This blog hosts articles contributed by members of the Chicago Zen Center. For news about events at the Center and in Chicago, please visit our (II) Doubt as Precursor to Insight
by Steve Cole
When I discovered the Zen path in 1999, I thought I’d finally arrived. I was living in Helsinki at the time and was utterly depressed by the winter darkness and by my sputtering academic career. When I walked into the Helsinki Zen Center, I immediately felt at home.
Unfortunately, I left Helsinki shortly thereafter to take up a joint research appointment at the University of Ghent and the University of Chicago, while my wife stayed behind in Helsinki, where she taught Egyptology at the university. I didn’t know about the Chicago Zen Center then, and therefore, because I needed a place to stay while in Chicago, I arranged with Samu Sunim to stay at his Zen Buddhist Temple near the intersection of Cornelia and Lincoln. I lived there for several months but eventually decided that Korean Zen wasn’t my cup of tea and moved out. A little while afterwards, I heard about the Chicago Zen Center in Evanston. I learned that it was affiliated with the Rochester Zen Center, just as the Helsinki center was, and so I contacted Sensei. He invited me to attend an introductory workshop the next week, in May 2000, which I did, along with Laurel Ross and Jonathan Laux, and I was ecstatic at my new discovery.
Over the next four years I remained content in my assumption that I had found the way. Then, quite suddenly, I plunged into a long period of doubting and questioning about my path, which began shortly after the six-day sesshin in March 2004. During that sesshin, I had an experience in which my heart began to beat rapidly and irregularly during one of the afternoon rounds, causing me to flee the zendo under the assumption that I was having a heart attack. Then, after I had returned home, I picked up a book by Jack Kornfield, called A Path with Heart, which I had purchased a few days before sesshin began. I began to thumb through it, and one of the first passages that my eyes fell upon concerned a physician who had had a very similar experience during a retreat. Kornfield told him that he had known many students who had experienced these symptoms, and that they were manifested when the heart chakra began to open. For some reason, this made sense to me, and reading this passage so soon after my own experience seemed more than a coincidence. I also remembered that Sensei had expressed remarks on more than one occasion that were dismissive of the notion of chakras and chi and the like, and therefore I began to question both him and the Zen path. The seed of doubt had been planted, and it took root.
Over the next eight months I explored alternatives to Zen and questioned everything. I explored Hinduism first. I registered for retreats with two different teachers. I didn’t go. Then I explored Vipassana Buddhism. I registered for retreats with two more teachers. I didn’t go. Finally, I explored another Zen teacher. I registered for a retreat with him. I didn’t go. I was totally confused. All this time I continued to sit though, going deeper and deeper inside, looking for an answer.
Finally, when I had become totally confused, totally uncertain, with absolutely nowhere to turn, I simply gave up trying to know which path to take. I told myself, “I JUST DON’T KNOW.” Almost immediately it occurred to me that I should just trust the memory of how I had felt in 1999 when I entered the little zendo in Helsinki for the first time and my eyes fell on the peaceful countenances of Roshi Kapleau and Bodhin Sensei in the photo that hung on the wall just inside the door there. It was faith in this experience that eventually led me back to the Chicago Zen Center. When I showed up for Rohatsu sesshin in December 2004, I had not been inside the Center since the previous June, when I had helped to paint the Buddha Hall.
In my first dokusan with Sensei during this Rohatsu sesshin (my first dokusan in eight months), I explained why I had been absent for so long and how I had been wondering if Zen was the correct path for me because it gave only cursory attention to the heart, and I regarded this as a flaw. What he said that day turned me around completely. He told me that love and compassion began with one’s self. He said “Have love and compassion for your self.” In the next dokusan, he added, “Relax and enjoy yourself in this sesshin.” Those two remarks had a remarkable effect on me. They seemed to lift a great load from my back. I carried a smile the rest of that day, and into the next. Everything seemed radiant and beautiful. My sitting was steady, and without the usual knee pain.
Then, on the second day of Rohatsu, we were chanting “Kanzeon.” The lovely burnt-orange and gold altar cloth behind the new Vairocana Buddha was irradiant. On the altar was an arrangement of lovely flowers – mums, as I recall. My eyes were fixed on these flowers as we chanted “This moment arises from mind” and I finally realized the meaning of the chant. All at once, I felt great peace of mind. Everything was perfect as it was. No effort was required to change anything. Gone were worry and fear. All was a single field of awareness, with no inside or outside, and no separation. All these Zen clichés were actually true. A few hours later I was in the dokusan line sitting before the bell. My heart pounded and my ears rang in nervous anticipation, as they usually do while waiting for the impending summons. Suddenly, I was calm. I realized that I had glimpsed something extraordinary that day. I realized that there was no right or wrong answer to mu. When Sensei rang his bell, I struck mine twice, and walked resolutely into the dokusan room.
I am so grateful now that I didn’t give up my practice during those dark days and weeks. As I look back now on my experience, I see that my great doubt was actually a precursor to insight. In my case, the darkest hour truly was just before the dawn.
When I discovered the Zen path in 1999, I thought I’d finally arrived. I was living in Helsinki at the time and was utterly depressed by the winter darkness and by my sputtering academic career. When I walked into the Helsinki Zen Center, I immediately felt at home.
Unfortunately, I left Helsinki shortly thereafter to take up a joint research appointment at the University of Ghent and the University of Chicago, while my wife stayed behind in Helsinki, where she taught Egyptology at the university. I didn’t know about the Chicago Zen Center then, and therefore, because I needed a place to stay while in Chicago, I arranged with Samu Sunim to stay at his Zen Buddhist Temple near the intersection of Cornelia and Lincoln. I lived there for several months but eventually decided that Korean Zen wasn’t my cup of tea and moved out. A little while afterwards, I heard about the Chicago Zen Center in Evanston. I learned that it was affiliated with the Rochester Zen Center, just as the Helsinki center was, and so I contacted Sensei. He invited me to attend an introductory workshop the next week, in May 2000, which I did, along with Laurel Ross and Jonathan Laux, and I was ecstatic at my new discovery.
Over the next four years I remained content in my assumption that I had found the way. Then, quite suddenly, I plunged into a long period of doubting and questioning about my path, which began shortly after the six-day sesshin in March 2004. During that sesshin, I had an experience in which my heart began to beat rapidly and irregularly during one of the afternoon rounds, causing me to flee the zendo under the assumption that I was having a heart attack. Then, after I had returned home, I picked up a book by Jack Kornfield, called A Path with Heart, which I had purchased a few days before sesshin began. I began to thumb through it, and one of the first passages that my eyes fell upon concerned a physician who had had a very similar experience during a retreat. Kornfield told him that he had known many students who had experienced these symptoms, and that they were manifested when the heart chakra began to open. For some reason, this made sense to me, and reading this passage so soon after my own experience seemed more than a coincidence. I also remembered that Sensei had expressed remarks on more than one occasion that were dismissive of the notion of chakras and chi and the like, and therefore I began to question both him and the Zen path. The seed of doubt had been planted, and it took root.
Over the next eight months I explored alternatives to Zen and questioned everything. I explored Hinduism first. I registered for retreats with two different teachers. I didn’t go. Then I explored Vipassana Buddhism. I registered for retreats with two more teachers. I didn’t go. Finally, I explored another Zen teacher. I registered for a retreat with him. I didn’t go. I was totally confused. All this time I continued to sit though, going deeper and deeper inside, looking for an answer.
Finally, when I had become totally confused, totally uncertain, with absolutely nowhere to turn, I simply gave up trying to know which path to take. I told myself, “I JUST DON’T KNOW.” Almost immediately it occurred to me that I should just trust the memory of how I had felt in 1999 when I entered the little zendo in Helsinki for the first time and my eyes fell on the peaceful countenances of Roshi Kapleau and Bodhin Sensei in the photo that hung on the wall just inside the door there. It was faith in this experience that eventually led me back to the Chicago Zen Center. When I showed up for Rohatsu sesshin in December 2004, I had not been inside the Center since the previous June, when I had helped to paint the Buddha Hall.
In my first dokusan with Sensei during this Rohatsu sesshin (my first dokusan in eight months), I explained why I had been absent for so long and how I had been wondering if Zen was the correct path for me because it gave only cursory attention to the heart, and I regarded this as a flaw. What he said that day turned me around completely. He told me that love and compassion began with one’s self. He said “Have love and compassion for your self.” In the next dokusan, he added, “Relax and enjoy yourself in this sesshin.” Those two remarks had a remarkable effect on me. They seemed to lift a great load from my back. I carried a smile the rest of that day, and into the next. Everything seemed radiant and beautiful. My sitting was steady, and without the usual knee pain.
Then, on the second day of Rohatsu, we were chanting “Kanzeon.” The lovely burnt-orange and gold altar cloth behind the new Vairocana Buddha was irradiant. On the altar was an arrangement of lovely flowers – mums, as I recall. My eyes were fixed on these flowers as we chanted “This moment arises from mind” and I finally realized the meaning of the chant. All at once, I felt great peace of mind. Everything was perfect as it was. No effort was required to change anything. Gone were worry and fear. All was a single field of awareness, with no inside or outside, and no separation. All these Zen clichés were actually true. A few hours later I was in the dokusan line sitting before the bell. My heart pounded and my ears rang in nervous anticipation, as they usually do while waiting for the impending summons. Suddenly, I was calm. I realized that I had glimpsed something extraordinary that day. I realized that there was no right or wrong answer to mu. When Sensei rang his bell, I struck mine twice, and walked resolutely into the dokusan room.
I am so grateful now that I didn’t give up my practice during those dark days and weeks. As I look back now on my experience, I see that my great doubt was actually a precursor to insight. In my case, the darkest hour truly was just before the dawn.
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