I'm so sick of karmic consciousness squirting projecting phenomena like silk out of a worm's ass! Quickly, a cocoon encases reality with imagination and I'm left grasping at my reflection in the mirror like a kitten, milk warm on its breath.
I can understand why the ancestors turned their fingers into candles and let them burn as offerings to the Thus Come Ones. I can understand why they burned 3,6, and 9 circles into their scalps. What good is truth if it burns the mouth so quickly and thoroughly we're not sure we tasted it?
Triggered. My partner and I now live on a hill above the temple in a rustic, bare bones cabin. You have to shit in a hole, but the sunlight that pours through the pine and redwood trees is surreal. However, it's considered fertile temple grounds. And I saw someone rolling a joint there as I peed in the woods. Rage came up, I changed out of my robes, and into my running gear and climbed to our 1,000 foot ridge that over looks our valley of dharma and vegetables, our creek that opens up to salmon waiting out there in the sea. I ran through the rolling hills, the Golden Gate just peeking above before San Francisco. Triggered.
I ran. I ran. The problem is not the pot, not him, not the breaking of our temple shingi, our guidelines supporting practice, but the problem is this mind. This mind that accumulates karma, this mind that projects phenomena and attaches. Even better, this mind that never was separate from phenomena, from karma.
I could tell this man, please, you don't know how this triggers me, that I can't separate pot from coke from my uncle from grandma being stabbed in that family house tossed down the stairs milk poured down her throat with aspirins tumbling from her lips because they we were afraid grandpa had killed her for her protest. I could say, please and I'm sorry, sorry we hurt.
Just thoughts; abide there, and I'll get sick. So what?
Suzuki Roshi said give your cows a large field and observe what they do. I'm not a Roshi, nor do I have a field of cows. And this man I saw breaking the shingi is my senior dharma brother and I've never liked him because he doesn't come to the Zendo and I can't wait to help him pack up. But this is why I could never snitch, because I'd be too happy to see him go. And what do I know?
What's my dharma position? Anja. I make tea for the abbess, I clean her bowls, I sew her setsu. I'm a farmer. I just grow food. And I sit, bow, and chant. I never vowed to police this temple. But I did vow to study the self, this self righteous "look good" self endowed with bottomless karma. And this suffering didn't arise with me, him, or drugs, it started when I saw him.
So I left it alone.
The next morning, I saw the baker, who is a a quiet lay dharma heir, and who is calm, and wise, and warm. Before Zazen, I went into his bakery, got some raw dough on my hand and said I need to talk to you before I do something stupid and get people in trouble. He said go wash your hand. Then the han called us to Zazen.
After Zazen I checked in with him again and said it felt better but might still help to talk about it, but I didn't want to implicate him in having to report something that might get someone asked to leave. It was time for class, so away I went.
The next day I missed breakfast in the Zendo. I was busy working all morning and I was starving. The same person I saw up at our cabin found me and carried a heavy tray of food, filled my bowl and poured me some juice he had made that morning.
No trace of the trigger, I thought of Dogen-Zenji and how he once saw a monk stuffing his face with meat in the kitchen, but felt that it was okay because he wasn't really feeding himself, just the demons that were crawling all over his back. And that was that for me, this man fed demons that crawl all over my back.