This article was written by Tim Kroll, lay Zen teacher and Director of the Austin Zen Center.
The morning at the Center begins before it is light out most days. A handful of people quietly enter the building and take off their shoes, placing them carefully on the shoe rack in the entryway. No words are spoken. Partly we are not fully awake, so it feels too early for all that. And the people who come here most likely sense some power in the silence, careful with it, not wanting to disturb it. They shuffle in to the meditation hall (“zendo” in Japanese), and quietly bow and take a seat on the cushions on the floor. They turn on their seat to face the wall, which might look, but actually doesn’t feel, odd. Instead, it seems to fit with the silence, the dim lights, the predawn hour, a single candle flickering on the altar.
What is it about being quiet with ourselves, and especially with others, that can feel so nourishing, gratifying even? As we hustle through our daily lives, and in the midst of constant streams of voices, and news of the world, do we even notice we miss it? I think that is something that people find when they come to a Zen temple. I certainly did. We find that we didn’t know we were missing this space in our lives, until, “ahh,” we felt it again. (For me it felt like returning to some feeling i suddenly remember having as a kid.)
Maybe the birds are out this early, maybe you notice the moaning doves in the side yard. The squeaking brakes of the school bus as it turns the corner outside. The silence allows these background sounds to come forward and to be noticed. Sometimes what’s in the background is in our own heart. A flickering memory of a connection we had with someone no longer in our life. Or we recall and start planning a conversation we’ve been meaning to have with so-and-so. Perhaps just an image, a flash of the lake we visited as a child. When the foreground in our life isn’t so noisy and insistent then maybe what’s just slightly hidden, a wider field of experience surrounding us, can become more apparent.
Gradually the light outside begins to grow, and the windows glow. Our eyes are less dependent on the lights overhead. Maybe we watch it happen, so subtly, such a little more light at a time, but maybe more often we just suddenly notice that it is light out, that it is no longer night. Wow, how quickly that happened.
When the silence of the morning meditation is formally ended, after the second period, a single bell is rung and is quickly joined by human voices. Each person in the room begins to rumble with sound, from the inside and out. A low monotone chorus chanting Japanese syllables, in a traditional chant to dedicate our efforts for the day. An early American student of Shunryu Suzuki once asked about the meaning of the syllables. (To that point the students had been encouraged to just be mindful of making the sounds, and not to worry so much about the words.) And the great teacher, a pioneer in introducing Zen to the west, seemed to pause like he was considering a full translation of the four line Japanese poem, before suddenly smiling, “It’s just love,” he said. “It means love.”
Zen can be practiced in many different ways, even in Japan. Much of the tradition is passed down through “lineages” directly from teacher to student, so many variants have developed over time. But the power, and bare simplicity, of silent meditation has always been a large part of the practice and tradition. Certainly there are other ways we gather at Zen center and share as well. There is time for talking, for connecting to members in service or celebration. We work together, cleaning the grounds, mopping the floors, dicing the carrots. Work, as a representation of daily life outside of meditation, is an intrical part of Zen practice. How do we stay in touch with our experience of silence, even when busy in the world? This is not easily done. But that is why we call it practice. We do the best we can, and acknowledge our mistakes. Zen practice can sometimes lead us to see how if we can just stay awake/ aware when we make mistakes, we may see them more clearly, may be less likely to make them again. The lingering power of silence.
We hope that you’ll join us some time, and check it out for yourself. Zen practice is supportive of all faiths, and many people who still practice other faiths do come, in my experience. Shunryu Suzuki himself was known to encourage his young American students to stay close to the faiths of their upbringing, or perhaps to find peace with it, if that’s what was needed. But not to turn away, in all aspects of our life, and instead seek to include, invite in and get to know all the voices, even within us.
