Reflections on Life and Zen
“In the blue pool from a thousand ages past, the moon of emptiness,
Reach for it again and again and again, at last you will know it.” Zen Sand, 14.577
The strands of memory that follow are written in an autobiographical style, but they are far from being the story of my life as it is so far. Too much has been left out – so much love and laughter, so much pain and sorrow, so many dear ones and life-long friends are either omitted altogether or alluded to only briefly. In fact, all you will find here is a very specific perspective that could be inadequately described as “an echo of my spiritual path”. I offer it up in the hope that it might be of some value to other seekers who are finding their own way. If that isn’t the case, then please feel free to just chew it up and spit it out.
The first memory I can recall of a spiritual experience was when I was about 8 or 9 years old. I was lying in front of the gas fire in our house in Leyton, London and I became aware that there was something else going on beyond me, that at a later age I might have called “transcendent”. I was born in 1956 into a Jewish family. My parents were the children of immigrants from various parts of Eastern Europe. They were determined to assimilate to British culture, while ensuring that their Jewish heritage was preserved. They were not “observant Jews”, and religion did not figure heavily in our day-to-day lives. Nonetheless, I was sent to Hebrew classes every Sunday at the local Synagogue, and was expected to, eventually, marry a Jewish girl (but God forbid she should be too Jewish, i.e. from a family that was overly pious). My father was an atheist, and a great reader. He filled the house with books on philosophy, psychology, political thought and social studies. Bertrand Russell was a particular favourite.
Somehow. I got through my Barmitzvah ceremony, and that was effectively the end of my association with formal Judaism. By then, I was already in my second year at secondary school and becoming focussed on my studies; my favourite subjects were history and mathematics. In those years, I was an atheist, like my father, and I believed strongly that all of reality would eventually be described by science, with biology rising out of chemistry, which depended on physics whose foundation was mathematics. Although I didn’t know the word at the time, I was what I would later learn to call a (naïve) reductionist. By the time I was in sixth form, I was reading into the logical foundations of mathematics, and learning that attempts to build a secure basis for the subject had run aground on the shores of paradox. I read about Russell’s paradox in set theory (that man Bertrand again) and Godel’s incompleteness theorem. Here is not the place to go into the explicit details of what these say, but they shook my faith that rational thought could encompass everything that was to be known. By this time, I was also starting to read a little philosophy, and I was particularly taken by existentialism, as it seemed to me that it might offer an alternative to the rationalism that I was starting to reject.
I did well enough in my A-levels to get into university, but I couldn’t decide whether to do straight maths, or maths with philosophy. I decided to go to St Andrews; the four-year Scottish degree structure would allow me to postpone a final decision for a year, after which I decided to drop philosophy, which I figured I could read on my own – certainly much more easily than degree-level maths. At this time, I started to follow a very familiar path that would eventually lead me to Eastern religions and Zen. I was reading Jack Kerouac and Herman Hesse, and smoking hashish with friends in order to “expand my consciousness” A wonderful summer in Maryland, USA where I worked on an amusement park (courtesy of the British Universities North American Club) led to my taking LSD for the first time and experiencing what appeared to be a complete shattering of my understanding of how reality worked. I remember that a friend was playing his harmonica and I was able to see the notes as he played them. Walking down the street, I felt a strong sense that Love pervaded all. When I came back to St Andrews for my final year, my friends had discovered that magic (psylocybin) mushrooms were growing locally and I enjoyed a very interesting term where I took larger and larger doses until I had a peak experience walking along the beach one night. In many ways that changed my life, but I think it also made me insufferable for a time; I was sure that I had all the answers. One night, I crashed my car into the back of a stationary vehicle, writing off both of them. It belonged to a local wise woman called Marcia Aikman. Strangely, given the circumstances in which we met, we became friends and she lent me books which helped me to ground my psylocybin experiences. The most important was Alan Watts’ “The Book of the Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are”; its central message that “You’re IT”, seemed to encapsulate what I had learned from the mushrooms. It was during this year that I had my first experiences with meditation. Following further (after the LSD) in the footsteps of the Beatles, I took a course in transcendental meditation and practiced this (not very systematically) for a while.
In the summer after graduation, I read “The Tao of Physics” by Fritjof Capra, a book that argued that modern physics, particularly the common-sense defying quantum theory and relativity, were giving rise to a new picture of the cosmos that was parallel to that found in Hinduism, Taoism and Buddhism. This book inspired me to want to study quantum mechanics (a topic I had not met in my undergraduate degree) and also to start looking into Eastern religions. I read “Zen Buddhism” (selected writings of D.T.Suzuki) and became intrigued by koans as they seemed to explore similar paradoxes to those that I’d encountered in the foundations of mathematics. I liked the fact that Buddhism didn’t seem to require any deities, and that there was an emphasis on personal investigation, rather than the acceptance of received wisdom. The four noble truths resonated with me; I could see my life so far through the prism of suffering caused by clinging, though I did not know how I would reach nirvana. I did have this naïve belief that I’m sure many others have when they first come to Buddhism, that if I could only attain enlightenment, then in some sense, “everything would be alright”, and I could live happily ever after. I was also attracted to Taoism and spent many an evening delving into Chuang Tsu’s “Inner Chapters”, a book that I still regard as one of humanity’s great masterpieces of wisdom.
The year 1979-80 was a “gap year”. I lived at home, worked behind a bar, partied with friends, studied quantum mechanics in my spare time, and spent the summer back-packing around Europe. The most important thing that happened to me in that time was reconnecting with my childhood friend Paul (aka Pablo). He had been travelling in India, but had reached very similar conclusions to me, and our separate journeys intertwined in a creative and nurturing way which continues to this day. At this time in my life, I was sure that there must be a way to live in ordinary life that would prolong the states of consciousness that I’d tasted with LSD and magic mushrooms, and I knew that this somehow involved nullifying the activities of the grasping ego and living in a freer, more spontaneous way, but of course I did not know how to achieve such a state of being.
In 1980 I moved to Nottingham to take an MSc in quantum theory in the maths department at the university there. I had chosen Nottingham as they were the only university to offer such a degree that enabled study of the mathematical foundations of the subject. It turned out that the academic who taught that part of the course was an inspiring teacher and a highly creative mathematician named Robin Hudson. I stayed on in Nottingham to do a PhD under his supervision from 1981-4. At that time, he was developing a new theory called “quantum stochastic calculus”, together with an Indian mathematician K.R. Parthasarathy. This theory, which my PhD contributed to, was about developing a mathematical model of a certain type of dynamic evolution where change at the quantum level comes about through a complex interplay of creation, conservation and annihilation. Parthasarathy, who was a practicing Hindu, liked to allude to these as the activities of Brahma (the creator), Vishnu (the preserver) and Shiva (the destroyer). It seemed like I was immersed in the very world-view that Capra had described in his book. This period was most important for me for another reason; in 1982 I met Jill, the love of my life. We married in 1985. Needless to say, she is not Jewish.
After working as a post-doctoral researcher in both Rome and Nottingham, I gained a lecturing post at Trent Polytechnic (later Nottingham Trent University). I concentrated on teaching, which I thoroughly enjoyed, while keeping my research going when there was time available. Jill and I bought a house, and our wonderful children Ben and Kate were born in 1989 and 1991 (respectively). This was a very happy time, but there was also a dark side. I sometimes suffered from panic attacks when I was certain I was going to die; bouts of depression where everything seemed pointless would possess me for days at a time, and I occasionally drank far more alcohol than was good for me, or for those around me.
At this time, I was convinced that I could develop my own personal spiritual path. It was an amalgam of Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism, “New Age” thinking, modern physics, insights I’d gained from psychedelic drug experiences, an emphasis on “being” rather than “having” (the influence of the psychologist Erich Fromm, whose book “To Have Or to Be” I’d read at this time), holism (as opposed to reductionism) and ecological ideas – especially those of E.F. Schumacher, the author of “Small is Beautiful” I read Fritjof Capra’s “The Turning Point” in the mid-1980’s. Books like his inspired me and many of my friends to think that we were on the cusp of a change that would lead to a transformation of society; the new worldview that modern physics was opening up, together with the spiritual insights and practices of the East and a renewed understanding of our relationship to Nature would lead to a more tolerant, loving and aware society, in harmony with the natural world.
In September 1992, I visited Fukuoka (the main city on the island of Kyushu) in Japan on a Royal Society grant to work with an expert in the field of random processes, Hiroshi Kunita. This was the beginning of a journey in my career that would lead my research away from quantum stochastic calculus towards mainstream probability theory. It also marked an important step on my path to Buddhism. Travelling through Kyushu, I visited an amazing group of sculptures of five hundred of the Buddha’s disciples attending a discourse – some are listening intently, some are bored, and at least one appears to be asleep. In Kyoto, I walked part of the Philosopher’s Way and visited many Zen monasteries. I was particularly taken with one (I can’t remember its name) that had a notice outside in English saying that the secret of the universe would be found inside. When I entered, there was a completely smooth rectangular rock garden with two indentures, one at each end. An accompanying notice board explained that the two indentures should be interpreted as “breathe in, and breathe out.” I would not visit Japan again until 31 years had passed, and then it would be as part of a Zenways group.
I was soon to be given more responsibilities at work. I was appointed a reader in 1996 and immediately took on the role of head of research in my department. Two years later, I became a professor and also head of the department. But a major event for me took place before that. My father died in December 1996, and soon after I was plunged into such a deep depression that I was prescribed medication. It’s difficult to recall precisely now, but this may have been the catalyst for a serious engagement with Buddhism. I read two excellent books that propelled me in this direction: “Awakening the Buddha Within”, by Lama Surya Das, and “Being Nobody, Going Nowhere” by Ayya Khema. Then I began searching for a group. I started attending weekly meetings of the Friends of the Western Buddhist Order (now called the Triratna Buddhist Community), but soon realised that they were not for me. The next group I tried was the New Kadampa Tradition (NKT). This is a Tibetan Buddhist group, founded by the monk Geshe Kelsang Gyatsu (always referred to by group members as Geshe-la). The local group in Nottiingham was very welcoming, and I started attending regularly. The spiritual guide there was a young woman called Yangdak who was an inspirational teacher. I started making a serious study of Geshe-la’s works and tried to meditate regularly. In 1998 I went to the UK base of the NKT in Ulverston, Cumbria, for their annual five -day spring festival. There were talks every day by Geshe-la and plenty of meditation periods. I remember talking to a friend from the local group one lunch time and experiencing a fleeting moment when there was only the moment. I came back energised and eager to practice more diligently.
Soon after returning from the festival, I had a phone call with my close friend Nige Feetham. He was having a pretty tough time at work and I suggested that he come to the NKT group with me. He was soon also attending regularly. This started our brotherhood in dharma, which continues to the present day in Zenways. How precious a jewel this is in my life! About this time, I started developing digestive problems which would later be dealt with by giving up wheat-based products, as well as cow’s milk, which I had already been diagnosed as intolerant too. I went through a tough time where I wasn’t sleeping very well and every tiny problem became magnified in my sleeplessness to a major disaster. I was so drained of energy that I felt that I couldn’t “meditate properly”. Nige and I went to the 1999 NKT festival together, but this time I couldn’t relate to it at all. After one particularly tough session, I went for a walk in the surrounding fields and decided that I wouldn’t attend any more of the formal part of the festival. I spent the remainder of my time there volunteering in the tea and coffee shop. That pretty much ended the period of my serious involvement with NKT. I continued to attend the local group irregularly, both in Nottingham and Sheffield, where I moved in 2009, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore.
Sometime in early summer 2015, I received a phone call from Nige. He was in a state of great excitement. He’d just been to a Zenways BZR and it was clear that he had landed in a very special place. He told me that Daizan’s assistant on the BZR was a Zen monk called Richard Gensho Jones who also lived in Sheffield. He gave me his details and I contacted him soon after. So began my association with Zenways. I started going to regular meditation sessions with Gensho and his wife Alison, and Gensho taught me the Zenways mindfulness and insight courses. In November 2015, I participated in my first BZR (with Nige doing his second).
That BZR completely transformed my life. When I came home after it, Jill commented after a few hours, “I like the new Dave.” This has become an in-joke between us. Whenever I go on a retreat, I always tell her that there’ll be a “new Dave” next time she sees me, and she always replies “I quite like the old one.” But I’m getting beyond myself. This BZR may have been one of the last before Zenways really took off. I guess there were around 20 participants. I tried to apply myself diligently to working in the dyads. As is usual for participants on their first such retreat, I chose the question “Who am I?” Daizan’s assistant on this BZR was Carl. I approached him regularly during the breaks and he helped me enormously by using the term “becoming one with the question”. Later on, when I read Shinzan Roshi’s invaluable advice on working with koans on pp. 197-8 of Daizan’s “Practical Zen”, I recognised the invitation to “nari-kiru”.
After about two days, something broke in me. I started weeping uncontrollably, and pretty much continued in that vein for the rest of the BZR. As I see it now, the dominant intellectual part of my personality that had been in charge of my life up to that time, and which I had fed and nurtured through my career as a mathematician, was gently shifted out of the way, so that my heart could open, and wave after wave of emotion took hold of me; emotion that had been bottled up inside for years and years. At the very end of the BZR, Daizan guided us through the fusho (practice of presence) meditation and I had a powerful realisation. At the time, I thought I had passed the koan, but the BZR ended and I did not have time to check with him. In fact, I didn’t formally pass it until some years later. As we often find in both life and Zen, the journey can be more important than the destination.
I joined Zenways in 2016 and have since attended many BZR’s and sesshins, taking the Zen precepts in 2017. I am enormously grateful to Daizan and to the Zenways sangha for all the support they have given me over the past nine years. It has been an amazing journey and it isn’t over until the well-rounded Buddha sings! I still get depressed sometimes, but it never lasts for very long. The panic attacks have completely gone.
Before I finish, let’s review a little. Psychedelic substances played an important role in helping me to break out of a conventional way of seeing the world; they offer great benefits, but there are also dangers, as has been described by many writers. Alan Watts wrote “When you get the message, hang up the telephone.” This is very good advice. But having said that, there is a fascinating 2021 film called “Descending the Mountain”, where a group of experienced meditators take psilocybin mushrooms in the presence of a Zen master and a neuroscientist, that is well worth watching.
Staying with Alan Watts, his dictum that “You’re IT”, is of limited (if any) value; it posits a “You” and an “IT” that somehow are unified. Recently, in reading the superb “The Intimate Way of Zen” by James Ishmael Ford, I came across the quote “You are not it, but in truth it is you” from the 9th century Zen (Chan) poem “Song of the Mirror Samadhi”. Now that’s more like it, for even though there is still the “you” and the “it”, the subtle change of emphasis goes in a beneficial direction. But the very same poem warns us that “Just to depict it in literary form is to stain it with defilement”. Let us follow Wittgenstein, who at the end of his “Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus” wrote, “What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence”. And yet, we feel compelled to write something!
The term “the ego” turns up a lot in modern spiritual writing. So far as I can make out, it originated in Sigmund Freud’s psycho-analysis. Trying to single out a part of yourself called “the ego” that should be suppressed, brought to heel, or eliminated altogether is not a sensible way to proceed. It is far better to simply meditate, watch the thoughts arise and pass, and always, always, be kind to yourself.
Modern physics, as underpinned by quantum theory and relativity is one of the supreme intellectual achievements of the human race. But I no longer find it helpful to ask questions about whether or not its worldview is in some sense converging to that inherent in Eastern religions. Indeed, science is rapidly changing – that is its nature – and Fritjof Capra wrote his “Tao of Physics” before the era of superstrings, dark matter and dark energy. So far as Zen is concerned, we just need to practice. Thinking about, say, quantum wave functions is nothing but a distraction, unless you are interested in physics, and this is what you want to do.
As for the “Turning Point” and the transformation of society for the better? Gentle reader, you don’t need me to invite you to take a look around. But despair is not a skilful response. As Buddhists, we seek to place compassion centre stage in our lives. We have the boundless meditations of loving kindness, equanimity and sympathetic joy as well as compassion. These are a foundation from which right action can emerge.
Finally, as you may recall, I came to Buddhism to find “enlightenment’’. I have found no such thing. In fact, like “God” the word is so loaded, that I feel a distinct aversion to trying to write about it. On sesshins and retreats there have been periods of profound illumination, and times when things just didn’t seem to be working out. Usually, but not always, the second is a necessary precursor for the first. The path goes on, the way is open and as Daizan frequently enjoins us, it’s helpful to proceed “moment by moment, breath by breath”
“We are all walking each other home.” Ram Dass