Zen Encounters with Loneliness
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In Zen Encounters with Loneliness Terrance Keenan weaves together poetry, memoir, and raw insight to give voice to the lonely "nobody" in everyone. From his memories of early childhood to his struggles with addiction, writer’s block, and human relationship, Keenan delivers a heart-rending portrayal of the human hunger for selfhood and connection. Through his beautifully crafted literary reflections, he finds that Zen does not comfort our dream of being somebody, rather, it reveals connection only when we face who we really are—nobody. Zen Encounters intimately calls us to recognize that the well of emptiness is also a well of potential—to grow, learn, and overcome adversity.
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Zen Encounters with Loneliness - Terrance Keenan
ZEN ENCOUNTERS WITH LONELINESS
Reminds us once again that the small truths are often more powerful than those shouted from the rooftops. This heartfelt book is filled with light, wisdom, and courage.
—DINTY W. MOORE, author of The Mindful Writer
"Every few years, if you’re lucky, a book comes along that changes your life. Zen Encounters with Loneliness is one of those books for me."
—SATYA ROBYN, author of Afterwards
In Zen Encounters with Loneliness Terrance Keenan delivers a breathtaking portrayal of the human hunger for selfhood and connection. Through his reflections, we find that Zen does not comfort our dream of being somebody, but rather reveals connection only when we face who we really are—nobody. Embark on a poignant journey through addiction, Zen, and the transformative practice of writing.
A remarkable kaleidoscope of moving poetry and prose, touching the emptiness in all of us.
—JEAN SMITH, author of NOW
Keenan identifies, explores, and ultimately embraces the spine of isolation inherent in the human experience, illustrating that there is grace and wonder to be found in loss, yearning, and everyday life.
—JIM MCGREEVEY, LCPC, Clinical Director of the Kolmac Clinic
TERRANCE KEENAN is an artist and writer and was formerly a senior monk at the Zen Center of Syracuse. He lives in County Cork, Ireland.
For
Jane, Bryna, and Conor
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
A Note to the Reader
Introduction
PART I The Death of the Fathers
1.End of the Rational Ideal
2.The End of Perfection
3.The End of Linear Certainties
PART II The Orphaned Dark
4.Dissolving the Fictions
5.Habit of Being
PART III Hell Is Being without Space
6.Giving Up Wisdom
7.The Thief in the Infinity of Childhood
8.No Blame
9.Be Kind
10.Love Everything
PART IV Ways to Live Happily
11.The Most Important Thing in Life
12.Giving Up Giving Up
PART V A Boy Running in the Wind
13.The Merciful Avatar
14.Wild Apples, Crows in the Rain
15.The Canticle of Ecstasy
PART VI The Three Infinities
16.Infinite Gratitude to the Past
17.Infinite Service to the Present
18.Infinite Responsibility to the Future
PART VII Blue Heaped Upon Blue
19.What We Can’t Talk About
20.Trying to Be Love
PART VIII An Endless Vow
21.Living Stardust
22.Arriving in the Irreligious Dark
23.Flocks of Finches at Dawn
Afterword
SELECTED POEMS
I.Death of the Fathers
II.The Orphaned Dark
III.Ways to Live Happily
IV.The Three Infinities
V.Blue Heaped Upon Blue
VI.A Boy Running in the Wind
VII.An Endless Vow
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish to thank my editor, Andy Francis, who was willing to take on a new edition of this book, for his always sensitive and mindful support throughout; my wife, Jane, for her meticulous reading and loving support; my son, Conor, for his moral support and deep insight; and my daughter, Bryna, for her open-hearted understanding. My gratitude goes also to my teachers, the Venerable Eido Shimano Roshi and the Venerable Roko Shinge Roshi, for permission to quote from their book, Endless Vow: The Zen Path of Soen Nakagawa, for their rigorous support of my practice, and for their profound teaching. May true Dharma continue.
A Note to the Reader
Many of the poems that appear throughout the prose portions of Zen Encounters with Loneliness were composed in concert with other poems and are meant to be read alongside of each other. All of the poems are presented together with their counterparts under the heading Selected Poems
at the end of the book, so they may be read as they were intended to be.
INTRODUCTION
You’re in my blood like holy wine.
You taste so bitter and so sweet.
—JONI MITCHELL
Reality is the last nostalgia. We look upon it with hopeful sweetness, yet we grip it with the iron tenacity of desperation brought on by the terrifying accident of life. Purpose. Meaning. Certainty. Truth. Or perhaps the other view—Emptiness, Chaos, Doubt, Chance. However we seek to understand reality, whether through the scientific method, reason, religion, mysticism, philosophy, whatever perspective the conditions of our being compel us to use, we nevertheless wish reality to be so.
As one approaches the remote monastery Dai Bosatsu Zendo Kongo-ji, where I go for training, coming up the two mile long drive from the gatehouse through deep deciduous forest, just before one crosses the little plank bridge by the lake and sees the main buildings, there is the entrance to the Sangha Meadow, or cemetery. Here where deer browse lie the ashes of students of Buddhism. What did their study bring them? At the entrance there is a small Jizo Bodhisattva statue and a large stone slab. Cut into the stone is the calligraphic figure of dō or Way.
Below this, much smaller, the words of a poem by Basho in English. I stood on foot before it, my first visit one autumn a decade ago, as my father lay dying in a state far away, remote from all my experience. What was I doing here? What were these fictions called memories? What did my father’s death mean? What was his life? Was it real in any way that made sense? What was my life? Who was I, anyway? Leaves scattered across the dirt road and brushed the stone. These were Basho’s words:
Along this Way
goes no one,
this autumn evening.
No one. Me. I empty out. For a moment there are no questions and my sense of identity, my self-absorption, scatters with the leaves. For most of us our closest companion is us. To each of us it is we who are most real to ourselves. It is almost inconceivable that we would willingly lose this companion with whom, through whom, we think we experience the world. That is how it is for me too, usually. Long ago, however, as a small boy, I had intimations that there was something more behind who I thought I was. I had no words for it. No one I knew had any words for it—this profound sense there was no one home. Not emptiness exactly, but not individuality either. My experience of it was deep but erratic. Most of the time I did not experience its immediacy, and these were very lonely times because I found I could talk to no one about it. What would a child know about such things?
In one way or another I have spent my life trying to understand this no one within. This book is in part about that struggle. Somewhere in my early adulthood, well before I came to Zen practice, I tagged it with the name St. Nadie (nah-dee-ay), a Spanish word meaning no one. Looking back, I am sure I used Saint as an unconscious comment on the Saints of my Irish Catholic childhood—beings of unattainable sanctity, watching over us all the time. It has stuck in my consciousness, sacred and secret, a kind of non-guardian angel. St. Nadie. No one. No one goes this Way . . . though always present, usually hidden, older and more real than myself.
And this reality I experience? We think we can escape into reality from dream and fantasy, that there, wherever that is, is where we will find surety, harmony, sense, knowledge that this is true. It has been suggested that this utopian need to piece together the fragments of experience into a restored whole is the central strand of Western thought. As science has come to subsume philosophical thought, we assume we know the right questions and that for each there is an answer that is correct. How easy it is to ignore that we are ourselves at the center of this asking, and that all means for asking and answering come from us. We pretend the truth of something is true in spite of us, but we are only interested in knowable things, including the truth. The arrogance of this position, that unknowable answers are not genuine, has always seemed sad and peculiar to me, and a bit incoherent.
A friend of mine, a scientist and logician by trade, reminded me that science is a method of knowledge by description and that, on the whole, scientists think that the terms, the language we use to ask questions and formulate answers, that the terms and mathematics of science mean this or that. They don’t,
he said, They never did. . . . There is the math. There is the world. And there is the structural correspondence. That’s it.
He recognizes this is a conditional way of knowing and a limited one. He says that terms of math and logic are inadequate to communicate literal experience, or what he calls knowledge by acquaintance (after, I suppose, Bertrand Russell). He suggests poetry and art are all we have to communicate what we know by experience.
So at best we have descriptive models of bits and pieces dependent upon our ability to identify exactly—a conditional perspective. I believe there is a sneaking suspicion among us that, handy as these models are, they are not enough. The language of poetry, the act of poetry, is maddening and wonderful—uncertain. There is a plurality of possibility—and impossibility. For me, poetry has become the voice of my inner no one, of St. Nadie. Recognizing the differences in the ways of knowing is not to give one ascendancy over another but to recognize that understanding the reality of human experience is not satisfied by either or both. There is no one thread, no complex whole, no real answer in the way we want the real to be.
Our history of dissatisfaction is getting pretty long. The duality inherent in these ways of knowing continues to feed our persistence. We demand defining judgment to affirm ourselves, but it has never been forthcoming into the conditional way we experience. At the same time we know in a literal way that we are not visitors. It is the paradox of being and the burden of mortality. This is it. We are afraid.
Unknown answers
scatter empty roads,
brittle leaf music.
Part I
THE DEATH OF THE FATHERS
1
END OF THE RATIONAL IDEAL
What makes a life? What makes its choices? Who am I when I stand before another? Before myself in a mirror—and the many things are all mirrors? Who is this when I am alone and nameless, sitting in the woods with sleeping trees and snowy dusk? The answers are always conditional.
Is it where you live? I have an American passport. But I was born in Munich of an Irish mother and an Irish-American father who was then a soldier stationed there after the war. I have a German birth certificate. Does this make me German or American? I know what I have a right to claim, but that does not answer the question. I can claim citizenship through my grandparents. My paternal grandfather was from Belfast. Does that make me Irish or English? It depends upon whom you ask. My grandmother, his wife, was Czech. Her country does not even exist now as it did for her. What does that say about me? Nothing.
I have lived for thirty years in Upstate New York. This is not Westchester County or the Hudson Valley, but the real Upstate that has its own weather section in the Farmer’s Almanac. Up here that thirty years makes me merely a longtime resident.
My wife is a native,
born here as her mother was. But I have also lived and worked or studied in Liberia, the Canary Islands, England, and Puerto Rico. I used to consider my roots to be in the rural Delaware Valley, where I was a small child. Now, I don’t know.
Perhaps it is what you do? I used to hate that question. In America the common way of finding out who a person is comes from posing a question about what they do. Hi, I’m Bob. I’m an engineer. What do you do?
It saves a lot of probing guesswork. One is either this or that and whatever our stereotypes about that happen to be, we find ourselves satisfied by them. And it is true that many people identify themselves with their work. Can you think of any medical doctor who would not say he or she was a doctor when asked who they were? I could say, for example, that my dad was a grocer, for he worked in grocery stores, supermarkets, and the food business most of his adult life. But that hardly explains the complex and troubled man who gave me a copy of Voltaire when I was only fifteen.
When our children were small, I stayed at home as the primary care-giver. This was unusual at the time. My wife’s career in industry was just beginning to blossom. I had by then been a teacher at a small prep school in Pennsylvania, a lecturer in American literature at a Spanish University, a freelance writer with one book to my name (from a small press that immediately after went out of business), and had sold the independent bookstore I had owned and operated for seven years. I worked at night teaching business communications and American literature at the adult education extension of the local community college. I wrote poems while the children napped and I created paintings on weekends.
I learned quickly not to say I was a homemaker. People would wince as they tried to place a Betty Crocker template over me and my firm handshake. Nor would I say I was a poet or an artist. Despite national poetic figures as wildly different as Robert Frost and Allen Ginsberg, the stereotype of the Oscar Wilde aesthete tiptoeing through the tulips was what came to mind for many of the people I would meet. I’d say I was a writer and taught at MVCC. That was okay. It had a ring to it. But it wasn’t who I was.
Even after fourteen years working in rare books and manuscripts at a research library, with a master’s in library science and professional publications, I do not call myself a librarian. After doing consulting work for UNESCO in Germany I find I could also call myself a documentalist, but I don’t. For six years I’ve worn the shaved head of an ordained Rinzai Zen monk, but unless people ask me about my head (and some do!) I rarely mention it, despite my deep involvement as a clergyman in our community. It is because of who I am that I am a monk, not the other way around.
Perhaps it is the way you live or what has happened to you? Are you handicapped? A widow? A Catholic? A Jew? A victim (of what)? And me? I’m a drunk, an alcoholic. Twelve years ago I went into rehab and have been working at recovery ever since. For six of those years I taught meditation to other alcoholics and addicts at a local rehabilitation unit. My twelfth-step work. When I finally went for help, I was a tenth of an inch from losing everything—job, family, life. I have absolutely no doubt that if I had continued as I was I’d be dead now. This is the real thing. I am not afraid to talk about it but neither do I advertise it. I was told that if I wanted to get better I had to completely change my life. Yeah, right, I thought. I was forty-one. I was me. I could be a good boy and not drink any more, but I could not change who I was. I was wrong. I am not the same person I was twelve years ago. I could not have predicted who I became, nor how substantively different. Clearly, being an alcoholic is not a defining characteristic.
Vanity is such a subtle thing. Twice a year I am supposed to attend intensive retreats
called sesshin at a traditionally run Buddhist monastery in the mountains, as part of my training as a monk. It is the kind of training one comes to realize has no end point. It is a lifelong way of keeping in shape spiritually. One of the two sesshin is always supposed to be Rohatsu Sesshin. This is an eight-day affair that takes place in the first week in December, ending on December 8, the day that traditionally marks the Buddha’s awakening. It is the most demanding and the most rewarding sesshin, with up to fourteen hours of meditation a day. The mountains can be beautiful in December. One year a heavy snowfall wiped out power in a three county area and temperatures in the zendo (the meditation hall) dropped to thirty-three degrees. But we just put on long-johns under our robes and sat in a silence so deep (no heat pipes, no white noise, no water running, no lights humming) we could hear the snowflakes settle outside. We were transported back three hundred years to a monastic experience impossible almost anywhere today.
In December of 1997, I was sitting through my eighth Rohatsu and my fifteenth or sixteenth sesshin at the monastery. Compared to some participants, I was still in my sesshin adolescence, but I was not a newcomer. I knew from experience that the first two or three days are the most difficult, rather like on a wilderness canoe trip, then one toughens up and truly enters into the rhythms of the extraordinary silent dance sesshin becomes. But this time I did not toughen up. Pain in my legs and back increased each day. The little sleep we got was erratic at best for me. By the sixth day I was nearly passing out from pain. But I refused to say anything to anyone. We do learn how to deal with pain, and I was convinced I was failing to do so in some way, weakening in my resolve. Certainly Rohatsu in a Rinzai monastery breeds a kind of samurai attitude, a sense of toughness—we are the Dharma Marines! This may be helpful in some circumstances, though I am not so sure what they might be. It nearly killed me, at any rate. I would not let myself see something was indeed wrong with me—not a failure of will (ironic in this ego-eradicating environment) but of my body. I would not listen to the warning signals. I was very sick.
It took some time for the doctors to get it right because the symptoms are easily disguised as something else. Besides, men who grew up as athletes, as I did, tend to hold on to the notion they are immortal and don’t need doctors anyway, so I didn’t even mention at first some of the things bugging me. I thought they’d go away by themselves. But I was finally diagnosed with Graves’ Disease, a hyperthyroid condition rare in men. The pain I experienced at Rohatsu came from loss of muscle tone in my body as my overactive thyroid consumed my proteins. I was so convinced I was beyond egotistic concerns for myself I couldn’t see my arrogance of denial. Subtle indeed. Does this make me an invalid (curious word in this context, if you shift the accent a little . . .)? No, I am getting better. It’s serious, permanent, but manageable, like a low-grade