Dispatch #2: A Buzzed Head & Bare Feet

Practicing with Physical Discomfort

I buzzed my hair the other day at our monk’s makeshift, outdoor hair salon. It’s just a rickety chair, a small wood dresser, a handheld mirror, and an oval mirror nailed to the outside wall of a bathroom stall. There’s a drape to wrap around yourself, a somewhat decent pair of scissors, and several pairs of hair clippers.

Although we only have three pairs of clippers, for some unknown reason, we have dozens of clipper guards! We’ve probably kept every single set of these things for the past ten years, even after the clippers have broken and been discarded. This has been a great mystery to me for all the years that I’ve resided at Tassajara. I’ll never know why, of course, and most likely, just like everyone else, I’ll never throw away any of these thingies away either.

This is just one container of clipper guards. There’s two more of them!

Anyway, I grabbed a dusty clipper guard with the number 3 on it, as that’s my preferred buzz level, snapped it on to the Wahl clipper, turned it on. Instead of sitting, I stood up and hunched over so my hair would fall directly onto the ground, and buzzed away. After about 15 minutes, pieces of my body—the earth element—lay in a heap on the dirt. My hair is almost the exact color of dirt—except of course for the thin, grey streaks. I scooped up the heap and dropped it alongside the bank of the creek.

I never knew how attached I was to my thick, wavy hair—how it was part of my identity—until it was first buzzed in September 2008, right after returning from being a bridesmaid in my older brother’s wedding. There was a young guy who was very enthusiastic about buzzing it for me. It was probably because he had a crush on me, and we did in fact become lovers the following year. And the year after that, we embarked on a cross-country bike tour with another monk. But that’s another story!

Of course, I was concerned about how I’d look and whether or not people would like it. Since we were heading into the practice period, which meant all the summer guests and many of the students would be leaving, I decided to let him buzz it. And, that was a big mistake!

I remember a few onlookers making faces that ranged from mild surprise to “oh, shit!” as he ran the clipper up and over and around my head like he was shearing a feral sheep! Afterward, a man in his 60s told me it looked like someone took a chainsaw to it. So much for manners!

Even though it looked crappy, and some people snickered, I was glad that I did it. There’s something invigorating for me about shaving off my hair. Maybe invigorating isn’t the most precise word. Somehow I feel closer to myself when my hair is buzzed. Like I’m not hiding. Or maybe because my vanity gets a buzz cut as well!

Since being at a monastery is a deep dive into our karmic conditioning, practicing with physical discomfort is one way to study the arising “selfing”—a verb is a more accurate part of speech than a noun to describe what we call “the self.” So when the guy made a mess of it, I got to walk around with a different identity “suit” on, if you will. I was no longer the Heather with beautiful, wavy brown hair. I was Heather with a buzz cut from hell!

Another lesson in being physically uncomfortable is the practice of going sockless in the meditation hall. During my first 90-day practice period (Jap. ango) at Tassajara from September to December 2008, the Abbot leading the ango would not allow us to wear socks in the meditation hall, which is only heated under the raised platforms where we sit. The floor is not heated and there is no insulation under it either. If you tore up a plank, you’d see the ground below.

Some abbots let you wear them into the zendo, but then request that you remove them once you’re seated on you meditation cushion. Not him. No scarves either, and most definitely no hats!

Not wearing socks when it’s warm is not an issue. It’s wonderful to feel the smooth wood floor under my feet as I do walking meditation. And my toes enjoy being unconfined when on the cushion as well. All snug under my robes!

However, when the temperature drops to 40, the wood floor feels like ice. And when it falls below freezing, as it did many times during my first practice period, my poor feet felt like swollen, burning coals. The coldest temperature I recall from that time was 26!

The practice at the monastery is not to avoid that which causes us physical or psycho-emotional discomfort. We turn toward this discomfort and pain as much as we possibly can because opening our heart-mind to our suffering transforms this afflictive energy. It’s when we think we can escape, and keep turning away, that suffering and distress become thick like weeds choking the blossoms in our garden.

And, even though everything has changed since I first walked through the monastery gate 15 years ago, the bugs still love my buzzed head and the zendo floor welcomes my bare feet.

A monk said to Tozan, “Cold and heat descend upon us. How can we avoid them?” Tozan said, “Why don’t you go where there is no cold or heat?” The monk said, “Where is the place where there is no cold or heat?” Tozan said, “When cold, let it be so cold that it kills you; when hot, let it be so hot that it kills you.” The Blue Cliff Record, Case 43   (Tozan Ryokai, 807-869)