Finding Sangha - Joshua Goldberg

It took me a while to come to the Victoria Zen Centre, and I’m profoundly glad that I did. The experience of being part of the VZC sangha has changed my life in many ways.

I first became interested in Zen when I was 16 years old, when a friend with hippie parents loaned me Roshi Philip Kapleau’s “The Three Pillars of Zen”. I couldn’t figure out how to endure the mental and physical pain of sitting, so for the next 15 years read every book about Zen that I could find while fantasizing about giving away my meager possessions and heading to the nearest monastery. Zen was a fantasy, an escape from a life that I didn’t want and from a self I couldn’t face.

A couple years into my first marriage, with a husband also intrigued by Zen but like me flailing to put it into practice (we sat together for 10 minutes at a time, supporting each other to endure what at the time felt like an eternity of pain), I felt pulled to at least try to take a step forward to engage in practice more seriously. By that time I had built up a rather searing level of social anxiety and self-loathing and was very sure that no sangha would allow me to be a member, but in a moment of bravado I called the number for the Zen Centre listed in the phone book.

At that time, the requirement for entry into the Zen Centre was to sit with Eshu for three 15-minute periods, followed by tea and cookies. The first sitting period was excruciating but I was determined not to show what a wimp I was so I gritted my teeth and hobbled around the living room after Eshu. The second sit, I was convinced that Zen was a stupid cult and Eshu would never let me leave his living room; the third sit, the only thing that stopped me from bolting for the door was my feet being so asleep that I couldn’t move. Eshu was warm and welcoming after the sit, but even the plate of Peak Freans with the delicious red squishy jelly centres couldn’t stop me from freaking out. Zen was definitely not for me. I shook Eshu’s hand, said it was delightful and that I looked forward to meeting others in the sangha at the next sit, and bolted out the door for five years.

The problem, of course, was that even though I was entirely certain that I was too fat, stupid, disgusting, crazy, and rotten to be part of a sangha, that drive to practice remained. I continued to read, to sit intermittently (while feeling ashamed that it was so difficult), and to fantasize about practice. I knew instinctively that the ways I was approaching activism, work, and relationships was destructive, and that unless I could engage with my life in the context of spiritual practice then the destruction would continue, but I thought I was too broken to be able to practice.

In 2006, after reading Claude AnShin Thomas’ biography “At Hell’s Gate”, which details his experiences as a soldier in the Vietnam war and his subsequent experiences of violence, imprisonment, addiction, homelessness, and a long journey to becoming a monk – I was rocked by the realization that I didn’t need to have my life together to engage in Zen practice. AnShin had had an even more extreme life than I had, and he was somehow managing to live in a fully engaged way, doing peace work with an impressive clarity and passion. I contacted him and arranged for him to come to Victoria to speak and to lead a day of practice.

AnShin’s visit here was exactly the kick in the butt that I needed. It was not possible for me to manipulate AnShin into pitying me for the difficulties I’d faced in life, or use any of the other strategies I had used over the years to make excuses for not engaging in practice. He didn’t pressure me, just met my eyes and didn’t turn away and said the choice was up to me. No excuses.

The next week I came to a Tuesday night sit at UVic, and there’s been no going back. That’s not to say it’s been easy. When I came to that first Tuesday night sit, being greeted by what seemed like a wall of people wearing black gis brought up the same old panic that there was no way I could do this, that they would find out how freaky I was and it would all be over. But Susanne, who I’d met at the day of practice, met my eyes in the same way AnShin had, and I decided to try to sit through one Tuesday…then another…then the intro course…then the Fundamentals course…then one-day intensives…then two days of sesshin. Along the way I realized I had an amazing marriage, let go of my ideas about what I should do for work and found a job that I really love, stopped compulsively using activism to try to persuade everyone that I’m a good person, reconnected with my parents and sister, let go of the cane I’d been using as an emotional crutch for many years, lost forty pounds, and started meeting people’s eyes and hearts on the bus, on the street, at work, everywhere.

Zen practice may be simple, but it’s not easy – at least not for me. The physical pain is still overwhelming at times. Although the practice has uncovered some really pleasant surprises, like playfulness and a love of children, it’s also made me more aware of habitual patterns and reactions that I’m embarrassed about and don’t like to experience. But I can face them instead of panicking and trying to run away. As difficult experiences arise I can explore them within the container of the form and bolstered by the strength of the sangha, rather than feeling constantly at risk of exploding into a thousand pieces from the anguish of life.

As part of writing this article I asked my husband what impact he thought Zen practice had had in my life. He was quiet for a moment, and then in his usual thoughtful way said “I think you do more hard things now. Before, you were hiding.” As I’ve become more honest about who I am, and more willing to let other people see my heart, my birth family – deeply secular and very suspicious of religion – has become blended with my sangha family. Finally, after a lifetime of desperate separateness, the wholeness has become manifest.