Ill, threatened, beleaguered, I divorced and remarried (again); a process that literally almost killed me, but that’s another story. There was now room for zen in my life, and I built a life that made room. Every day was practice – my work was my practice; my learning to live with the chronic pain and fatigue of lupus was practice, motherhood was my practice. My new marriage was my practice with a like-minded love; falling in love, and being in love in this way, at 45, was utterly new to me. It was indescribably wonderful; and the more precious for all it had cost us. Finally, I had a true companion-love. We were the conjunctio.
And so it was that I found myself, at 46, for the first time in my life, happy. By this time, I had had three largely successful and satisfying careers, had married three times, had had a child, and earned three degrees. Work was satisfying, as was love and motherhood. Chronic illness, migraines, relentless pain and constant change made even a satisfying life often difficult, but I was myself. I devoted myself to work, family and the mysteries of the worlds of psychology and zen.
And now I struggled to find a teacher. I attended the Buddhist Society, and this seemed the most promising, but although the Master was Rinzai, she was at such an elevated level that she drew students who were able to commit more of their time than I could. Most of the other zensters there were Soto. I explored – approached Bon Po as a possible way of marrying a Buddhist and shamanic understanding. I looked at Dogzchen, inspired by a good friend and Dogzchen teacher. The mysticism was pretty, but the rituals and beliefs seemed as cloying and rigid as those I’d grown up with. It seemed to me just so much attachment – whether one is attached to screaming down the road in a new Porsche, tithing at the local church or chanting the sutras, it still seemed far away from no-mind; it was still attachment.
It seemed to have no relation to my night on the Fairfield cliffs.
And still I could not believe. I saw no difference between a belief in the Realm of the Buddhas (my work with personality disorders taught me clearly that the Realm of the Hungry Ghosts was in my consulting room) and a belief in transubstantiation or heaven. It seemed that one was just substituting one daft set of beliefs for another equally daft, if slightly less damaging set. I looked closely at the nature of belief, for a time reading religious history, informing myself. I came to the conclusion that for me, belief just didn’t cut it – a belief was merely a hypothesis that one chose to accept as a fact with insufficient or even entirely non-existent evidence. I couldn’t do it. I was utterly rational, and I could no longer escape it.
For me, above all, spiritual practice needed to be useful; helpful to myself and others. No more ‘white-light new-age nazis’ who disallowed human nature, no more sin and guilt, no more incense and sutras. If I was honest, I wasn’t always keen on the Buddha. Perhaps anyone could become enlightened if they sat under a tree, avoided the world, and had someone else bring up the kids. I was fifty, and I’d had enough crap. Middleaged, been a shrink half my life, menopausal, seen all the videos, bought all the t-shirts, and knew a thing or two about this and that. I wanted no more lies; no more dualism; no more attaching while pretending to abhor attachment. Time was ticking away. I was going to die; I could see my own tombstone looming. I wanted to cut through the crap – I wanted samurai zen. Scalpel zen. I was resolved, and it felt better. I would find the way, even if I had to invent it.
I read Stephen Batchelor’s Buddhism without Beliefs, and it helped; I invented my own spiritual retreats with Sr. Ann at Emmaus House – she was happy to provide guidance of a Jungian sort to a Buddhist shrink. But I really felt I needed a teacher. I read Hakuin, Aitken, and then found delight (even if he is Soto) in the straightspeak and nonsense-free Hardcore Zen by Brad Warner. I was inspired.
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