Hiya, Hope all’s well and you’re enjoying the way the world’s brightening up a bit. I’ve been having a wonderful retreat in an oast house (an old house for drying hops) in the High Weald of Kent. I’ve been writing about my pilgrimage on Shikoku -and things leading up to it. Here’s a little extract: Zen In the drugs business, my particular speciality was employee health. People worked for us, handling materials that are designed to get into the human body and have strong effects. My job was to make sure the processes were designed and operated in a way that no one got sick. But I found myself looking beyond health and towards well-being. The people who worked forty hours a week on our production lines were so obviously bored, bored, bored. They had tacitly agreed on a trade-off – a dull and repetitive work life for a feeling of security and a few hours amusement at the end of the week. My spirit squirmed. There had to be better than this. The pharmaceuticals industries were some of the most lucrative and technologically advanced in the world, and still they turned their people into robots. Something was wrong. I began to research job satisfaction. I discovered the work of the Chicago University psychologist, Csikszentmihalyi on what he called experiences of flow. Later I discovered how his name was pronounced – Chik-sent-me-hye. His findings on what constitutes meaningful and optimal experience echoed much of what I was finding in a more traditional source – Zen. When the Buddhist tradition spread from its Indian homeland to China, it began to adapt. The Indian monks were required to live by mendicancy – surviving on the food given to them by lay donors. In China, a beggar, even a holy beggar, was looked upon with horror as a parasite on the fabric of society. Some monks, particularly those in the more remote areas, quietly began to grow their own food, and make this labour a part of their meditation practice. “A day without work is a day without food,” was the motto. In later centuries, as the tradition expanded to Japan, this practice of meditation in action took on an artistic form in many of the traditional “Ways” such a tea ceremony and pottery. Even the martial arts were heavily influenced. At weekends, I began driving out across the broad empty fells of the North Pennines to a Zen monastery. We worked, we chanted the sutras, the ancient Buddhist texts, but the core practice was zazen, literally “sitting in meditation.” This is how you do it: – Posture is important. You need to sit as best you can with a straight spine, the body balanced and the neck soft and long. – You can cross your legs and sit on a cushion. Try to get both knees on the floor, but don’t force anything. Adapt as necessary but keep the upper body straight and balanced. – Lower the eyes but don’t close them. – Sit like a Buddha, allowing thoughts and feelings to come and go without getting involved in them in any way. Whenever you get distracted, just come back to this simple sitting. – That’s it. There are other ways, but this was how I first learned to practice zazen. See how there’s no focus on trying to get anywhere. The emphasis is on accepting the fabric of the here and now experience without trying to change or manipulate anything. In this acceptance, we were told, enlightenment could be found. My fascination grew. Zen had so many things going for it – a clear focus on experiencing enlightenment, this ability to expand the practice of meditation beyond the sitting cushion, a deep and austere feel for beauty, poetry galore, I couldn’t resist it for long. As I went further into daily zazen practice, a question arose. How seriously are you going to take this? I considered throwing my life into the practice and becoming a Zen monk. The Japanese name was so seductive – an unsui, a cloud-water person, free as clouds and water to seek for the truth. “You have to stay here as a layman for three months,” the Abbot told me, “so we can get to know you.” I was expecting this. “I have a mortgage, I can manage two,” I said. He agreed. I accepted a job I’d been headhunted for, on the proviso I started in three months. Now all I had to do was resign and work out my month’s notice. There was no real time. I had to move now. I was due to meet my boss at a business conference in Philadelphia in a few days. As I flew over, I wondered if I’d have the guts to go through with this. In the company, my star was in the ascendant. I’d already expanded my operations into the whole of Europe. Now Africa was being dangled before me. I loved travel, I loved my little house, I loved having a red-headed pre-raphaelite on my arm, I already knew that one of my favourite things was sex. What was on offer was a poor and celibate life of labour in a cold monastery. “Who am I to think I can realize enlightenment?” I wondered. I was still wondering as I arrived in the Philadelphia Sheraton Hotel. It seemed like almost the whole place had been taken over by my company. We had strategic plans to develop, the day was packed. It wasn’t until the evening that I had the chance to go through with my plan. As I sat in my room in the zazen position, bed pillow tucked under me, I began to meditate, trying to steady my jittery nerves. The air conditioning was on full but I sweated like a pig. I took off my shirt, then my trousers, still the sweat poured off me. It seemed like every fibre in my being was screaming, “Don’t do it, this is crazy.” As I sat there, naked, the carpet around me darkened with sweat. I stood up and pulled out some hotel stationary. My first try at writing a letter of resignation was hopeless. The paper stained with drops of sweat. I wiped my hands and tried again. This time it looked ok. My nerves were steadying. I was going to go through with it. All I had to do now was slide the letter under my boss’s door, just down the corridor. I found an envelope and addressed it. I could imagine the disappointment in his eyes. He was a hands-off boss. As long as he didn’t get any grief arising from my activities, I could pretty much go about things as I chose. In so many ways it was a dream job. I grabbed a sheet off the bed, wrapped it round me and picked up the envelope. Yes, I was going to do it. Ten seconds later the envelope was under his door. I turned back, tried my door handle. It was locked. I couldn’t get in. Bugger! I was out in the corridor covered in sweat with nothing on but a bedsheet. It was the middle of the evening, company people were everywhere. I thought about finding somewhere to hide until the later when I could get a staff member to let me back in. I even tried a couple of doors that looked like they could be storage or something. No good, all locked. Any moment I’d be spotted. What could I do? This was going to be embarrassing. Up-and-coming corporate types don’t wander round hotels in bedsheets. A thought flashed across my brain, “But Buddhist monks do.” I almost laughed. As I walked down to reception, I arranged my bedsheet a little more artistically. This was it, I knew. Things had changed forever. * * * If you’re a poetry reader you may well notice some of my stuff appearing over the next little while. My wonderful poetry agent, Pip Antell has got twelve poems published in the last month and more under consideration. Give me a shout if you want a listing. Look forward to catching up soon. Cheers Daizan