The Zen of Everything Podcast, Episode 5: Shikantaza, Grape Juice, Alzheimer’s, Mindfulness, Buddhism as Religion, and a Woman who Feels no Pain

Jundo and Kirk discuss whether shikantaza is meditation, how to get a grape juice stain out of a carpet, how to deal with Alzheimers, how mindfulness is integrating in modern society, whether Buddhism is a religion, and the interesting case of a woman who feels no pain.

Find out more at the Zen of Everything website.

The Zen of Everything Podcast, Episode 4: Good Days, Hot Weather, Ikkyu, Happiness, Politics, Anger, Appliances, and the Ugly Lama

Jundo explains why all days are good days, and Kirk laments the hot weather in Europe. They revisit Ikkyu (“that old horndog”), and discuss politics, anger, a dead appliance, and the Ugly Lama.

Check out other episodes at the Zen of Everything website, and subscribe to the podcast on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or Overcast.

The Zen of Everything Podcast, Episode 3: Cars, Drugs, Busses, and Simple Living

Zen of everything artwork smallJundo and Kirk discuss what makes a car a car, whether gamblers and criminals should donate money to good causes, how a bus driver can help make the world better, and a book on simple living.

Listen to the latest episode of The Zen of Everything.

The Zen of Everything Podcast, Episode 2: Hot Dogs, Space Aliens, Vegetarians, Glasses, and Sitting Zazen Every Day

Zen of everything artwork smallAll things are impermanent, but this podcast has made it to its second episode. Jundo and Kirk discuss whether a hot dog is a sandwich, explore the question of being a vegetarian, whether one should wear glasses when sitting zazen, and whether one really, truly needs to sit zazen every day.

Listen to the latest episode of The Zen of Everything.

The Zen of Everything Podcast: Episode 1, Cats, Lawyers, Health, Women, and Roshis

Zen of everything artwork smallThe Zen of Everything presents a zen take on life, love, laughter, and everything else. With Jundo Cohen, a real zen master, and Kirk McElhearn, a guy who knows a bit about zen.

For the first episode of The Zen of Everything, we explain why we started this podcast, and what we plan to do. We then explore whether cats are zen masters, discuss Buddhist lawyers, talk about practicing zen with health problems, explore the idea of calling the Buddha a “she,” and explain what a roshi is.

Listen to the latest episode of The Zen of Everything.

Use the Apple Watch as a No-Frills Meditation Timer

If you meditate, and use a timer, you may use an app on a smartphone, or a small, battery-powered clock as a timer. But if you have an Apple Watch, you already have a minimalist, no-frills meditation timer built in. Here’s how to use the Apple Watch to time your meditation.

First, put the Apple Watch into Do Not Disturb mode; the last thing you want is notifications buzzing while you’re meditating. To do this, swipe up on the display to enter Glances mode, and swipe to the Settings glance. Tap the Do Not Disturb button; that’s the crescent moon. This also puts your iPhone in Do Not Disturb mode, so you won’t be bothered by it either.

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Next, launch the Timer app. In the screenshot below, it’s the orange icon to the left.

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The Timer app lets you set a time using the digital crown. Turn the crown until you’ve found the right time:

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When you’re seated and ready to start your meditation session, tap Start. The Timer app will begin counting down.

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If you need to know how much time is left in your session, you can easily see this on the watch by raising it slightly.

When the session is over, the watch will vibrate to let you know. You can then dismiss the timer.

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This doesn’t offer any features such as logging your meditation sessions, or sharing them with others. But do you really need them? All you need is something to guide you in your sitting; so you sit as long as you want. Of course, you can always sit longer, if you so desire. Just tap Dismiss, and stay still as long as you want.

Just Sitting: The Zen Practice of Shikantaza

Once or twice a day, I sit facing a wall in my home[1]. I just sit. I sit for twenty minutes, a half-hour, sometimes more. But I just sit. I sit and think not thinking; I do that by non-thinking.

This is the Zen practice of shikantaza, or “just sitting.” You sit, cross-legged if you can, and let your mind alone. When you stop thinking, you reach a point of non-thinking. It’s one of the typical paradoxes of Zen that makes your brain try and twist around those words, “not,” “non-” and “thinking” to figure out what they mean.

Unlike other forms of meditation, shikantaza doesn’t involve concentrating on an object, such as your breath or a mantra. It is “objectless meditation,” where you focus on everything you experience – thoughts, sounds, feelings – without attaching to any of them. When you get there, you know what it is.

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“Once you have adjusted your posture, take a deep breath, inhale and exhale, rock your body right and left and settle into a steady, immobile sitting position. Think not-thinking. How do you think not-thinking? Non-thinking. This in itself is the essential art of zazen.”[2]

I’ve been practicing meditation off and on for about 25 years. After following the Tibetan tradition for a while, I drifted among other forms of practice, notably Theravadan insight meditation, before settling on Zen. There are many different schools of meditation, and even in Zen, there are two main currents: Rinzai and S?t?. It is this latter, S?t? Zen, founded by Eihei D?gen in the 13th century, that feels right to me. It’s the one whose main practice is just sitting.

But you don’t need to follow any school to meditate, or sit, as we say in Zen lingo. In recent years, mindfulness, or a secular form of sitting meditation, has become mainstream, notably as a tool to reduce stress. Many studies have shown that meditation of any kind is good for the brain. Even if you don’t want to follow a path of meditation, or a particular tradition, just sitting for a few minutes every day can be a wonderful way to get back in touch with reality and recharge your brain. You can use just sitting to ground yourself, to take a few minutes away from the vortex of the world around you.

Read more

Just Sitting

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Once or twice a day, I sit facing a wall in my home. I just sit. I sit for 20 minutes, a half-hour, sometimes more. But I just sit. I sit and think not thinking; I do that by non-thinking.

This is the Zen practice of shikantaza, or “just sitting.” You sit, cross-legged if you can, and let your mind alone. When you stop thinking, you reach a point of non-thinking. It’s one of the typical paradoxes of Zen that makes your brain try and twist around those words “not,” “non-” and “thinking” to figure out what they mean. Unlike other forms of meditation, shikantaza doesn’t involve concentrating on an object, such as your breath or a mantra. It is “objectless meditation,” where you focus on everything you experience–thoughts, sounds, feelings–without attaching to any of them. When you get there, you know what it is.

Read the rest of the article in Issue 28 of The Loop Magazine.

Book Review: Where the Heart Beats; John Cage, Zen Buddhism, and the Inner Life of Artists

wheretheheartbeats-2.jpgJohn Cage was arguably one of the most fascinating and enigmatic composers of experimental music of the 20th century. In this book, Where the Heart Beats; John Cage, Zen Buddhism, and the Inner Life of Artists (Amazon.com, Amazon UK), Kay Larson, art critic and Zen Buddhist, looks at Cage’s life and the relationship between his work and Zen Buddhism.

The book is a sort-of-biography, covering Cage’s early life, his student years, and his first forays into composition. A curious man, Cage had begun delving into the works of the Orient, and the turning point in his life, and in his approach to art, came in 1950, when he met D. T. Suzuki, a Japanese author and lecturer who settled in New York City. His earliest book, which had been published in the United States in 1927, came out in a new edition at that time. Suzuki was to start teaching Zen to all and sundry, and Cage absorbed all that he could.

Cage had been involved in many experimental works, including “happenings” and works with what was considered to be non-musical sounds. In the 1940s, he developed the idea of the prepared piano, where he inserted objects and and between the strings of the instrument to give it a more percussive sound. His Sonatas and Interludes for Prepared Piano (Amazon.com, Amazon UK) was his first major work using this technique.

Wherever we are, what he hear is mostly noise. When we ignore it, it disturbs us. When we listen to it, we find it fascinating.

But the discovery of Zen, along with the I Ching – the Chinese oracle book – which was given to him in 1951 by Christian Wolff, led him to embrace indeterminacy and chance. He was later to use chance operations in all of his compositions.

I believe that by eliminating purpose, what I call awareness increases. Therefore my purpose is to remove purpose.

His first major work using the I Ching was Music of Changes (Amazon.com, Amazon UK), a four-part work for piano where Cage used chance operations to determine the score.

They proceed thus, by chance, by no will of their own passing safely through many perilous situations.

Cage was to develop this procedure over the years, and it became his main method of composition. But he was also a lecturer and author, and some of his writings are more profound than his music. (See, for example, his 1961 collection Silence (Amazon.com, Amazon UK).) In his Lecture on Nothing, he made the very Zen-like statement:

It is not irritating to be where one is. It is only irritating to think one would like to be somewhere else.

But Cage was just an intellectual Buddhist. Suzuki didn’t teach meditation, and there is no suggestion that Cage practiced meditation at all. He clearly internalized many Buddhist concepts, but he was not a Buddhist.

It’s hard to pin down John Cage, and this book offers more questions than answers. It ends more or less in the 1960s, and doesn’t discuss much of Cage’s work after that period. One could say that Cage had done all he had to do by then; he had made his statements and developed his technique, and the rest – the next three decades – were merely more of the same.

I have very mixed feelings about John Cage. To me, he was a brilliant man, but he was also a bit of a trickster. In writing, for example, 4’33”, a piece where a pianist sits in front of his instrument for four minutes and thirty-three seconds, playing nothing, Cage showed us that the sounds around us can be music. But at the same time, this piece was a provocation, one that was similar to the white paintings of of Robert Rauschenberg from 1951, or Richard Serra’s later black paintings – say nothing. Unfortunately, those sorts of statements are dead ends. But Cage went far beyond that with his later random-generated music, which I find to be of varying interest. Some of these pieces are brilliant, and others sound, well, random.

1333127842-ln1uth25edxiht5n-1.jpegI met John Cage in late December, 1986. At the time, I was living in Paris, and was editing a journal about the I Ching called Hexagrammes. I was very interested in the idea behind the I Ching at the time (something that is no longer important to me), and together with sinologist Cyrille Javary, who directs the Centre Djohi in Paris, I translated several books on the subject, and edited this journal. I had contacted Cage to ask if I could interview him the next time I was in New York, and he graciously accepted.

Cage was one of the most charming people I’ve ever met, and the smile on his face that you see in the photo on the left, was his default expression. He gave me the feeling of being a true bodhisattva, and everything he said was carefully weighed and to the point.

HexagrammesHe explained his process, which turned out to have little to do with the I Ching itself. He had simply adopted a method of using random numbers to fit into preset conditions for his music. His assistant would run a simulation on a computer that was the equivalent of throwing coins (a method used when consulting the I Ching). He would use these numbers to determine notes, durations, rests, etc., all based on decisions he made for each piece. While I was there, he composed a few notes of one of his number pieces, Music For…. It is described as follows:

This work consists of 17 parts for voice and instruments without overall score. Its title is to be completed by adding the number of performers, i.e. Music for Five, Music for Twelve, and so forth. Each part consists of “pieces” and “interludes,” notated on two systems and using flexible time-brackets. Some of the “pieces” are made up of single held tones, preceded and followed by silence, and should be played softly; they can be also be repeated. Others consist of sequences of tones with various pitches, notated proportionally. Tones in these parts are not to be repeated and have varying dynamics, timbres, and durations. The “Interludes”, lasting 5, 10, or 15 seconds, are to be played freely with respect to dynamics and durations of single notes, and normally with respect to timbre. The work uses microtonal pitches. The piano is played by bowing the strings with fishing line or horse hair. The percussionists have 50 instruments each, chosen by the performer with the caveat that selected instruments are able to produce held tones. The string parts follow the notation of Freeman Etudes. The players may decide on the number of “pieces” and “interludes” to be performed, resulting in a maximum duration of thirty minutes.

Cage recounted, in detail, how he proceeded, telling me that he had just begun writing the fourth part of the piece. The process seemed sterile to me, but Cage’s goal was to get out of the way of the music, and let the process do everything, without him making any value judgements. (I have a detailed description of the process, in French, in issue number 3 of Hexagrammes. One day, perhaps, I’ll translate it; I’ve lost the original English tapes and transcriptions.)

But in spite of this, Cage was a fascinating man. We shared two favorite authors: James Joyce and Henry David Thoreau. It turned out that Cage was to be the first reader in a marathon reading of Joyce’s Finnegans Wake a few days later at the Paula Cooper Galler in Soho, and invited me to attend. Cage read this work – the opening section of the novel – with grace and style, which is no mean feat:

riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs…

No matter what, John Cage was a fascinating man. This book, Where the Heart Beats, tells the story about how Cage discovered the tools he would use for his compositions, and for some of his writing. Like his music or not, he was one of the most important people in experimental music in the 20th century. I grew up listening to some of his music: his earliest string quartet, his Sonatas and Interludes for Prepared Piano, and Music of Changes. While there’s a lot of his music that I find uninteresting, it’s fair to say that Cage was unique.


Watch an interesting video of John Cage on the TV quiz show I’ve Got a Secret in 1960, here he performs his percussion work Water Walk. Many laughed, but Cage took this very seriously, and so did the host of the show. It’s quite surprising that someone playing this sort of music was on national television in the United States.

You can also listen to an interesting conversation with John Cage and Morton Feldman.