The Summer of the Woodenfish
July has ended, and with it my time in China.
For those that might have missed my last blog, I spent the entire month of July as a member of the Woodenfish Humanistic Buddhist Life Experience Program. This program had me living as a Buddhist monastic in the Southern Shaolin Temple near Putian, China. I lived in the monastery dorms. I ate what the monks ate. I took a vow of silence for 7 days of intensive meditation. In general, I and my cohorts did the best we could to live like our host monks.
Honestly, I am at a bit of a loss on where to even begin this story. My motives that led me to the journey might be one good place to start. Or perhaps my earliest memory of meditation. But no. I think this story is one that speaks for itself. You lovely smart people can infer all the rest.
In short, this month was familiar. Eerily so. Have you ever re-watched a movie you saw as a child and had the thought “so that where I got that phrase!” or, “that’s why I hate squids so much!”. Those moments when you realize something you had quite totally forgotten was still somehow an integral piece of you. You forgot about the eccentric uncle from the black and white film, but you still say his catch phrase. That’s what this month felt like.
Upon arriving at the monastery dorms a few things stood out to just about everyone: bugs everywhere, no air-conditioning, no hot water, no pillows, and planks with sheets for bedding. To many, these facts were described as “cultivation”. Facts of rural monastery life that would develop the discipline of pampered city kids. To me, they were old friends. Immediately I was reminded of the 10 years I spent living in a teepee in Wyoming. Heck, the temple had running water! This was pretty fine living indeed! However, the familiarity didn’t stop there.
The first few weeks were spent learning monastic discipline. Hours spent learning how to stand and walk in perfect lines. Hours more spent on lectures in Buddhist etiquette, eating, chanting, sitting, even sleeping. Yet again, many were hit with culture shock at these apparently over rigorous expectations. Immediately I was back the martial arts dojos I have now spent 21 years of my life in. The repetition, discomfort, and high expectations felt like an old uniform that still fit. At least I didn’t have to dodge people wielding sticks!
When meditation began in earnest it all started to fall together. The day I spent three hours straight sitting totally still, memories of my colon and hip surgeries showed me that I had learned stillness long before. Back then stillness was necessary from pain, tubes down my throat, or exhaustion. Now all I had to do was sit in a nice warm room. By the second day of silence and meditation, I was beaming from ear to ear. Though I couldn’t talk to anyone about my erupting joy. I smiled for my own strength. I smiled because the states I assumed were meditation before were legitimate. I smiled because of the beauty and truth this all helped me see so long ago. I smiled because it all came back so fast after such a hard few years.
This is not to say there were no trials. I woke up with bruises from my bed. My legs and backed ached for days on end from posture work and long meditations. My monkey mind would throw fits about having to stand in line for so long, or having the same food every day (even though it was delicious). I developed heat rash on every limb of my body. And I grieved for the people that were truly suffering around me under the program's challenges. Just because something is familiar doesn’t mean it’s not uncomfortable and challenging.
Each day we would be reminded to think about why we came to the program as a way to carry us through the challenge. This was ironic because before I even left, each day I would ask myself what I came “here” to do. Why I am on this planet in general. Which of my skills should be nurtured to accomplish the most positive change. This has been a lifetime struggle for me. You see, I tend to be called to do whatever my immediate environment needs the most. If that environment changes, so do I. Growing up in Houston, people are most concerned with energy and health care. So I went into community health and sustainable energy. One place I worked needed an events guy, so I became an events expert. If I watched too much 30 Rock, I wanted to become a writer in New York. If I sang too much with my dad, I would recommit all my energy to learning guitar. I was, and am, a very good mimic. It has made me successful in many fields, but the same nature makes a holistic sense of purpose nearly impossible to find. Was I just a yes man? Could that be a good thing after all?
So, as silent week approached at the monastery, I had to wonder: what are the parts of me that will remain when all of the external needs are removed? What parts of me come unbidden? Yet again, what came to the surface was… familiar.
The first was my role as a guide. Before silent week, people asked for my academic and spiritual advice without me offering. Somehow I was able to say what they needed to hear. During silent week, not being able to verbally help others was the first thing I had to let go of. Others silence made them irritable, pensive, depressed. The only reason my mind railed against the silence was a need to help people get through the experience. It came from deep within and was totally me, but this time, letting go of that urge would show me how to help others even further.
The second aspect of my nature to emerge from silence was martial arts. I’ve always known that my commitment to martial arts was from my core. No one ever made me do it, no one ever needed me to. I did it because I had to. Something beyond logic and language has had me in classes now for most of my life. After silence however, I gained a new appreciation for how profound the lessons of martial arts are. If I could not meditate, all I had to do was imagine my old teacher poised to swing a wooden sword at me. Boom. Meditative state. This made me realize yet another practice that had developed meditative focus within me before the program. It had just been taught to me in motion. I hope one day I can give the same gift to my students.
The last and most powerful was music. This unadulterated aspect of my soul eventually became so evident that it shaped my entire role in the program. You see, by the fourth and fifth days of the silent week I later learned most people were dealing letting go of internal chatter, obsessive irritation they didn’t know they had, and all other kinds of psychological states. Apparently I was the only one who had music explode out of the silence and that was significant to me. Some days I wouldn’t think a single word, but I could hear every instrument in a symphony. If I couldn’t focus, I could gain total clarity by playing the entire score of Nightmare Before Christmas in my head. I was recruited to be a volunteer rector for meals and by the end of the program, the head nun called me simply “The Rector” and praised my voice each day. Once my voice was heard, every single person wanted to hear me sing.
This is not to brag about my voice. You see, I grew up with musical people. I went to musical schools. Music was simply commonplace. Of course people wanted to hear me sing, I was in the choir, I was a musician’s son. It was expected. But here, among total strangers, with no intention to sing at all, people asked me sweetly to sing. Waned my voice to lead them in blessings and through hardship. It felt like how singers used to be found in communities. Not because they won America’s Got Talent, or because they got a record deal. But because their voice moved people. The sheer natural way I was able to offer this talent to help my community, along with the significant eruption of song from my undisturbed mind showed me that music is as core to my nature as anything can be.
I am a singer. I am a martial artist. I am a guide. All these things I knew through my ego before. Childish dreams of fame and grandeur. So I tried to deny these gifts for years and years in search of something others could have me do for them because using natural gifts felt selfish and lazy. Yet, my time at the monastery showed me how these skills can be selfless so long as they come from stillness. They are part of me as much as anything can be and I intend to use them until I die.
So, living as a monastic was familiar. Challengingly familiar. It helped me shovel out all the expectations that college and family life can amass to find the core of self I already knew. And hey, I actually have much better posture as a welcome side effect. I look forward to returning to my Friday short stories and novel work with this new perspective and truly hope to spread some good through my writing and other actions in this world. If you feel like you might want to try Woodenfish for whatever your own motives might be, send me a message and I’d be happy to help in any way I can. Stay posted for further blogs hopefully more meaningful than my self centered analysis haha.
Until next time,
- Gabriel
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