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NOVEMBER 1-5, 2010 AUSCHWITZ BEARING WITNESS RETREAT

To read descriptions and/or to register, please click here. This retreat includes Youth from Israel, Palestine, Poland, Germany, Switzerland, USA, and other countries.


ZPS Gathering
October 15 - 17, 2010

Register Now!

gath-group

This is a time of meeting each other and learning about the activities of Sangha Groups. Roshi Bernie will also give teachings and have dialogue with the attendees. It is also a time for schmoozing with members of the ZPS. Fee includes food and miscellaneous expenses. Starts Oct. 15 at 7:30pm and ends Oct. 17 at 1pm.


First Major Symposium for Western Socially Engaged Buddhism

August 9 to 14, 2010 at the
Mother House of the
Zen Peacemakers in Montague, MA

Attendence is Limited.
Register Now!

To read more about the Symposium, link here

The event is sponsored by the Robert H. N. Ho Family Foundation, the Lenz Foundation and the Zen Peacemakers. Tricycle: The Buddhist Review is the exclusive media partner.

Collected Dharma Talks of Zen Peacemaker Seniors

(Work in Progress)

  • Nancy Mujo Baker
  • Bernie Glassman
  • Joan Jiko Halifax
  • Sandra Jishu Holmes
  • Robert Jinsen Kennedy
  • Francisco Genkoji Lugoviña
  • Eve Myonen Marko
  • Fleet Ryushin Maull
  • Wendy Egyoku Nakao
  • Pat Enkyo O'Hara
  • Dianne Soshin Shainberg
  • Don Ani Shalom Singer
  • Mr. YooWho (Moshe Cohen)

The Eighth Precept "Not Being Stingy"

by Sensei Nancy Mujo Baker

There are many ways of studying the precepts. What I would like to do here is to use the 8th precept to illustrate a way of actually practicing with the precepts. There are two parts to this practice, as I see it. One is to use one's imagination to extend the narrower, more literal meaning of the precept to cover much more than we normally think of. By doing this the precept can come alive for each of us in our own individual lives in exactly the way it needs to. Once I identify the best way to understand the precept for me, then I can take it into my life and work with it. This is the tricky part. We have a tendency to treat the precepts as fodder for the superego. Not only is this not what the precepts are, but also this is no way to practice anything, since it involves rejecting parts of ourselves, which leads to rejecting others. The precepts are not about 'should' or 'should not.' We could, I suppose, try to distinguish between using the precepts as 'guides' of some kind as opposed to 'shoulds' and 'should nots,' but there is a deeper way to practice with them, even for the beginner. Once I see the best way for me to understand the precept in question, then I can get to know myself in relation to that precept. This is a practice of no preferences, no judgments, no shoulds, no ideas of failure. It is a practice of simply allowing what is. I will explain more below how to deepen that practice, but the outcome of going deeper and deeper is that the precepts begin to manifest themselves naturally in my life.

"Stingy"-it's a funny word. I think of Scrooge. It's a word that gives me a certain feeling. "Stingy." We usually think of it in terms of possessions and possessiveness. Not sharing what I own. Being tight with money. And notice the word "tight" that we use here. It describes what it actually feels like to be stingy. There are many ways of being stingy. For example, a friend of mine, someone I dearly love, is very stingy with the servings that she gives to people, whenever she is the hostess. It's noticeable. Everything is very small. Here's a perfect version of what we normally mean by "stingy." It's a poem of Rumi's.

Dervish at the Door

A dervish knocks at a house to ask for a piece of dry bread.
Or moist, it didn't matter.
"This is not a bakery," said the owner.
"Might I have a bit of gristle, then?"
"Does this look like a butcher shop?"
"A little flour?"
"Do you hear a grinding stone?"
"Some water?"
"This is not a well."
Whatever the dervish asked for, the man made some
tired joke and refused to give him anything.
Finally the dervish ran into the house, lifted his robe and
squatted as though to take a shit.
"Hey, hey!"
"Quiet, you sad man. A deserted place is a fine spot to
relieve oneself.
And since there's no living thing here or needs of living,
it needs fertilizing."
The dervish began his own list of questions and answers.
"What kind of bird are you?
Not a falcon trained for the royal hand,
Not a peacock painted with everyone's eyes,
Not a parrot that talks for sugar cubes,
Not a nightingale that sings like someone in love.
Not a hoopoe that brings messages to Solomon.
Or a stork that builds on a cliffside.
What exactly do you do?
You are no known species.
You haggle and make jokes to keep what you own for
yourself.
You have forgotten about the One who doesn't care about ownership. Who doesn't try to turn a profit from every human
exchange."

The One. Ultimate Reality. The faceless One, who never tries 'to turn a profit' from anything at all. We, on the other hand, are always trying to turn a profit from every human exchange, and from other things as well. We're always trying to get something-admiration, love, recognition, praise, acknowledgement, even just staying connected. Think how we manipulate and bargain and negotiate to turn a profit from every human exchange. Much of this is very unconscious. Habituated. Even when we give, or serve, or love, or pay attention, we're trying to get something. Sometimes it's just to get back some of what we give.

So what are we stingy with in all these cases? One of the things we're stingy with is one hundred percent. We're stingy with the possibility of doing something one hundred percent. Imagine loving one hundred percent. Imagine acknowledging someone one hundred percent with no thought of getting something in return, which would take part of it away, and make it seventy percent. Sometimes twenty percent. We're also stingy with the truth. Stingy with the truth of what's really going on in us, with us, what we really want. We hold onto it, hold it back, withhold it. We play our cards close to the chest--covering the heart.

We also try to turn a profit in practice. We always try to get something from practice. We try to get better. We try to get enlightenment. We try to get seen for doing it right. What am I being stingy with here? Wholehearted surrender to the present moment. Think how stingy we are with that. Think how much we hold on. We also imagine that in practicing what we will 'get' will be ours, which is, of course, the greatest delusion of all.

And then there is surrender. In addition to treating it as a bargaining tool-"I'll surrender to the present moment and then get something back"-we imagine that it is something we can do. So, how do we surrender? How do we do this non-doing? We have to be taken-ravished, if you will. We can only prepare the conditions for being 'taken.' Taken by what?-by the present moment, by Ultimate Reality, by the Absolute, by God. And the way we prepare those conditions is what I was talking about last night. It's by staying here now. By going vertically. By giving up all of our horizontal negotiations. Bargaining. Something stingy people do all the time. Bargain, bargain. I'll do this if you do that. I'll do this in order to get that. So it's always a kind of tit for tat. Conditional. Think of the notion of unconditional love. It's interesting that we usually think about how nice it would be to receive it.

So, we are stingy with anything we hold onto. We are stingy with anything we're unwilling to open to. Any person we are unwilling to open to. Any situation we're unwilling to open to. Anything that's going on in us that we are unwilling to open to. Stingy when we're not fully participating in what's happening. What's here. What's now. Imagine fully participating, wholeheartedly being here, whatever it is. A class. A meeting. A dinner. Gardening. Fully participating. We are stingy when we're withholding anything about the truth of where we are. We're stingy when we don't take risks. We're stingy when we're not compassionate. We're stingy with our tears. With kind words. With open-heartedness. With open-mindedness.

What else are we stingy with? What else do we hold onto? Security. Self-images. Pain. Suffering. Unwillingness to suffer. Being right. Truth. Love. Being a victim. Need for recognition. Time. Praise. Think how we hang onto those things. We don't give them away. We don't share them. One of the important things that we're stingy with is gratitude. Remember the practicing we did with saying "thank you," with noticing what gets in the way of saying "thank you" and how different it can be for each of us? It's amazing how stingy we can be with "thank you." Think of the meal gatha, which is about gratitude, and begins with, "Seventy-two labors brought us this food. We should know how it comes to us." Are we whole-hearted in knowing that, in expressing that gratitude? Or are we stingy? Do we even remember it each time we eat? I think Mary Oliver is reminding us of this whole-heartedness in this poem.

Rice

It grew in the black mud,
It grew under the tiger's orange paws,
Its stems thinner than candles and as straight.
Its leaves like the feathers of egrets, but green.
The grains cresting, wanting to burst.
O, blood of the tiger.

I don't want you just to sit down at the table.
I don't want you just to eat, and be content.
I want you to walk out into the fields
where the water is shining, and the rice has risen.
I want you to stand there, far from the white tablecloth.
I want you to fill your hands with the mud, like a blessing.

We can also be stingy with receiving gratitude. With receiving praise. I've told you many times the story of my great lesson at age sixteen that took so many years to really sink in, when my favorite teacher complimented me on the stairway. I remember exactly where I was standing. And I behaved like a stingy sixteen-year-old, embarrassed and pleased, wanting to hang onto it probably, but in any case, making a mess of it. She took my forearm with her long, slender fingers and said, "Don't be so ungracious." And I'll never forget it. It was a kind of stinginess. To not receive what is given to us as gratitude, to not be gracious. This is being stingy. Many of Mary Oliver's poems are about being grateful for and graciously receiving the world. Here are two lines from "Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches":

Do you think this world is only an entertainment for you?
Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy to let you in.

What about being stingy with our lives? Actually, before getting to our lives, I think it might be worth going back to Dogen. "One phrase, one verse, ten thousand forms, one hundred grasses, one Dharma, one realization, all Buddhas. All teachers. Since the beginning there has never been being stingy." What he's talking about there is Ultimate Reality, the Absolute, the faceless One, the "One," as Rumi calls it. There is nothing stingy about the One. Nothing. This world that is manifested over and over and over again-from moment to moment. There is nothing stingy there. It is a gift. And we are given. And it is given to us. Constantly. Alive. Pulsating. Love, trees, fingers, the sea and its dividing water when we step in. Everything, even Auschwitz

From Master Keizan's Denkoroku:

The light of the Mind- moon, and colors of the eye-flower are
splendid;
Shining forth and blooming beyond time, who can appreciate them?
É É É É É É
Sourceless stream from a ten-thousand-foot cliff,
Washing out stones, scattering clouds, gushing forth.
Brushing away the snow, making the flowers fly wildly-
A length of pure white silk beyond the dust.

Look at the language here: "shining forth," "blooming," "gushing forth." That length of pure white silk beyond the dust displays no stinginess in its manifestation. Spring blossoms, sweeping, walking, Auschwitz, nuclear waste, life, death, our lives-all 'gushing forth.' Another verse from Master Keizan uses my favorite image:

That One whose whole life is extremely active and lively
We call the One who raises the eyebrows and blinks.

That One, the faceless One, raises the eyebrows and blinks. A wonderful image of this manifest world, this world of many-ness, that we live in, that we are. That One, whose life is extremely active and lively. Nothing stingy here, or, as Dogen says, "Since the beginning there has never been Being Stingy."

What about my life? What about myself? What about not being stingy with my life? With the ingredients of my life? But much more than that. To not be stingy with my life, with myself, is to fully express myself at every moment. Fully, bursting, expressing myself. Everything that I am. And this is not 'exercising my talents.' So I can say, "I want to fully express myself." And I'm just sitting here not doing what I really could be doing with my life, with my gifts, with my talents. That's not what fully expressing oneself means. Those talents may be expressed when one is fully expressed-and maybe not. When we are fully expressed, we are transparent. There is no one there to know they are talents much less my talents. Nor is it my life. Again, from "Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches," Mary Oliver has the following two lines:

Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?
É .
For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?

I would add 'stinginess.'

Not being stingy with one's life, with one's self, with this precious short, short gift we've been given is often associated with voice, with finding one's voice, one's 'own voice,' we say. And it's amazing how this shows up in all the traditions. I think the throat chakra is about this, it's about the voice, about being fully expressed. Here are some short poems of Rumi's about this.:

Let your throat song be clear
and strong enough
To make an emperor fall full length
suppliant at the door.
É É É É .
You that come to birth
and bring the mysteries.
Your voice thunder
makes us happy.
Roar lion of the heart
and tear me open.

In Buddhism we have the lion's roar. Mary Oliver in a prose poem has a version of this. Notice, the speck of my heart, my heart is just a speck, when I am stingy.

And the speck of my heart, in my shed of flesh
and bone, began to sing out, the way the sun
would sing if the sun could sing, if light had
a mouth and tongue, if the sky had a throatÉ

Voice, our primary example of expression, shows up as a metaphor for the manifestation of the One as well in the notion that everything "preaches the Dharma." As Dogen says in a little verse, "Are not even the sounds of the bustling marketplace, the preaching of the Dharma?" No stinginess here. Everything preaches the Dharma-nuclear waste, skunks, flowers, grass-and does so fully and completely. What is is not stingy. There is nothing withheld.

So here we are, stingy in this way and that, wanting not to be. How do we work with this? The first thing is to not be stingy in discovering who we are in relation to stinginess. "Where am I stingy? About what? With whom?" we need to ask. Can we take a good, neutral look at ourselves, with no preferences? Can we compassionately allow what is, or who I am in the relative sense? Can we explore deeply enough to feel the withholding, the tightness, maybe even the fear? Can we feel safe enough, not-stingy enough to express who we are, where we are, to another? Coming to terms with who I am in relation to stinginess and to do so with no judgement is one thing, but to be not-stingy enough to place my stinginess right out on the table before others takes the practice even deeper. This is where our practice circle work is really useful.

What are we doing when we do this? What is happening? Master Sosan, the author of the poem that begins with "The Great Way is not difficult for those who have no preferences" also says something in that poem about letting things "take their course." It's as if everything wants to liberate itself, to take its course, and we, out of our fear, out of our stinginess, prevent that from happening. Here is another poem of Mary Oliver's precisely about this:

The Kookaburras

In every heart there is a coward and a procrastinator.
In every heart there is a god of flowers, just waiting
to come out of its cloud and lift its wings.
The kookaburras, kingfishers, pressed against the edge of
their cage, they asked me to open the door.
Years later I wake in the night and remember how I said to them,
no, and walked away.
They had the brown eyes of soft-hearted dogs.
They didn't want to do anything so extraordinary, only to fly
home to their river.
By now I suppose the great darkness has covered them.
As for myself, I am not yet a god of even the palest flowers.
Nothing else has changed either.
Someone tosses their white bones to the dung heap.
The sun shines on the latch of their cage.
I lie in the dark, my heart pounding.

By opening that cage door, by letting out whatever we hold in us, we are letting things 'take their course.' We are then not being stingy with stinginess, stealing, speaking ill of other faults and all the other precepts. By letting the kookaburras fly away we let them take their course and transform themselves. Then the precepts begin to naturally manifest.

I will end with Dogen on his enlightenment.

For fifty-four years
Following the way of heaven,
Now leaping beyond
shattering every barrier.
Amazing!
To cast off all attachments
While still alive!
Plunging into the yellow spring!

This is the precept of not being stingy.

Roshi Bernie Glassman Talks and Transcriptions

  • Zen Houses
  • Skillful Means (Upayas)
  • Miscellaneous
Bernie at Harvard
Bernie at Harvard









In the Fall of 2007, Roshi Bernie Glassman taught a graduate course at the Harvard Divinity School entitled "Buddhist Arts of Ministry in the Zen Peacemakers Order."

The course focused on new ministry paths developed by the Zen Peacemakers order, which integrate Zen precepts and practices into social action programs that work with the unemployed, homeless and people with AIDS in urban ghettos and war-torn situations. Students were trained in the means for transformation of individuals, neighborhoods, and society according to the practices of the Zen Peacemaker Order. Students also are helping in the planning stages of a new project to establish Zen Houses in impoverished areas of the U.S.

The following are unedited recordings of Bernie's lectures for you to download. Edited transcripts of the lectures and the remaining audio recordings of the lectures will be added as time permits.


Audio Files

  1. Lecture 3 Bearing Witness unedited (62mb Mp3 Audio File)

  2. Lecture 4 Five Buddha Families unedited (44mb Mp3 Audio File)

  3. Lecture 5 Livelihood unedited (46mb Mp3 Audio File)

  4. Lecture 6 Social Action unedited (44mb Mp3 Audio File)

  5. Lecture 7 Study Tools unedited (43mb Mp3 Audio File)

  6. Lecture 8 Integration unedited (9mb Mp3 Audio File)

  7. Lecture 9 Spirituality unedited (45mb Mp3 Audio File)

Transcripts

  1. Lecture 3 Bearing Witness

Upaya discussion circle
Skillful Means Study Group

The following are unedited recordings for you to download. They are from the January 2008 retreat of Zen Peacemakers Sangha Seniors with Roshi Bernie Glassman. The topic is "Skillful Means (Upayas) in Zen Peacemaker Groups, Circles and Zen Houses." We will add a brief summary of each recording as time permits.

  1. Upayas Part 1 unedited (31mb Mp3 Audio File)

  2. Upayas Part 2 unedited (25mb Mp3 Audio File)

  3. Upayas Part 3 unedited (24mb Mp3 Audio File)

  4. Upayas Part 4 unedited (49mb Mp3 Audio File)

  5. Upayas Part 5 unedited (9mb Mp3 Audio File)

  6. Upayas Part 6 unedited (9mb Mp3 Audio File)

  7. Upayas Part 7 unedited (45mb Mp3 Audio File)

  8. Upayas Part 8 unedited (9mb Mp3 Audio File)

  9. Upayas Part 9 unedited (45mb Mp3 Audio File)

House of One People

by Robert Jinsen Kennedy

The House of One People is a place where the world sought for unity in diversity is housed. Here students from every race, tradition, and culture come and practice zazen. This House can be a zendo, a barn, a hall, the streets; any place where people come to live their vision and where teachers promote the highest ideals of Zen insight and integrity.

When did I become aware of the House of One People and myself as a member of it? It was one hot summer afternoon some years ago. My Zen teacher Glassman Roshi led several of his students on a street sesshin for a time of living, eating, and sleeping with the homeless of New York City I their own habitat, the streets. As we walked from the Manhattan Bridge to the Bowery, I overheard one student as Glassman Roshi, "How can you make Father Kennedy a Zen teacher and your dharma successor? After all, he is a Catholic priest!" Glassman Roshi turned on his student with some show of impatience and replied, "Are we one or are we not?"

Then, as always, I was struck by the extraordinary generosity of Glassman Roshi who did not turn away from students because they were not Buddhist, and did not scoff at traditions other than his own. hence I am not surprised that he now expresses his Zen vision by welcoming all his students and friends into the House of One People. Now that I am a Zen teacher myself I remember these lessons learned years ago; integrate them with my own personal style and convictions, and make my own contributions to the House of One People. What follows is a brief description of my perception of the role of a teacher in this House:

As a teacher in the House of One People where my students are not Buddhists but Jewish and Christians and atheists as well, I have changed the procedures for bowing during interviews with my students: instead of having them bow to me, I rise and we both bow together to the image of the Buddha. The traditional procedures for bowing during interviews date from the feudal period of Japanese history. I believe they can be inappropriate in an American setting, can lead to misunderstanding and need not be imposed on an American student. The Buddha is an image of truth, the student's truth, my own truth, and the truth we seek together in the interview.

Because I am a Catholic in the House of One People, I see my role as a Zen teacher is not only to tolerate and accept the truths found in other faiths, but to promote them. No faith has a monopoly on truth and students are not expected to renounce the truth that life has taught them. My role is to promote a truth other than my own and to repay the debt I owe my Buddhist teacher by helping Buddhists be better Buddhists when the occasion calls for it.

Being a teacher in the House of One People, I know I am not a model for my students and should make no attempt to clone them after my personal vision. No teacher should deflect students from their own truth, by neither speech nor silence impede their personal path. The great Bodhidharma said he taught his student Eka nothing; he just corrected his mistakes. Even correcting "mistakes" must be done with the greatest care. I believe only those should be Zen teaching who have made a serious therapeutic effort to know their own unconscious motivation that would lead them to correct a splinter in their student's eye while ignoring the log in their own. The Tao says we should so teach that when we finish our student says, "I did it all by myself."

Although I am a teacher in the House of One People I don not have a Zen center of my own. When my students are ready to lead a group in sitting, I encourage them to do so. I urge them to start their own center and I teach at their center with them and slowly empower them to take greater responsibility and to find their own voice and vision. Then when they are ready to become teachers themselves, they won't have to leave my center to find their way alone, but I will leave their center and begin my work with another student.

I believe Zen teachers in the House of One People should guide their students free of charge. None of my teachers charged me for my development into a Zen teacher and now I freely give what I freely received. I support myself with work outside the Zen world and do not charge my students for the dharma or for my personal support. My students rent an apartment near me for their use, but it is their apartment with their own board of trustees that accounts for all expenses.

It is a privilege to teach in the House of One People where students who do not usually agree with one another still dwell together in peace and support the efforts of all who sit with them. And if we teach well in the House of One People we will learn from our students that we do not know the truth even in a dream, but that we will see it blaze before our eyes moment by moment in the lives they live together.

Meeting in the Darkness

by Francisco Genkoji Lugoviña

"If you ask me what we do with people who come in the door, the people who live with chronic hopelessness and fear, I'll tell you that we try to live comfortably in their darkness. And that's the hardest thing of all."

On January 8, 1945, my birthday, I asked the priest at La Iglesia del Perpetuo Socorro in Bayamon, Puerto Rico, if I could become an altar boy. I had just turned six. I was turned down outright. Too young, I was told: I had to wait until I was eight. The tall, pale, lanky Irish priest with the kind eyes was firm. But I would not take no for an answer and continued to ask even though I continued to be turned down.

One day, after one of my entreaties, Father Keegan turned to me and said: "En tu inocencia esta la sabiduria"-in your innocence lies your wisdom. I had worn down Father Keegan and he agreed to make an exception and let me serve.

Once I was to assist Father Keegan at mass by myself. The moment came when I had to move the huge prayer book from the Epistle side to the Gospel side behind and around the priest. I went up the three steps to the right side of the altar, picked up the book, descended the steps, turned at the middle of the altar, genuflected and attempted the climb of the three steps to bring the book up to the Gospel side.

The waiting priest, who had his back to the congregation, turned upon hearing their laughter to see that the book was so heavy that little Paco could not make it up the three steps. Every persistent attempt at stepping up brought me to the edge of being toppled back by the weight of the big book. The priest rescued me by taking the weight off the book as he lifted it slightly, allowing me to complete my mission with recovered dignity. Six months later, my very close friend, Juan, was killed by Father Keegan as the priest was backing up his car and did not see the small child who was waiting for him. Juan was trying to talk to Father about he, too, becoming an altar boy. From then on, whenever I saw Father Keegan, I was impressed by the fact that his face and neck had become beet red, a permanent mark of his deep grief. All he could do was hug me and cry-no words.

Soon after the accident he told me I could not continue my altar boy training. I felt wounded; my heart was broken. But something had happened in the brief days I was allowed to serve. I had learned everything I ever needed to know about being a priest, even though I would forget lots of it and would have to relearn it. I believe it was in that period long ago that the seeds for my life's work were germinated.

I have now been living and working in The Bronx, New York for fifty-one years. What I have relearned in these many years working in the second poorest Congressional District of the United States (second only to one in Mississippi) is that in order to serve one must have the openness and innocence of a child. That compassion and love for oneself and others is essential, and that being always mindful of the moment you are breathing is the way to heal yourself and others.

My mission is to work with people whom I call "wounded healers" and their organizations in the South Bronx, to build sustainable neighborhoods with a sound, spiritual underpinning. In light of the many years I've spent as a businessman, I teach that doing well should not be seen as evil or an obstacle to spiritual transformation. My bedrock foundation is meditation and prayer.

The challenge is that people are very cynical, very scared, very hungry, and very wounded. Most of all, they are feeling very tired and uncared for. A friend once told me that wounded humans do not care what you know; they want to know that you care, and only then they might be interested in what you know. If you ask me what we really do with people who come in the door, the people who live with chronic hopelessness and fear, I'll tell you that we try to live comfortably in their darkness. And that's the hardest thing of all.

Somebody comes into the employment program.

"Tell me what you can do," I ask her.

"I can't do nothing. I got no skills, no diploma, no job. I'm on welfare, my mother's been on welfare, don't fuck with me!"

I enter her darkness.

The hardest thing is being with people who are hurting, with no agenda of their own, no answers. You need to stay with them in this place and help them find the light within this darkness.

So I continue my interview.

"Tell me, do your kids get fed?"

"Course they get fed."

"Who feeds them?"

"I feed them."

"How do you do that?"

"I go to the fucking refrigerator. I look inside, I make a list, I go to the store."

"You know what you're telling me? You're telling me that you do inventory, you do planning, and then you get the job done. People go to college and get a BA to do what you did."

As Father Keegan had done with me, I intervene only enough to lighten the weight so they can move to the next objective with a whole change of perspective. A wounded mother begins to mend.

The Latino Pastoral Action Center (LPAC) is a living experiment testing these premises on a daily basis. LPAC was founded by Reverend Raymond Rivera in 1992, and it is where I established my first Peacemaker Village soon after my ordination in July, 1997.

Raymond has struggled with the dichotomy between the sacred and the secular and the personal and the structural, while responding both to those who want to save the soul and those who want to change the system. He founded LPAC because he found it difficult to integrate these two perspectives within the church and the social activist communities. Since I have also found myself in similar struggles, the LPAC Peacemaker Village is his and my heartfelt attempt to respond to this challenge.

The work that our village carries out is to bring peace to these wounded healers and their organizations. We also teach alternatives to violence-particularly to parish youth, but also to gang members. We accomplish this by teaching people to sit and just be quiet; we dialogue and even teach Aikido, not necessarily as a defense mechanism but rather as a state of mind.

At our weekend workshops for young people, we even use some of Thich Nhat Hanh's mindfulness practices. That's when I can tell them about myself, that I have brailled my way through life. That feeling my way through long periods of darkness, I've learned that the darkness and the light come from the same source, and that for too many of us, getting through the darkness is our only road to getting to the light.

For many of the youngsters we work with, La Aldea de Paz del Sur del Bronx (The South Bronx Peace Village at LPAC) is the gateway out of darkness and the back to dreaming, imagining and creating hope under circumstances that appear hopeless to them. Our approach is to meet them where they are.

Dharma Holder Fleet Shinryu Maull

Roshi Pat Enkyo O'Hara

Healing:
Some Psychological and Spiritual Dimensions

by Diane Soshin Shainberg

A woman said recently in my office, "I'm exhausted," and wept.

A man looked out the window, was still a few moments, and then said, "I can't lie to myself anymore about this."

These are moments of truth. They are the moments when we feel that whatever we've discovered or found can't be reduced any further. We've come to the very bottom, there is nothing more left to unpack. This is it!

It sometimes takes years to come to these moments of truth. And when we do, the potential for healing arises.

As a peacemaker priest I live with the tenet of healing and uphold it. As a psychologist I study the process of how we heal. As a psychotherapist I recognize and validate moments of healing as they occur. I encourage clients to see and appreciate their healing process.

Our dictionary definition of healing is to recover from sickness or a wound. This is a process, not a final state or cure. It is the process of learning to touch with kindness and awareness what has formerly been touched with fear. Stephen Levine, a famous teacher of healing, says that healing occurs when we begin to send merciful awareness into what we formerly dreaded and hated.

Often that starts with the recognition and admission, without judgment, that we have a sickness, that we have a wound within. As we make contact with our wounds or traumas, memories of how the wound happened will often spontaneously arise. We are asked to pay attention and recognize what's going on inside us, become aware of our bodily sensations, our thoughts, changing memories, feelings, images and dreams, without judgment or opinion. As we do that, as we stay present, the hurt begins to ease or soften. We feel the experience in our body, we open and shift.

We see that it is we who are creating our own unhappiness. It is not something that happened to us in the past, it is not something our mothers and fathers made happen. It is something we are doing right now, all day, every day, hour after hour, as we cling to our stories, dwell and indulge in them, obsess over them. We become aware of how we hang onto our images, stories, identities, old object relations. We explore the effects of this attachment, we stay present in the pain this evokes and ask ourselves whether it brings us what we want.

By staying open and present in the healing process we learn what it truly means to begin to trust the universe. We are asked to just be. We don't have to accomplish anything, there's no pressure to become or produce. We come into the present moment and stay open, stay present. We leave behind our stories and beliefs, our obsessions and preoccupations, and come into the terrain of nowness. We enter the unknown.

In that state of openness and presence, we come into contact with a personal treasure house, a moving, dancing force within us that keeps bringing to us sensations, feelings, and thoughts that could be called our healing power. It contains within it all the seed potentials we were born with and that have been hidden in us since childhood. They come forth into our awareness when we let ourselves be and get out of our own way, and we begin to heal. It is a therapist's skill to recognize the emergence of these potentials, such as strength, clarity, will, peace, creativity, immediacy, compassion, love, and self-value, and to support and validate them.

To heal is to recognize what is there, and to let "it" unfold as it will. We thus trust that there is a wisdom in us that will bring forth whatever needs to be heard in the moment. We heal as we learn to respect this innate wisdom within us. As we let go of trying to control this flow of life, we begin to heal, for we naturally let our organism do what it does with brilliance: spontaneously bring us arisings and naturally let them pass.

Healing occurs as we let the fresh new possibilities arise in each moment and tell us what they have to say. This happens when we choose to drop our story and come into contact with NOW, and commit to staying present and seeing how life will unfold.

Kalu Rinpoche, head of the Tibetan Buddhist Kagyu lineage, said this in a talk before he died:

"When you enter the moment
As it is arising
So are you healed
So are you complete
When you see that you are nothing
Then you are everything.
That is it."

Our healing is to surrender the "I," "me," "my," and to fall right into the heart of the moment. As we stay present we see the "whole catastrophe" played out in front of us. We have every conceivable idea, fantasy, mood, and mental state pass through us. We recognize what is arising and let it be. We don't indulge or repress. And when we do that, something radically revolutionary happens. We see that whatever arises, self-liberates. Whatever arises, when seen and heard and given its space to exist, naturally dissolves and passes on its own. This process of arising and existing and passing frees us forever from being stuck with anything in our life. Everything that arises passes when we don't choose to cling to it.

That means that everything in our life is workable. Nothing will last if we don't grasp onto it. This means that we can choose freedom. We can choose to let go of our stories and see what will happen. And whatever happens will be a new moment with new possibilities.

We can either carry around the baggage of our stories or pop out of them into the vivid aliveness of the moment. Our life literally hangs on a breath. Moment after moment, we are free to make a choice to be free or to cling to the past. We can be the Buddha of 1998 rather than aspire to the one who lived 2,500 years ago!

Andrew Harvey wrote a book on Rumi's life called The Way of Passion in which he said that the work of the Sufi master is to tear our heart open. Then tear it open some more. Then tear it more and more until it is so open it holds the whole world within it.

Moments of grasping our magnificence occur and they break our hearts open, for ourselves and others. Someone recently said that you might as well not try to fix your broken heart for it will just break over and over at seeing how beautiful we all are and how we often don't appreciate it. I recently said to a client asking about love, "Love is as is. It doesn't ask for anything to be different."

Sensei Don Singer

Moshe Cohen (Mr. Yoowho)