Manufactured Zen

Tender ash of incense, soothing sounds of the quasi-tribal, miniature sand gardens and waterfall desk fountains, colors of caramel-vanilla, ripe pomegranate, and leaves of grass lining walls bordered by bamboo; such are the accoutrements of the modern Zen facility, and they welcome lines upon lines of world-busied bodies for unplugging, yogic decompressing, and curative sitting. But what good is Zen if it’s achieved in a vacuum?

Life is a combination of minute and enormous amounts of suffering. With infrequent exception, most everyone deals with interminable agony in the same fashion – to survive, and in that survival, to embody a noble acceptance of truth and inevitability. As Bukowski wrote, it’s not the major tragedies of one’s life that send him to the nuthouse, it’s the broken shoelace, the horse that doesn’t finish the race, the automated phone solicitation. In every minute of every day there is a reconciliation for each living being between what they think ought to be and what actually is. And virtue is essentially a gauge of reaction – how well or poorly one adjusts to minor disappointment.

Reaction is regularly out of the realm of control for the reactor. Physiological imbalances, genetic makeup, bad fortune, and permanent impressions beset through childhood are beyond the scope of the active mind. Nobody chooses trauma. However, the great majority of choices are made after some interim of consideration, and as such they are chosen consciously. Why then are we so often frustrated? To what end are we responsible for our own state of mind?

It is said that individuals of uncommon stature and success are generally “in control of their emotions.” No matter the situation, they remain rational and defy probabilities. They are able to detach themselves from the paralysis of fear and act decisively. This atypical presence of mind amounts to the difference between victory and defeat, between elation and embarrassment, and in certain cases, between life and death. In the context of the average life, this opportunity presents itself repeatedly. The coffee jolts from the pot over the lip of the cup and onto the floor. Do you bellow profanities, snap a paper towel from its holder, and grumble as you clean? Or do you simply clean and move on? Decision, opportunity, decision, opportunity; the loop forever replicates. You are given steady occasion to create your state of being from within, and should therefore choose your own happiness.

Zen is a notion that attempts to rectify the problem of decision making. It purports that one succeeds when one acts unconsciously, which in itself is a contradiction for the conventionally trained mind, accustomed to assessing, concluding, and then proceeding. In theory, the unconscious is unattached to outcome, and therefore it acts intuitively and without fear or assumption. Because this ideal is so incomprehensible in a world overflowing with the demands of attention and outcome, the practice of Zen involves a great deal of sitting and waiting in a quiet room.

There is no easy way to elude the stimulations of society while entrenched within its grid, so fortresses of serenity are built in which the individual may retreat for ninety minutes of humming on cue, as peaceful administrators emanate gongs and advocate the healing powers of breathing. This establishment is meant not to reflect the universe in which it is located, but instead to create a makeshift utopia for all of its practitioners wherein every sight is gentle and every voice pacifies like cherub wings. One who frequents these buildings is touched with an enlightened sense of ease, generally on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sundays.

Sometimes these are houses of exercise. These may be seen as hygiene at their most tame, and torture at their ascetic apex. For many patrons, the feeling of being drenched in one’s own sweat is as fulfilling as any illusory spiritual awakening. In this respect the art is justified, because its aim is so simple – to loosen the joints, elongate the ligaments, and resolve the delineations of the spine. All this seems to require is a series of rudimentary postures, performed in a steady, heat-inducing pattern. Absurdity lies in the recognition that such ordinary and obviously attainable postures are so challenging – what insulated and dormant lives we sit through!

And so the people flock inside such studios. All the while, the world outside beats, as brilliantly and insufferably as it always has, ugly and pristine, immense and microscopic, eating, shitting, and procreating itself into subsequent versions of itself. Not all of this, in fact very little of it, is done quietly. Or patiently. Consuming forces drive forward, devoid of reason or repose.

Artificial tranquility is our best defense, but it’s not really Zen. It supplies the silence that the world cannot, but it dodges total acknowledgment of the abyss. If the idea of Zen is what compels you, go stand on the median on the interstate with your eyes closed. Accept the unending noise, the imminent death surrounding you. Realize the unity weaving chaos together. Awaken infinite.

And then stop giving your money to gurus in spandex.

posted by ZHorton at 6:06 AM