“Body like mountain, breath like wind, mind like sky.”—Tibetan adage
Have you ever tried to control your breath? Maybe as a child you had a contest with someone to see who could hold their breath the longest. I know I did. I could never hold it long enough to win. Given that I had a competitive streak, especially with my older brothers, I was a sore loser. These days I am thankfully far less competitive. It took innumerable hours of meditation for the striving-selfing part to relax and be patient—like the dandelion seedhead waiting for the breath of a child or a gust of wind to whisk its “helicopters” into the air.
There were dozens of dandelions in the front yard of my childhood home. Neither of my parents was inclined toward topiary, gardening, or pruning. For us kids, having a wild yard meant we had fewer chores, more time to frolic, and ample flora to hide in when playing "ringolevio.” The “jail” was our front stoop, which was flanked by stunted pine trees and an evergreen shrub with squishy, bright red berries. Both provided ample coverage for us while we waited for the perfect moment to dash to the stoop, tag our jailed posse, shout “olly, olly, oxen free,” and book it back to the camouflage of leaves, trees, and bushes.
I haven’t played “ringolevio” or picked a dandelion in forty years! However, this phrase “breath like wind” reminds me of the wonder, immediacy, and joy of youth. As a teenager, I would not have used the word “relax” to describe playing tag or sitting on the broad, sturdy limbs of the Japanese magnolia or chestnut trees in my yard. However, that’s what it feels like to my 54-year-old self, who spends more time staring at flat images of nature on my laptop than being with nature. Just like that dandelion waiting for the wind, being outdoors as a child was a fluid, unself-conscious state of naturalness.
When I first began practicing Zen, I had the good fortune of meeting several teachers from San Francisco Zen Center who came to Austin, TX, to offer talks, classes, and sesshin. I spoke with all of them about anxiety and anger, two emotions that buffeted me for most of my life. The most helpful guidance I received (or at least that I remember!) was from Tenshin Reb Anderson Roshi who simply said: “Relax and breathe into whatever’s going on.” At the time, that didn’t sound like profound Zen wisdom to me.
However, it was exactly the practical wisdom I needed the very next day on a flight to Portland. I was in the window seat and just as the plane began to rise off the tarmac, I felt the familiar sensations of panic rising in the gut and swirling in the solar plexus. My first impulse was to undo my seatbelt and crawl over the other passengers to the “freedom” of the aisle. Fortunately, Roshi’s words floated through my mind and I found my breath. With great effort, I paid attention to the panicky pace of the exhale and inhale. For a few moments, this seemed to amplify the anxiety. Given that I couldn’t escape, I just kept finding the flow of the breath, and gradually the pace slowed, and I felt my body sink into the seat, my gut release its grip (on what? the existence of “me” perhaps?), and the ripples of emotion-sensation subsided.
It was my first taste of calm amid the storm. And it was the first experience of noticing that the calm was already there: I didn’t have to flee to the aisle or change my posture. I just had to tether the mind’s attention to breathing sensations and maintain this continuity of mindfulness long enough for the anxiety to dissipate. In his discourse titled “Fear and Terror,” the Buddha addresses the human impulse to move away from fear and the belief that freedom lies outside ourselves. The Buddha remarks that it’s difficult to be secluded in the wilderness because “the forests . . . plunder the mind of a monk who has not attained concentration.”
I love this phrase “plunder the mind.” Before I began practicing zazen, I had no idea that my mind was being plundered by ancient, twisted karmic conditioning. Of course, the “plundering of mind” hasn’t ceased; however, the “warrior” of mindfulness helps guard mind consciousness against insidious looting.
The Buddha continues on to say,
“What if I, in whatever state I'm in when fear & terror come to me, where to subdue that fear & terror in that very state? So when fear & terror came to me while I was walking back & forth, I would not stand or sit or lie down. I would keep walking back & forth until I had subdued that fear & terror . . . When fear & terror came to me while I was sitting, I would not lie down or stand up or walk. I would keep sitting until I had subdued that fear & terror. . . .”
The Buddha tells the assembly that he subdued fear and terror through “unflagging persistence” and “unmuddled mindfulness” to the point where his body remained “calm & unaroused” and his “mind concentrated & single.” He then describes the equanimity, composure, and contentment of jhana—deep meditative states. His descriptions sound like his body-mind was in a profound state of relaxation. In this discourse, however, the Buddha doesn’t explain how to calm the body and concentrate the mind.
Fortunately for us, we have Buddha’s how-to instructions in two of his more well-known (at least IMHO) sutras: “The Satipatthana Sutra” and “The Anapansati Sutra.” In the former discourse, “The Four Foundations of Mindfulness,” the body is the first foundation with the breath being the first contemplation. In the latter discourse, “Meditation on Breathing,” the Buddha focuses on the simple activity of “in-and-out breathing.”
As you probably noticed, the Pali word sati is part of the title of each sutra. Sati can be translated as “mindfulness” or “awareness.” In his extraordinary book, Satipatthana: The Direct Path to Realization, Bhikkhu Analayo translates satipatthana as “presence of mindfulness” or “attending with mindfulness.”1 Analayo points out that the type of mindfulness the Buddha’s referring to is a “body in body” experience, not an intellectual understanding. For us to cultivate this embodied experience we need to establish the “mental faculties of energy, wisdom, mindfulness, and concentration.”2 We cultivate these faculties when we practice zazen in one of the four postures—sitting, walking, standing, or lying down. And of course, we need to establish these faculties to practice zazen ;>)
“Breath like wind” reminds me that we’re paying close attention to the breath, not looking to manipulate or control it. It reminds me that energy and patience are not mutually exclusive. It reminds me that life flows through me. The effortless effort of the dandelion seedhead waiting for the wind—or a child to brush past—is the patient practice of shikantaza.
When the anxiety arose while I was on the plane, the simple remembering to connect with or “touch” the breath saved me from an all-out panic attack. At the time, I hadn’t even heard of either of these sutras. I just was attentive to the gulping inhales and the quick exhales until eventually the inhales and exhales lengthened, and magically, with a calm body and collected mind, I found myself in the same seat as before. Of course, not as concentrated as the Buddha’s, but still a mini-miracle at the outset of my journey—literally on the plane and metaphorically on The Path.
“Calmness of your mind is beyond the end of your exhaling. And if you exhale in that way, smoothly, without even trying to exhale, you are entering into the complete perfect calmness of your mind. You do not exist anymore. And natural inhaling [will bring you back] to yourself with some color or form. And with your exhaling, you gradually fade into emptiness—empty white paper. That is shikantaza. When you have this practice in your last moment, you have nothing to [be] afraid of.” —Shunryu Suzuki Roshi
Bhikkhu Analayo. Satipatthana: The Direct Path to Realization. Cambridge, Windhorse Publications Ltd., 2008.
Ibid.
Wonderful piece! Thank you.