WRAPPED IN SILENCE
Mo Myokan Weinhardt
Senior Dharma Teacher
Last night
I begged the Wise One to tell me
The secret of the world.
Gently, gently he whispered,
“Be quiet,
The secret cannot be spoken,
It is wrapped in silence.”
Here we are together, a day and a half deep into sesshin, wading into the secret of the world. Perhaps your mind has settled slightly; perhaps not. Either way — good. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe your back or your knees are aching. I know mine are! And right here, in the midst of quiet and discomfort — here is a great opportunity.
In sesshin, we are invited into the prolonged practice of zazen together. Within this container of community, sitting, chanting, kinhin, and samu, or work practice, we are invited to explore deeply the vicissitudes of our own mind. And through this, we have an opportunity to practice stillness and complete presence with whatever arises — even when we don’t like what bubbles up.
In this container of sesshin, we practice alone, together; and together, alone. As Reb Anderson and countless other teachers have said, we can’t do it by ourselves, and no one else can do it for us. During zazen, we are encouraged to sit as still and quietly as possible; not to shift or readjust our butts on the chair or zafu, even when both of our legs fall asleep; I am encouraged not to scratch that itch on my nose, even when I’m convinced that it actually would solve all of my problems. It’s an invitation to notice these distractions, these diversions — all the ways our minds are prone to flitting and thrashing about.
So why do we do this? Why do we subject ourselves to so much likely frustration and discomfort? In a word, intimacy.
Quietly sitting zazen with a community is a precious form of practice that supports us with the most generous of conditions. Everything here is set up to support and remind us of practice — that is absolutely not the case out in the wild of the world, where we are bombarded by noise, people, advertisements, consumerism, and the hectic bustle of day-to-day life.
This container that we create together is intentionally designed to slow things down; to limit our distractions, and encourage or at least invite the mind to confront itself fully, moment by moment, breath by breath. It is designed to make our practice of awareness just a little bit easier to engage, so we can cultivate our ability to return again, and again, and again, to just this. To our breath. To this very moment.
Sometimes though, the harsh reality is that a fair number of the moments we awaken to aren’t that fun. What happens when just this is dull, boring, unsatisfying, painful, or discouraging? When we find ourselves wanting things to be other than they are?
I really appreciate what Jan said yesterday — our hands aren’t empty; they’re open. I wonder how each of us might meet such moments with curiosity and possibility.
“Be quiet,
The secret cannot be spoken,
It is wrapped in silence.”
Imagine a bird holding a thin, fine piece of cloth, and once every 100 years, flying over a 14-mile high mountain and gently brushing the cloth across the top. A kalpa is the length of time it would take to wear that mountain down to the ground.
One moment, one kalpa.
There are moments when time feels glacially slow, painfully drawn out, stretched like bubblegum across an infinite span of forever. Like when I’m stuck in a traffic jam, or impatiently waiting to see someone I really miss, or perhaps like those occasions when I’m sitting zazen and desperately waiting for the timekeeper to ring the bell already. (This is especially funny when I’m the timekeeper).
The opposite is also true. There are moments when time feels like it’s flashing by at a terrifying speed. When in the blink of an eye, a child has grown up; sesshin is suddenly over; or a life has come to an end. When everything feels like it’s moving too fast, and I don’t know how to slow it down.
To paraphrase Days Like Lightning by Taego Bou, a 14th-century Korean Zen master: “The days and months go by like lightning — we should value the time. We pass from life to death in the time it takes to breathe in and breathe out; it’s hard to guarantee even a morning and an evening. At the end of the road, it’s like an iron wall. Put down your myriad concerns and wake up. Whether walking or standing, sitting or lying down, do not waste even a minute. Become ever braver and bolder.”
Don’t wait to climb Mount Fuji. Don’t wait to make that phone call you haven’t had time for — make the time. Don’t wait until you feel ready; that’ll never happen. Don’t wait for life to make sense, or for things to slow down. What time do you think you have? We can’t guarantee even a morning or an evening. That’s precisely why every day is a good day. Even the days that suck.
Whatever joy and muck it might bring, this is what we’ve got. Maybe today that means sore knees and a tender heart. It’s up to us what we choose to do with it.
There is no magic armor that protects us from suffering. There is no way to avoid pain and sorrow — though god knows I try. But when we reframe this with open hands, with curiosity, with a mind of not knowing — with a mind of possibility — something transforms.
I lost my mom early last year. She died an ugly death. But last year was just her physical death. The truth is, I lost her long before that to addiction, depression, and heartbreak.
While sitting last night, deep in sesshin — held by this container of practice — my mind turned toward her, and I silently cried. Waves of anger, of missing her, aching for the person she used to be. My hands were empty.
And then, a memory of her hug. A full-on bear hug, squeezing me and rocking back and forth, and hearing her voice say “I love you so much, my sweetie-baby.” She said silly things like that. Suddenly my mind found my grandmother, Neen – my mom’s mom. Then Mimi and Papa Bill, my dad’s parents. Then Papa Golding and Sarah, my great-grand parents. Grandpa Jer; grandpa Jack, and backwards on to those I never actually met but heard stories about. With hands on one another’s shoulders, they were all suddenly with me, and I felt the support and connection of generations whose lives all mysteriously contributed and led to my own. To this tender heart. My loss transformed in that moment. My hands were suddenly open.
In my experience, this practice has made me more vulnerable; more raw, more likely to hear and feel the cries of the world. And if we’re lucky, we’ll be as present as possible for every moment of this fleeting life — not just the ones we prefer.
Being awake to our breath, our bodies, our fickle thoughts and emotions… this is truly difficult. Zazen is an opportunity to come face to face with this life, this mind, just as it is. And this complicated, tangled, exquisit mess is exactly why I need sesshin.
The sangha and the cushion provide a safe space to encounter ourselves as genuinely, honestly, and open-heartedly as possible. They create a container that fertilizes awareness. That’s why there are so many little rules; bow here, gasho there, left foot first, bell now — each one an invitation to pay attention. To notice. Not just to the things we want to pay attention to, but to notice the world beyond our likes and dislikes, and to move in a way that is not constrained by the smoke and mirrors of craving and aversion.
This is why, in sesshin, before entering the zendo, we take off our shoes and neatly set them straight; one right next to the other, perpendicular to the wall. This is why we aim to leave no traces, cleaning up splashes of water around the bathroom sink, and wiping our spot at the table after a meal; this is why wherever possible, we practice leaving spaces in better shape than we found them; and why during kinhin, we practice changing directions by pivoting in a slightly more angular way, with 90 degree turns when possible — because as Zen students, followers of the Way, we make a continual practice of not cutting corners.
And when we do cut corners, because we do and we will — recognize it when possible; and gently remind ourselves to return to this one continuous mistake, or as my brother recently put it, “this beautiful bouquet of fuck-ups,” where the secret is simply to keep doing our best. Doing our best to remember; to pay attention; to practice intimacy; to walk with open hands; and to persevere with a generous heart. Do not waste even a minute.
We try to pay attention to things like this during sesshin, so that we have a better chance of carrying this practice out into the world, into the stuff of our lives. Like I said, this is difficult. We can’t do it by ourselves, and no one else can do it for us. Maybe that’s why Hakuin Ekaku, a zen master from the 18th century, was known for saying, “Practice in the midst of activity is a thousand times superior to practice in stillness.”
But we need to practice in stillness too, so we have a snowball’s chance of doing it in the midst of activity.
I began this talk with one of my favorite poems, written by Rumi back in the 13th century. His full name is Jalāl ad-Dīn Mohammad Rūmī. His words have echoed across the centuries, and for good reason. May they continue echoing, here and now.
“Last night
I begged the Wise One to tell me
The secret of the world.
Gently, gently he whispered,
“Be quiet,
The secret cannot be spoken,
It is wrapped in silence.”
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