With the arrival of warm weather in Canada, it has again become possible to sit daily zazen outside, mornings on the front porch and evenings under a walnut tree in the backyard. Early on the path, sitting outside is not always an advisable thing to do. There are just too many external distractions (sounds, scents, the touch of the breeze, or mosquitoes red in tooth and claw) and the best of mediation intentions can easily be lost to the sense pleasures of simple relaxation. That's fine and nice, but it's not the same thing as doing practice.
But later, as practice matures, sitting outside among the distractions can be very helpful because it gives you lots of opportunities to see how the mind generates reactivity, and how it desires and latches onto any excuse to drop the discipline of staying focused on practice. Sometimes that reactivity is positive, such a nice bell ringing off in the distance, and birds chirping. And sometimes the reactivity is negative, those inconsiderate and noisy neighbours (don't they know I'm trying to get all chill and tranquil here? Harrumph). Either way, it's still just reactivity being generated by the mind, with its attachments to how things "ought to be". There is nothing inherent in the situation that is positive or negative. It just is. Now there is birdsong. Now there is leaf blower. Now there is a wasp quite close to my arm. Now a wailing baby. Bit by bit, everything has it - everything is complete.
And so sitting outdoors teaches us to be grateful for noise and distraction. To not become attached to the "perfect" conditions of an uninterrupted retreat in a silent zendo at some remote mountain retreat. Everything is the perfect conditions for practicing. As the Zen teacher Seng-ts'an commented, the Great Way is simple - just avoid picking and choosing ("if you're choosing, you're losing"). Kites cannot fly without a strong wind to push against. And attachments are very hard to spot and free yourself from until they snag on something and jerk you around. Something like the noises outside.
So it can be a good practice to sit with awareness and attend to the arising and changing of ambient sounds during zazen. Provided we don't get attached to having them stay, or wishing they would leave. Just abiding and being present with whatever happens. And watching and noticing how the mind reacts.
Perhaps if you've done this outside sitting you may have noticed that it is usually much quieter in the early morning hours than in the late evening. In mornings, I sit in almost complete silence while much of the neighbourhood is still sleeping or is shuffling around in the bathroom. But in the evening every sound is present, even those from distant sources. In the evening I can hear the individual passing of each truck zooming down the Parkway. But in the morning, there is no traffic sound at all. In this difference a bit of a weird atmospheric phenomenon manifesting itself for us.
It seems that sound waves in the air tend to bend towards cooler areas (because the speed of sound is lower there, the wavefront drags behind, turning the direction of propagation). And the ground warms and cools during each day much more quickly than the air above it. So, in the evening when the ground quickly cools off, but the air above is still holding warmth from the afternoon, passing sound waves are bent downwards. Sounds of distant traffic, which might otherwise have escaped upwards, are bent down towards yard, tree, and meditator. The evening fills with distant noise. But in the mornings, when the air has had all night to cool off, while the ground is quickly warming back up from the risen sun, the same sounds are now bent upwards towards the cool air, away from porch meditations. The interplay and dance of ground and air. Present while we sit.
And cause of some pretty weird other phenomena.
The Truth is Out There.
In 1947 something mysterious crashed near Roswell USA (close to the famed Area 51). The first published newspaper report said it was a "flying disk". But that story was quickly denied by the local military, who said that what had crashed was just a weather balloon. It turns out both reports were false. And yet, both reports were true. Ah, now we're getting into comfortable Zen territory.
First puzzle piece: The atmospheric effects we notice in outdoor zazen had also been noticed by the US military. In particular, they noticed that the air generally gets colder as you go higher (no surprise to anyone who has hiked to a mountain retreat). But, if you keep going higher, the air starts to warm up again (something to do with the ozone layer absorbing certain solar radiation). Which means there is a particular altitude where, if a sound is emitted up there, the sound tends to stay up there (because we now know that sound bends away from cooler air). There is a "sound channel" up high in the atmosphere. Sounds cannot escape higher or lower, so they tend to propagate for a long way horizontally.
Second piece: Back then the USA was greatly concerned about the Soviet Union developing and testing nuclear weapons of its own. The Americans really wanted to know if this was happening (and spy satellites did not yet exist). Fortunately, nuclear tests are really loud, and send explosions up very high in the atmosphere (into the sound channel).
Third piece: the best microphones back then were "disk microphones" suspended by springs. Even today many recording studios use the highly sensitive ribbon elements from disk microphones for vocal recording. Such disk microphones can be easily placed up into the sound channel by attaching strings of them to large weather balloons. Which should be kept highly secret as an important part of national security. And which sometimes crash.
Perhaps not surprisingly, whales have noticed this. And if you're a lonely humpback whale singing the blues, you head for this depth so that your song can be heard by many others. Maybe, over on the other side of the ocean there is an equally lonely potential mate for you?
Even back in WWII the American military knew about this oceanic sound channel. Pilots who crashed in the Pacific Ocean and survived found on their life rafts a rescue device that appeared to just be a small steel ball. They were told to drop it overboard and they would be rescued (from the middle of nowhere) within 24 hours. And it worked!
The rescue balls were not some highly advanced communications technology. They were just hollow steel balls. But they were carefully crafted to withstand enormous pressure. So they would sink down into the sound channel before they collapsed (with a loud bang that could be picked up on underwater microphones at US naval bases all across the Pacific). The same idea as the underwater microphones that were later established in the Atlantic during to cold war to hear the sound of Soviet submarines that crossed the sound channel depths near Iceland.
If you sit still enough and look deeply enough, everything is interesting. Even the sound of distant freeway traffic on a warm summer evening meditation.
Or conversely, nothing is boring. If you are experiencing boredom, that is on you, not in the nature of the situation. Boredom is something extra the mind adds.
The breath is endlessly fascinating. That's what my first meditation teacher claimed. And at the time I couldn't decide if that was just a lame sales pitch to try to get us to focus on something that was inherently boring (but somehow necessary for our own good). But it has turned out to be completely true. Early on the path, the breath was surprisingly interesting in its many subtle nuances and connection to the mind and body (e.g., how simple sound quickly becomes noise, becomes connotation, becomes imputed intention, becomes yet another chapter in the story of "my inconsiderate neighbour"). Later it revealed another level of interestingness (is that even a word?) in the relationships and attachments and expectations associated with even something so "simple" and unaffected as breathing.
So, weather permitting, go sit and meditate outside somewhere private - but not somewhere "undisturbed". Welcome your noisy teachers. Hear the sound of one hand clapping, of the grass growing all by itself. The sound is always there for you.
 |
| Office politics, household management, it all rushes by |
But later, as practice matures, sitting outside among the distractions can be very helpful because it gives you lots of opportunities to see how the mind generates reactivity, and how it desires and latches onto any excuse to drop the discipline of staying focused on practice. Sometimes that reactivity is positive, such a nice bell ringing off in the distance, and birds chirping. And sometimes the reactivity is negative, those inconsiderate and noisy neighbours (don't they know I'm trying to get all chill and tranquil here? Harrumph). Either way, it's still just reactivity being generated by the mind, with its attachments to how things "ought to be". There is nothing inherent in the situation that is positive or negative. It just is. Now there is birdsong. Now there is leaf blower. Now there is a wasp quite close to my arm. Now a wailing baby. Bit by bit, everything has it - everything is complete.
And so sitting outdoors teaches us to be grateful for noise and distraction. To not become attached to the "perfect" conditions of an uninterrupted retreat in a silent zendo at some remote mountain retreat. Everything is the perfect conditions for practicing. As the Zen teacher Seng-ts'an commented, the Great Way is simple - just avoid picking and choosing ("if you're choosing, you're losing"). Kites cannot fly without a strong wind to push against. And attachments are very hard to spot and free yourself from until they snag on something and jerk you around. Something like the noises outside.
So it can be a good practice to sit with awareness and attend to the arising and changing of ambient sounds during zazen. Provided we don't get attached to having them stay, or wishing they would leave. Just abiding and being present with whatever happens. And watching and noticing how the mind reacts.
Perhaps if you've done this outside sitting you may have noticed that it is usually much quieter in the early morning hours than in the late evening. In mornings, I sit in almost complete silence while much of the neighbourhood is still sleeping or is shuffling around in the bathroom. But in the evening every sound is present, even those from distant sources. In the evening I can hear the individual passing of each truck zooming down the Parkway. But in the morning, there is no traffic sound at all. In this difference a bit of a weird atmospheric phenomenon manifesting itself for us.
It seems that sound waves in the air tend to bend towards cooler areas (because the speed of sound is lower there, the wavefront drags behind, turning the direction of propagation). And the ground warms and cools during each day much more quickly than the air above it. So, in the evening when the ground quickly cools off, but the air above is still holding warmth from the afternoon, passing sound waves are bent downwards. Sounds of distant traffic, which might otherwise have escaped upwards, are bent down towards yard, tree, and meditator. The evening fills with distant noise. But in the mornings, when the air has had all night to cool off, while the ground is quickly warming back up from the risen sun, the same sounds are now bent upwards towards the cool air, away from porch meditations. The interplay and dance of ground and air. Present while we sit.
And cause of some pretty weird other phenomena.
What Happened in Roswell
The Truth is Out There.
In 1947 something mysterious crashed near Roswell USA (close to the famed Area 51). The first published newspaper report said it was a "flying disk". But that story was quickly denied by the local military, who said that what had crashed was just a weather balloon. It turns out both reports were false. And yet, both reports were true. Ah, now we're getting into comfortable Zen territory.
First puzzle piece: The atmospheric effects we notice in outdoor zazen had also been noticed by the US military. In particular, they noticed that the air generally gets colder as you go higher (no surprise to anyone who has hiked to a mountain retreat). But, if you keep going higher, the air starts to warm up again (something to do with the ozone layer absorbing certain solar radiation). Which means there is a particular altitude where, if a sound is emitted up there, the sound tends to stay up there (because we now know that sound bends away from cooler air). There is a "sound channel" up high in the atmosphere. Sounds cannot escape higher or lower, so they tend to propagate for a long way horizontally.
Second piece: Back then the USA was greatly concerned about the Soviet Union developing and testing nuclear weapons of its own. The Americans really wanted to know if this was happening (and spy satellites did not yet exist). Fortunately, nuclear tests are really loud, and send explosions up very high in the atmosphere (into the sound channel).
Third piece: the best microphones back then were "disk microphones" suspended by springs. Even today many recording studios use the highly sensitive ribbon elements from disk microphones for vocal recording. Such disk microphones can be easily placed up into the sound channel by attaching strings of them to large weather balloons. Which should be kept highly secret as an important part of national security. And which sometimes crash.
 |
| This is a captive disk, not a flying saucer |
Hear the Whales Singing
Not only is there a sound channel up in the air, there is also one deep in the ocean. But it happens for a slightly different reason. Sure, the ocean gets colder as you go deeper (which causes sounds initially heading upwards to bend downwards). But there is also a difference the salinity (and therefore the density) of ocean water at different depths. This difference in density also causes sound waves to bend back upwards. The combined effect is to create a sound channel at one particular depth, where any sounds created there tend to stay there, propagating horizontally for a long distance.Perhaps not surprisingly, whales have noticed this. And if you're a lonely humpback whale singing the blues, you head for this depth so that your song can be heard by many others. Maybe, over on the other side of the ocean there is an equally lonely potential mate for you?
 |
| I'm so blue |
Even back in WWII the American military knew about this oceanic sound channel. Pilots who crashed in the Pacific Ocean and survived found on their life rafts a rescue device that appeared to just be a small steel ball. They were told to drop it overboard and they would be rescued (from the middle of nowhere) within 24 hours. And it worked!
The rescue balls were not some highly advanced communications technology. They were just hollow steel balls. But they were carefully crafted to withstand enormous pressure. So they would sink down into the sound channel before they collapsed (with a loud bang that could be picked up on underwater microphones at US naval bases all across the Pacific). The same idea as the underwater microphones that were later established in the Atlantic during to cold war to hear the sound of Soviet submarines that crossed the sound channel depths near Iceland.
Clap Your Hand
If you sit still enough and look deeply enough, everything is interesting. Even the sound of distant freeway traffic on a warm summer evening meditation.
Or conversely, nothing is boring. If you are experiencing boredom, that is on you, not in the nature of the situation. Boredom is something extra the mind adds.
The breath is endlessly fascinating. That's what my first meditation teacher claimed. And at the time I couldn't decide if that was just a lame sales pitch to try to get us to focus on something that was inherently boring (but somehow necessary for our own good). But it has turned out to be completely true. Early on the path, the breath was surprisingly interesting in its many subtle nuances and connection to the mind and body (e.g., how simple sound quickly becomes noise, becomes connotation, becomes imputed intention, becomes yet another chapter in the story of "my inconsiderate neighbour"). Later it revealed another level of interestingness (is that even a word?) in the relationships and attachments and expectations associated with even something so "simple" and unaffected as breathing.
So, weather permitting, go sit and meditate outside somewhere private - but not somewhere "undisturbed". Welcome your noisy teachers. Hear the sound of one hand clapping, of the grass growing all by itself. The sound is always there for you.
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