I am pretty sure you haven’t ever had the occasion to bow and this is not a stupid shaming ploy on my part, believe me. It is something I have taken for granted for at least thirty years by now, but there is a story. My bow involves getting on my knees and leaning forward, forehead touching the ground. I rest on my elbows and turn my palms up and raise them just over my bowed head.
While still living in NYC, I found myself drawn to Zen Buddhism, albeit on a fairly superficial level and I am not sure I’ve really progressed on that front either. I spent my thirties in therapy and self-exploration was part of the package. I think it was the allure of tranquility that attracted me, juxtaposed against the domestic and professional turmoil at the time. I dabbled with sitting and some modest ritual. I even went to a weekend, silent meditation in Honesdale, PA, where I had rented a farm house for two summers. City life was squeezing the breath out of me and living on a dairy farm on those weekends, helped me get in touch with another way of being.
When I left NYC for northern, NM, the idea of any kind of regular Zen practice was not on my mind at all. I knew I was in for an adventure, but I had no idea what shape it would take. I promised myself I’d never have a conventional, 9-5 handcuffing ever again, without any sense of how I’d pay the bills. Somehow, I settled into a life of unpredictability, practicing a kind of Zen with no name.
After a while, I felt the need for connection, which had nothing to do with my social life. I took to that place as if I belonged there, a little bit like the proverbial big fish in a small pond and I swear there were no germs of self-importance in the mix. It was like I finally had a chance to relax and be myself, shedding the straight jacket of Big Apple Expectation. I was at home and at ease out there.
Something felt like it was missing, a place to hang my hat, the need for spiritual comfort. Regardless of popularity, I have always been a loner, but it felt like it was time to seek out co-conspirators of some kind. A friend of mine was part of a men’s group and he encouraged me to join in. One night, I ventured out of my predictable, comfort zone and walked up the stairs to the room where the group met. There were around ten guys sitting in a circle, all looking like they lived in Santa Fe. In the center was some Native American looking stuff. I forget exactly how it began, but the meat of the event consisted of using a talking stick. You would put the stick to your chest, pointing the other end toward the circle. Guys would make all sorts of personal admissions and at the end of each, the group would say “Ho!” in unison. I knew it was co-opted from Native American culture, but coming from the City, I am thinking a whole different meaning, which struck me as incredibly funny. I was polite and committed to never returning.
A lady I befriended out in the Cerrillos Flats, where I lived, encouraged me to visit a Zen Temple. She’d see me most every morning, while wearing a Superman shirt and running on the dirt roads out there. We became good friends and spent plenty of time talking about most anything. I took her up on it and visited a well established center in Santa Fe, but I had personal misgivings about the woman in charge. She mentioned some friends with a Zendo, a worship space blessed by a priest in the hierarchy.
They had a great piece of land. She loved horses and was an artist to the core and he was a world class engraver. I became a regular at their place and there were only a few of us in the beginning. I think owing to my punctuality and predictability, I assumed positions of responsibility, timing the sits and saying some prayers. There were Japanese titles for my functions and they are long gone from my memory. It was here, in the early morning light, every Saturday, bowing became a part of my life forever.
The most important thing I took from Zen is that no matter what you think, do or say, it is all Zen. Even the idea of using the name defeats its true meaning. I love the concept of the infinite circle as the closest you will ever get to wrestling it to the ground.
It’s funny what becomes normal for each of us. Since then, every morning, I sit on a cushion, slowly breathing in and out, thinking and not thinking, holding onto to nothing in particular. After twenty-five minutes, the alarm sounds and I slowly roll off the cushion to my right, using my outstretched left arm to help me get up. I take a few steps back, turn toward the alter, bringing my palms together in prayer and slowly dropping into my first bow. When my forehead touches the ground, it feels like God is gently resting on my shoulder. I was taught to raise my palms above my head, allowing the Buddha to place his feet just above me, a loving reminder to aspire to more. I repeat this two more times. Three is a number with tremendous significance in the worlds of belief and I’m going to leave it alone just now.
I am not a Born Again Bower, touting its merits and not so subtly encouraging everyone I meet to bow and change their lives forever. It’s what I happen to do. Daily, I am reminded how it helps define my world.
OK, when no one is around, could you do it just one time? When your forehead touches the ground, we will touch each other, just for an instant.
Thanks for trying or even just thinking about it.