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 Dancing on the Wires
-Jody Wilson
On Tuesday, November 4, at the stroke of 7:00 pm., I stepped out into a promising Evanston evening and called loudly, “Hear ye, hear ye, the polls are now closed,” and burst into tears.
The emotional release was deeper than my exhaustion from the long day just passed and my anxiety about dealing with the complexities of closing the polls that was ahead. I had been caught up in anxiety and anticipation of this election for months. Not just for the conclusion of that endless campaign, but for the only possible outcome, the outcome I was sure the country needed and I passionately wanted. And now — at least in Evanston township, ward 8, precinct 4 — it was finally beyond the reach of all spinning, tweaking, winking, fluffing, framing and maverick-y top of the ticket Valentino suits; beyond million dollar info-mercials, auto-dialing and laugh-out-loud bumper stickers — “Republicans for Voldemort,” surprising yard signs — “Rednecks for Obama – even we've had enough! And even beyond U-Tube — “Hockey Mama for Obama” sung to the tune of “Don't Cry for Me Argentina,” accompanied on the piano by a guy wearing a moose hat.
Jacta alea est. The die was cast, you betcha.
In September, my practice started to become sporadic and uneven. My 20 – 30 minutes on the mat each morning was gradually reduced and finally surrendered completely to an obsessive checking of e-mail, RSS feeds, The New York Times and The Washington Post. And when I finally and infrequently did get my butt down on the zafu, I squirmed and plotted and obsessed. As Election Day approached, I wasn't sitting at all. The future of the world hinges on this election. This is different. This is really important. I was completely gone.
At first I tried to justify this situation as “engaged Buddhism.” But the truth is that just because I am a Buddhist and an activist doesn't make me an “engaged Buddhist.” Truly engaged Buddhists follow the Eight-Fold path into the world and bring their practice wholly into the fray. I wasn't doing any of that. I was simply “engaging” at a very low level in the political process. There was very little Buddhism about it.
In the late 1960s and early 1970s, no one I knew was or even aspired to “be peace.” We were militantly against the war in Viet Nam, violently opposed to the draft and aggressively against everyone who didn't agree with us. “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today” is not Right Speech. Chant it like a mantra and pretty soon you've got hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of angry kids. Chant it — or something like it — long enough and you've got Kent State. And now, thirty and more years later, I was at it again. Churning the same kind of disdain, righteously convinced of my own rightness and obsessing endlessly over an outcome I had little hope of effecting.
It was especially disappointing because a few months before, I had an experience that led me to hope I had come a bit farther. One evening, just before the April primary, I was filling up my car when the man who was at the neighboring pump came over and, gesturing at my “Gore and Obama” bumper sticker said in the friendliest possible way, “That's an interesting combination.” I agreed. “Better than Hillary,” he says. Again, I agree, adding, “I think she's great, but she's too much of a hawk for me.” Smiling at each other, we both return to our pumps. “What do you think is going to happen?” he semi-shouts to me across our respective cars. And I know that he's talking about the results of the upcoming primary. “I don't know,” I semi-shout back. Then I walk over to him and confide, “Essentially, the outcome doesn't matter to me. Whoever the Democrats nominate will get my vote. I'll never vote for a Republican as long as I live.” He smiles as he says, “And I won't ever vote for a Democrat.”
“Really,” I say, “why is that?” I notice that I'm more curious than defensive.
“I work hard for my money,” he says. “I grew up in Europe and we didn't have much. I work hard for myself and my family and the Democrats always want to take my money and give it to others.”
I say, “I also work hard for myself and my family. And for you.”
He blinks. We smile.
“Almost 85% of Americans think Bush is on the wrong track,” I say.
“I think he's one of the greatest presidents we've ever had,” he replies. “He and Richard Nixon.”
Before I could even think about what I was doing, I reached out my hand and introduced myself. “We could talk for a long time and never agree,” I said, smiling. Smiling back he says, “That's right, but we're friends, aren't we?”
“Yes,” I confirm as we shake hands, “we are.”
I almost broke my arm patting myself on the back on my drive home.
So where did all of that freshly realized equanimity and heart felt good humor disappear to?
No mystery. It disappeared when I stopped sitting regularly.
“Upholding the precepts,
repentance and giving,
the countless good deeds
and the way of right living all come from zazen.”
Duh.
I become angry with myself for not knowing this. But I do know it. Of course I do. And then my ego is captivated or my imagination enchanted by a situation, a personality, an idea, whatever. And the temporary novelty fools me into believing that this is different, this is really important. That this — whatever this is — is more worthy of my attention than, well, than my attention. And I'm completely gone. Again.
I'm so glad we call what we do practice — and not mastery.
On Tuesday, November 4, at the stroke of 7:00 pm., I stepped out into a promising Evanston evening and called loudly, “Hear ye, hear ye, the polls are now closed,” and burst into tears.
The emotional release was deeper than my exhaustion from the long day just passed and my anxiety about dealing with the complexities of closing the polls that was ahead. I had been caught up in anxiety and anticipation of this election for months. Not just for the conclusion of that endless campaign, but for the only possible outcome, the outcome I was sure the country needed and I passionately wanted. And now — at least in Evanston township, ward 8, precinct 4 — it was finally beyond the reach of all spinning, tweaking, winking, fluffing, framing and maverick-y top of the ticket Valentino suits; beyond million dollar info-mercials, auto-dialing and laugh-out-loud bumper stickers — “Republicans for Voldemort,” surprising yard signs — “Rednecks for Obama – even we've had enough! And even beyond U-Tube — “Hockey Mama for Obama” sung to the tune of “Don't Cry for Me Argentina,” accompanied on the piano by a guy wearing a moose hat.
Jacta alea est. The die was cast, you betcha.
In September, my practice started to become sporadic and uneven. My 20 – 30 minutes on the mat each morning was gradually reduced and finally surrendered completely to an obsessive checking of e-mail, RSS feeds, The New York Times and The Washington Post. And when I finally and infrequently did get my butt down on the zafu, I squirmed and plotted and obsessed. As Election Day approached, I wasn't sitting at all. The future of the world hinges on this election. This is different. This is really important. I was completely gone.
At first I tried to justify this situation as “engaged Buddhism.” But the truth is that just because I am a Buddhist and an activist doesn't make me an “engaged Buddhist.” Truly engaged Buddhists follow the Eight-Fold path into the world and bring their practice wholly into the fray. I wasn't doing any of that. I was simply “engaging” at a very low level in the political process. There was very little Buddhism about it.
In the late 1960s and early 1970s, no one I knew was or even aspired to “be peace.” We were militantly against the war in Viet Nam, violently opposed to the draft and aggressively against everyone who didn't agree with us. “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today” is not Right Speech. Chant it like a mantra and pretty soon you've got hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of angry kids. Chant it — or something like it — long enough and you've got Kent State. And now, thirty and more years later, I was at it again. Churning the same kind of disdain, righteously convinced of my own rightness and obsessing endlessly over an outcome I had little hope of effecting.
It was especially disappointing because a few months before, I had an experience that led me to hope I had come a bit farther. One evening, just before the April primary, I was filling up my car when the man who was at the neighboring pump came over and, gesturing at my “Gore and Obama” bumper sticker said in the friendliest possible way, “That's an interesting combination.” I agreed. “Better than Hillary,” he says. Again, I agree, adding, “I think she's great, but she's too much of a hawk for me.” Smiling at each other, we both return to our pumps. “What do you think is going to happen?” he semi-shouts to me across our respective cars. And I know that he's talking about the results of the upcoming primary. “I don't know,” I semi-shout back. Then I walk over to him and confide, “Essentially, the outcome doesn't matter to me. Whoever the Democrats nominate will get my vote. I'll never vote for a Republican as long as I live.” He smiles as he says, “And I won't ever vote for a Democrat.”
“Really,” I say, “why is that?” I notice that I'm more curious than defensive.
“I work hard for my money,” he says. “I grew up in Europe and we didn't have much. I work hard for myself and my family and the Democrats always want to take my money and give it to others.”
I say, “I also work hard for myself and my family. And for you.”
He blinks. We smile.
“Almost 85% of Americans think Bush is on the wrong track,” I say.
“I think he's one of the greatest presidents we've ever had,” he replies. “He and Richard Nixon.”
Before I could even think about what I was doing, I reached out my hand and introduced myself. “We could talk for a long time and never agree,” I said, smiling. Smiling back he says, “That's right, but we're friends, aren't we?”
“Yes,” I confirm as we shake hands, “we are.”
I almost broke my arm patting myself on the back on my drive home.
So where did all of that freshly realized equanimity and heart felt good humor disappear to?
No mystery. It disappeared when I stopped sitting regularly.
“Upholding the precepts,
repentance and giving,
the countless good deeds
and the way of right living all come from zazen.”
Duh.
I become angry with myself for not knowing this. But I do know it. Of course I do. And then my ego is captivated or my imagination enchanted by a situation, a personality, an idea, whatever. And the temporary novelty fools me into believing that this is different, this is really important. That this — whatever this is — is more worthy of my attention than, well, than my attention. And I'm completely gone. Again.
I'm so glad we call what we do practice — and not mastery.
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