Garden Diary

Kasia Karbowiak has been taking pictures of the Zen Center garden throughout the Spring. Here are some highlights:

April


May


June


"One particle of dust is raised, and the great earth lies therein; one flower blooms and the universe rises with it."     Yüan-Wu

El Que No Se Aventura No Cruza La Mar

by Sean Poust

I came into learning my second language, Spanish, in much the same manner as I came into Zen practice: out of the blue I simply decided that I wanted to do it. I came into both with a rather fantastic number of preconceptions and ideas about the best way to learn, the amount of time it should take to get from point A to point B, the manner in which I would get there, and most importantly—or perhaps worst of all—the notion that I was good at this.

After three semesters of college-level Spanish, I arrived where I am now: Chillán, Chile. This is the city where the Chilean equivalent of George Washington was born, Bernardo O’Higgins and it lies in the heart of Chilean wine and agricultural territory. Along with this territory comes a culture of folclor (traditional folklore music) with singing and the national dance, the Cueca. There are also shopping malls and huge stores that are almost exactly the same as those in the US, save the fact that they speak Spanish instead of English. However, within walking distance from the mall—albeit a generous walking distance—one can find people who get around walking or on horseback and raise a good deal of what they eat. It is very interesting to see the interactions between the new, modern global economy and the older agricultural one and the delicate and changing equilibrium that exists between the two. Here, I live with a normal Chilean family, with a mom and two children: a 14-year-old girl and a 16-year-old boy. I attend classes at the Universidad del Bio-Bio and spend my time trying to integrate myself into Chilean life as much as I can.

In this environment my real Spanish lessons began. Quickly finding out that my three semesters of language, my ideas about how to learn and how good I thought I was did very little to help me at the beginning, I panicked. I spent a hefty amount of time looking for Spanish immersion schools in Santiago (the capital here and where about a third of the country lives and a majority of the institutions of Chile). I looked for things on the Internet about the best strategies to learn another language and how one should organize oneself in order to learn the language in the fastest manner possible. Besides this, I would profusely apologize for the errors that I would make in speaking with my family and my friends at school and I would often be quite nervous when trying to talk to people. Studying grammar treatises was another of my frequented activities.

I soon found out that none of this really helped me all that much. I cannot recall ever reading a grammar treatise as a child and yet, my grammar at 5 years of age in English was better than my grammar in Spanish now, despite the rather large amount of time that I have spent studying grammar. This is not to say that studying grammar is not a worthy activity, quite the contrary, the grammar is the superstructure that one needs in order to speak, but it is not a language. The postures, bell and traditions of Zen are needed to practice Zen, but they do not constitute Zen practice. As an example, let us suppose that someone knows all the grammar rules and all the words in another language, would that person know how to speak and interact with people?

Personally, I feel that the answer to that question is no. If that were the case, that person would be a word processor, capable of finding everything that is wrong with a written or spoken language, but incapable of really producing it. Language learning, like Zen practice, is an intensely human process; the process changes us, changes the very structure of our brains, there are no shortcuts. Implicitly, a shortcut cannot exist, as that would mean that one could change without the tortuous process of struggle. Having a shortcut would be similar to being able to train for a bike race by watching videos; one has to get out on the bike to improve. To practice Zen one has to sacrifice and work; likewise, to learn language, one has to get out there, speak and try to communicate. There may be techniques and tools, but there are no ways around the work, as much as we might look for them. Personally, I like to hide in superstructures like grammar, but to really get somewhere, one has to internalize and forget about those constructions and just talk, just communicate... just the practice. Sound familiar?

In the process of acquiring a new language later in life, one realizes that the other tongue is not just another version of the mother tongue, but rather a whole new system of conveying ideas; one could even say the foreign tongue is a new way of thinking. I have realized that what is commonly spoken and discussed in Spanish is very different from what is said in English and that the entire structure of the language is different, more precise in some ways, less in others. Many things simply do not have good translations. For me, I have discovered that Spanish is a completely new way of rendering myself, a totally new way of displaying myself and my thoughts to the world. I see a certain parallel with this and Zen practice; Zen is a wholly new way of rendering ourselves—or perhaps un-rendering ourselves—to the world. We seem to have honestly no idea how to step forward at some times, other than to just work at it in an inglorious, extended and continuing manner.

When I had recently arrived and was feeling somewhat discouraged at how far I still had to go, my Spanish tutor told me, “You never stop learning a language.” At the time, I didn’t really appreciate that statement, as I still thought of the progression in another language more like a light switch, one day, you just wake up and everything’s done. During the beginning of my Zen practice, I similarly thought that one day, I would come home from Sesshin and have everything figured out, sort of like toast in a toaster. However, that interpretation misses the point. There is a saying in Spanish, “El que no se aventura no cruza la mar: Que no se arriesga no pasa la mar.” Literally translated, “He who doesn’t dare doesn’t cross the sea: he who doesn’t risk himself does not pass the sea.” In language and in Zen, the determining factor is how much of yourself do you throw into it: all of yourself or enough to still feel comfortable? Forget about the progress and descend into the practice. Are you going to leave some of yourself on one shore so that you’re okay if you sink? Or do you go out there with the intention of sinking, sinking into the exploration so that it doesn’t matter any more? Nothing ventured, nothing gained; everything ventured, ¿quién sabe?


Copyright 2006 Zoe Kaufman

Why I Don't Own an iPod (Yet)

by Jonathan Laux

Spend any time in a coffee shop, on the train, or basically anywhere there are people, and you don’t have to look too hard – chances are, there’s someone with those little white “earbud” headphones stuffed in their ears, the universal sign that this person is Plugged Into An iPod.

I’ve grown increasingly irritated of late by just how ubiquitous these little devices have become. It’s certainly not the device per se; I’ve admired Apple’s products for a long time and am writing this article on an Apple laptop. Nor is the iPod the first device of its kind: Last year the Wall Street Journal ran an article on the 25th anniversary of the Sony Walkman, the device that “started it all” and changed music from a communal experience to a personal one. But these days, the iPod stands alone in how it has been marketed, how quickly it has become an “indispensable” item for many people, and just how omnipresent it is.

To avoid coming off as a crank, let me acknowledge before going any further that I have thought several times about buying an iPod, and almost certainly will eventually own one. Not long ago, a friend was amazed that I didn’t have one already: “How can you not? They’re so cool!” Indeed. This topic is murky, and worthy of discussing in the context of Zen practice, precisely because we are all working to find a middle way between the “Zen Ideal” as we conjure it and, well, “coolness”. In many ways I understand the appeal of being plugged in; I’ve thought that way and wanted that stimulus. But I’ve also found that I don’t need it, that indeed the mind is clearer without it.

Much of my complaint with the iPod stems from how it renders music a commodity. I’ve always enjoyed the flow of a good album. But the iPod doesn’t advertise albums; it advertises “15000 songs in your pocket”. We’ve shortened our attention spans such that the whole album is now too long. Only the songs matter, which we can arrange into playlists of our own choosing and listen to again and again and again until we get bored, then listen to the rest of our 14999 songs. What do we get from listening to a song for the 10th time? The 100th? How does that help us? Perhaps we enjoy the musicianship: it has a good trumpet solo, maybe, or a lovely string section. Or perhaps it’s more like a nervous habit: something we do thoughtlessly like so many other machinations of the mind.

I remember when this seemed appealing. I discovered Led Zeppelin in high school, and remember a solid week that I had “Stairway to Heaven” in my head. Sometimes in college, I’d bring headphones on the way to class. It was cool; it made life feel like a music video. Now I catch myself--- it made life feel like a music video. Wow, that sounds far less appealing in the light of day! While I was plugged in, perhaps I failed to notice the sunlight that day, a friend trying to call my name, or the driver that slammed his breaks to avoid hitting me as I cut in front of him.

This kind of issue has helped me appreciate the “holistic” perspective in which Buddhism challenges us to engage life. Listening to an iPod cannot be seen as “moral” or “immoral”, but like all actions it has ramifications that reverberate in ways we may not see. In our moments of idleness, where does the mind go? Can we be content with the situations we’re in, or do we feel the endless need for stimulation and entertainment?

Eventually it may make sense to buy one, I tell myself. When I used to drive to work, I would often listen to music in my car; now that I commute via the train, playing music on an iPod isn’t so different... right? Moreover, after resisting the idea for some time I have become a cell phone user, which on the List of Modern Annoyances is at least as bad as the iPod, and probably much worse.

Ultimately, of course, the issue is not “have” versus “have not”, but “how much?” iPods and cell phones have made it possible to be distracted from the Here and Now, anytime, anywhere.

Instead, I just ride the train, listen to the recorded voice tick off the L stops: “This... is Howard. Doors open on the left... at Howard.” A man sits down next to me. I get out a stick of gum, offer him one too. He declines, but thanks me. A while later we reach his stop. Before leaving, he wishes me a good day. It isn’t much, but it’s some small release from the frantic self-absorption of urban living.

For now, I’ll leave the headphones at home.