Two types of growth When the clock struck midnight on December 31st, I was sitting with about seventy others in a meditation hall at Zen Mountain Monastery in the Catskills. After five days of silence and meditation, we had just heard a beautiful talk by Daido Roshi, the Abbot, who spoke of the role of the monastery in times such as these. He spoke of how, throughout history, monasteries become places of refuge, clarity, and energy for societies going through tough times. The increasing number of people arriving at Zen Mountain needed to be welcomed with open arms, and 'given what they need.' Despite his frail physical health, he was as lucid and powerful as one would expect from a zen master, and this insight was matched with the compassion that is its active principle.

His development, and that of masters in zen and other pursuits, seems to be characterised by self-transcendence (I can hear the chuckles at such a simplification from those who know more than I). The practice of meditation - which quiets the mind and interrupts our normal self-oriented patterns of thinking and being - is core to this. But also the practices of compassionate work, self-inquiry through art, study, and stretching oneself physically are towards this same end. It's a pursuit of this quiet, subtle sweetness that is the reward of a life in harmony with the whole, instead of the obvious and easily obtainable pleasures of our grasping self. Constrained by the precepts, strengthened by practice, they are opened to the Way.

Contrast this with the path so popular in self-help literature and television. Instead of a path of self-transcendence, it is one of self-indulgence. Physical growth becomes hedonism in disguise, intellectual growth is about finding ideas that will make me happy regardless of whether they're true, and spiritual growth is about trying to get all the benefits of religions without having to make the investments. It's wanting the charity of Christ without his poverty, the relaxation of a yogi without the sweat, and the insight of Buddha without the darkness.

I know those who celebrate life fully aware of its fleeting nature. They taste and listen and learn and laugh more fully than anyone. Desires are cultivated and fulfilled, and such is the beautiful magic of these people. They radiantly celebrate each moment and all of life, and are an example of the Way because they aren't focused on themselves, but simply delight in life. But a path of self-growth that is entirely self-referential, that seeks to reinforce instead of transcend the self - such a path is a house built on sand.

The ancient masters were subtle, mysterious, profound, responsive.
The depth of their knowledge is unfathomable.
Because it is unfathomable,
All we can do is describe their appearance.
Watchful, like men crossing a winter stream.
Alert, like men aware of danger.
Courteous, like visiting guests.
Yielding like ice about to melt.
Simple, like uncarved blocks of wood.
Hollow, like caves.
Opaque, like muddy pools.
Who can wait quietly while the mud settles?
Who can remain still until the moment of action?
Observers of the Tao do not seek fulfillment.
Not seeking fulfillment, they are not swayed by desire for change.
- Lao Tzu

  ¶ 7:54 PM