament was though? Would our minds still be on our next
appointment, or busy digging up our last anxiety, and we would only be mindful
of a boy in a tree needing to be brought down?
Ryokan was
mindful that the boy was trying to pick persimmons. Some of us might have been awake enough to
discover that, but would we have been present enough to decide that we would
change our course of action? So that we are no longer planning the evening, which was intimately
related to fighting the last fight with our beloved in our heads, which we are
no longer doing either. We are no
longer anywhere but in the presence of a boy wanting persimmons. We are not even in our cautious mind – the “I
can’t do that, I’ll get stuck too, or fall down and hurt myself” mind.
Last week I was picking apples, from
the tree in our yard. From
standing on the ground, of course.
I felt good about being mindful enough that I had interrupted all other
tasks and issues in my shiny metal mind, even the writing of this sermon, to
notice that it was time to bring in that harvest of plenty, again. I was also mindful that many beautiful shiny
red apples were near the top of the tree, or at least out of range of my
picking. So, even though I am middle
aged and this apple tree is right by the road in front of our house, I was
mindful that I could act like the little girl Kathy used to do – and climb that
tree. I did, not too far up. I was mindful of my limitations as well. And more of the lovely apples ended up in my
basket.
Ryokan
went further than I did, for there was no pausing for me in the branches, to
taste, no rhapsodic awakening to the sensational fruit at hand, as he had done. I don’t know about you, but that part of the
story annoys me a bit – I am thinking of the boy, worried that Ryokan will eat all the ripe persimmons, in his mindful delight. And
yet not mindful, I am thinking. Being in
the present seems to shut out the past of just three minutes before, which was
about kindness and service to this boy – I don’t want mindfulness to preclude
that.
But, I admit, it would have been
kind of cool for me to lay back on that branch and bite into a crisp, juicy
fall apple and watch the sky with the clouds floating by and forget what I
looked like to my neighbors, or that I had other chores pending. Ah, blessed mindfulness, I am too much the
crow with shiny metal mind. Although
perhaps Thomas Merton was picking on crows too much – I am mindful that they
are the ones who eat our apples that have dropped to the ground, themselves
mindful of that delight.
Ryokan is
finally again mindful of the needs of the boy, and it has not hurt the boy at
all. Perhaps the boy has even seen a
beautiful sight – a grown-up who paused joyfully, enjoying a tree and some
fruit. That might have been Ryokan’s best gift.
The children know that we are on overdrive way too much. And if they half thought about it, they’d
realize that their fearlessness in climbing beyond their abilities is something
that we tend to have lost. Perhaps Ryokan was mindful that this boy needed first, saving from
the tree, then, some ripe persimmons, and a measure of joy and hope, and
Ryokan provided all by being present to the boy, and
being mindless of all else. Hmmm. Perhaps he
would be late for meditation, or chanting, or a meal.
It seems that mindlessness and
mindfulness are connected. Now, not the mindlessness of an unconscious life, not the mindless
infliction of pain upon others.
But the mindless tasks that we do and the mindless, emptying, meditation
that we practice. Letting
the mind rest.
It is said that Gandhi used the
spinning wheel for his meditation, at least some of the time, and I believe it
was primary at times. Spinning, like
many crafts that we are accustomed to doing, is mindless. So is gardening and raking. So is doing the dishes. I have read several wonderful rhapsodic
descriptions of washing dishes, pots and pans, from great saints – they know it
is a mindless activity in which they can be fully present. When do we do something that seems
“mindless”, that is simple, that is present to the
now? That decreases our shiny metal mind,
and awakens us to being more mindful in our daily lives?
Someone who is mindful not only
stops to help another in need, one who is crying out, and not only understands
the larger picture, and not only responds with compassion to the fullness of
the situation, but also is able to joyfully feast on life in the midst. To be fully present is to be grounded and
peaceful and aware.
Some stories out there also speak of
the most mindful ones being most able to respond to crises. If you have a fire in the monastery, it is best
to have a very still, meditating monk who will channel all his energy into putting
it out quickly – this actually happened to a friend of ours who went to Japan
to study Buddhism. The great teacher was
completely aware and capable when it came to a fire, making everyone else seem
like the bungling fumblers that they, that we, are.
Actually, it is in times of crisis
that we can glimpse our own natural mindfulness, for there is nothing like
suffering, for emptying the mind, if we indeed let go. Then we are mindful of the compassion of
others, mindful of the beauty of the world as it is, mindful of the possibilities
beyond all suffering, mindful of oneness in the midst.
Mindfulness is a fruit of spiritual
practice, whether meditation or spinning, working on the yard, washing dishes,
or praying. Or however you are able to
empty the shiny glittering junk out of your mind and be awake to the delicious present. May we find the practice that brings us
deeper mindfulness – so may it be.