A final walk

I just finished leading three retreats in the UK and am headed home tomorrow morning. We began with a 5-day residential retreat at Swarthmoor Hall, the "cradle" of the Quaker movement in the Lake District where George Fox established his home in the 17th century with the help of Margaret Fell. After the residential retreat, I traveled to Sheffield and met with the Nothing Special sangha. We enjoyed a wonderful day of sitting, study and Enquiry (the correct spelling here in England). I then lead one-day Introduction to Zen event for them, once again in a very old and venerable Quaker meeting house in the heart of Sheffield. This was followed by a 3-day, non-residential retreat back north in Lancaster hosted at the Quaker meeting house by the Nothing Missing sangha. The Quaker houses in Sheffield and Lancaster both date from the  17th century.  It was a curious thing to find myself over and over again in these very old sites where people have been sitting in silence for so many years.  Looking through the book of Quaker Faith and Practice, I came upon so many teachings from Quakers who, through the centuries, reflected precisely the teachings we find in Zen—discover your own deepest truths, turn toward each moment and each relationship to reveal the "light" (your true nature), do not rely on scriptures but trust immediate experience to open in silence, sit with others, allow your small self to drop away in silent practice, and turn your energies to serving others who need help. It was an amazingly rich time for me and I am grateful for all the people who worked so hard to organize the retreats and who took such good care of the participants. It was a grace-filled two weeks. This morning, on my final day before flying home, Josh Gifford and Trudy Johnston, the leaders of the sangha in Lancaster, took me on a walk along the tidal flats of the Irish Sea at Silverdale. The cold and blustery wind was in our faces as we walked.  Threatening showers approached from the northern hills of the Lake District. The vastness of this seascape and wildness of the landscape was inspiring, just as wholehearted practitioners had been an inspiration to me in the retreats over the past two weeks.  The three of us walked in gratitude for all the people who, over 300 years ago, would walk many miles along these same shores in order to meet other friends to hear George Fox speak. The wildland, the receding swirls of the tides, and the gray sky all came together as a grounded testament to the dedication and silence of those early Quakers. And as we walked, I remembered walking on the western shore of Japan with my Zen teacher, Blanche Hartman many years ago, looking out over the Sea of Japan toward China, in the footsteps of our Zen ancestors who would walk on pilgrimage to meet a true teacher or, like Dogen, who crossed that very sea, seeking the Way. May we all discover our Way, together.

Holding to Self Centered Thoughts

At Appamada, we use the Four Practice Principles as one of our foundational chants. This is a poetic version of the Four Noble Truths and was used originally by Joko Beck's Ordinary Mind sangha. It is a clear and multilayered teaching, functioning as all good chants do by connection us energetically as we chant and inviting us to continually take the teachings deeper into our body. This is the verse:

Caught in the self-centered dream, only suffering;

Holding to self-centered thoughts, exactly the dream.

Each moment, life as it is, the only teacher;

Being just this moment, compassion's way.

The first line is clear and powerful. When caught in our self-involved narratives and resulting embodiment, we separate ourselves from others and from the world and suffer as a result. The second line is often not taken so intimately and powerfully, so I wanted to say a few things about its possible meaning. This was the focus of the Inquiry session linked below this brief post.

When we chant “Holding to self-centered thoughts, exactly the dream,” we are pointing to all the ways we maintain and continually recreate the virtual reality in which we live. It does not refer solely to mental thought. It also means “embodiment” — how can we hold our attitudes and personal views without holding our body in a certain way? The Four Foundations of Mindfulness as taught by the Buddha clearly link the body and breath, the ways we incline toward and away from life through our preferences (attachment, aversion, and confusion), the emergence of emotion-thought (the whole display of our reactive mind), and the establishment of constructed narratives and objects of the mind (the stories and concepts that we take for reality). Actually, there is no duality when we say “body” and “thoughts.” They are all of one piece. They arise together and pass away together. Each of the four foundations shapes and is shaped by the others (which are actually not “other”). The invitation in Zen practice is to engage the body in certain ways, through the forms of practice, in order to awaken to these embodied habits without resorting to the more common habit of fixing. Based on our curative fantasies we hope that practice will help us transcend our life rather than helping us learn to live wholeheartedly the life we actually have. I hope you will benefit from this brief reflection and the Inquiry that followed.

Inquiry recording:
https://soundcloud.com/appamada-zen/2014-04-22-inquiry-flint-sparks

Vulnerability and Nothing at Stake

This week I was reflecting on how we consistently misunderstand vulnerability and miss its promise. When we see it as weakness or brokenness, our energies move toward management, reactivity, or even shame. However, vulnerability actually points to the very heart of interdependence and impermanence. The experience of vulnerability in a human body is the reality of dukkha. So vulnerability is another way of speaking about the Buddha's Three Marks of Existence.  We are vulnerable because we arise together with all beings. We shape each other and are shaped through our relationships with everything. And, when we can drop our clinging to the illusion of a stable, individual self, we find we no longer have anything at stake. Nothing to defend. We have the opportunity to enter the flow of existence with nothing to gain and nothing to lose. Here are my brief reflections and the intimate Inquiry that ensued.

Inquiry recording:
https://soundcloud.com/appamada-zen/2014-04-15-inquiry-flint-sparks

Student, Teachers and Confidence in Practice

Below is a link to the recording of our Appamada Inquiry session from April 1, 2014. I wanted to speak about the challenges of being a teacher and a student, and the inevitable tangles of these important and difficult relationships. I drew heavily from the words of Zen teacher and friend Norman Fischer. You can read his article I quote from in the Spring 2014 issue of Buddhadharma magazine [“No Teacher of Zen” p. 48.] [Here's a similar article from 2019 in Lion's Roar]. This Inquiry session includes a very tender dialogue between me and my teaching partner, Peg Syverson.

Inquiry recording:
https://soundcloud.com/appamada-zen/2014-04-01-inquiry-flint-sparks

Just As I Am

Dear Friends,

Several years ago I was invited to write a short piece about my spiritual life; a vignette illustrating a significant turn in my spiritual path. This is what I wrote. The story became more important and more intimate than I had anticipated, but this is how writing—and practice—often goes. If we are willing to offer ourselves fully to it, it can take on a life of its own, and we are often changed as a result. For those of you not raised in a traditionally Southern Christian family, the specifics of the hymn and the service may have little meaning. However, I hope you will find something that resonates within the larger story.

I remember sitting in the front pew of East Avenue Baptist Church on Sunday morning as a young boy, watching my grandfather preach. When he finished and it was time for the invitation, he would ask us to join in singing the old hymn, “Just As I Am.” The church was too old, too small, and too poor to have a Minister of Music, so he would point us to the right page in the hymnal and we would sing along as he spoke during the chorus to those in the congregation who were ripe for conversion. I was a serious little boy, having grown up in the Southern Baptist Church, and I was always moved by that song and the earnest request of my grandfather, or any preacher, who was suggesting that this was a life-saving opportunity—the pinnacle of spiritual transformation—to come forward and profess your faith in Jesus Christ and thus to be assured of salvation.

The music was emotional and solemn: “Just as I am, without one plea, but that Thy blood, was shed for me, and that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee, O Lamb of God, I come, I come.” The invitation touched that place in me, and I am sure in many others, that longed to be called into a relationship in which we would be fully seen, completely accepted, and infinitely loved. Only God was capable of that we were told, and if we were willing to come to him "just as I am," all would be well. This was all fine and good during the Sunday morning service, but in Sunday School the very next week, the story mysteriously changed. Apparently I wasn't OK "just as I am." In fact, it was probably a good idea that I should actually offer a “plea” to be forgiven for who I was. I could “come home,” but there were rules in this house and entry into the Kingdom had a big price. The truth slowly dawned; being seen was a bit risky, being accepted was definitely going to be conditional, and being loved “just as I am” finally seemed impossible. After all, I knew I was different. I was gay.

I was a really good boy. I did what I was told. I was polite and smart. I had my Perfect Attendance in Sunday School pins and I was a Royal Ambassador. I memorized the 23rd Psalm and repeated it in my father's Sunday School class when I was five-years-old, and was baptized when I was six. I knew what it took to make it in this world of religion and it meant following the rules and pleasing the big people. I knew I could do that and I was good at it. The only trouble was, I had to maintain certain secrets in order to keep it up. Of course, I also noticed that most of the other people in church had their secrets too, but one of the rules we shared was not to notice. It became clear that looking good was sometimes more important than being good, so I became good at that. Over time, the hidden parts grew too large, the pleasing became too much a burden, and the disconnection too great. I left the church, but "Just As I Am" did not leave me. It kept working on me. I became a Psychologist and practiced as a psychotherapist. I dedicated my life to the relief of suffering in others and in particular I was devoted to helping people find a way to accept themselves, just exactly as they were. If change was possible, this was the starting place. I studied, trained, and practiced. I found my place in the field of Behavioral Medicine, with a specialty in cancer care, working in hospitals and cancer treatment centers around the country. These were real life-saving opportunities, or at least life-affirming and healing opportunities. But one big thing was missing - a spiritual path. Psychology only went so far, and these patients were facing much more than passing anxieties or depressions. They were not just struggling in their marriages or fighting with their children. These people were facing the possibility of an foreshortened life and they were living with pain and suffering that was very apparent. I needed spiritual help in my own life and new tools to support my patients. I also needed a break.

Work in cancer care can be demanding, so I finally took a vacation to Hawaii, hiking the beautiful and rugged Na Pali trail on the north coast of Kauai with a friend. Along with the needed supplies to sustain us on our trek, I took along a copy of the Dhammapada, one of the earliest texts of the Buddha's collected teachings. The eleven-mile hike along the narrow trail to our campsite was demanding but the scenery was unbelievably inspiring. The combination of fear and awe left me in a rare state as I finally sat on that remote beach in the Kalalau Valley reading the unfamiliar words of this ancient eastern teacher. Ordinary life had dropped away as I traversed the switchbacks through the hanging valleys along the jagged coast. As I walked, I was held up by the vast sky above me and called forward by the seemingly endless ocean reaching out to the horizon. Something true was being revealed to me in the raw power of nature and more subtly on the pages of the slim volume I carried in my backpack. Here I was, just as I am, without much to prop me up or fall back on, no one to impress and nothing to hide. I stood naked under the waterfall to take my shower, rested in the shade of the rainforest canopy to eat my meals, and took walks along the beach with the shorebirds scurrying along beside me as my companions.

When I returned, I began to slowly find my way along a new spiritual path. This landscape was characterized by mindful awareness, profound acceptance, and deep gratitude for all that is. I studied and learned all I could about the Buddha's teachings. I came to see that his only concern was the cause of suffering and the relief of suffering he saw around him. That was what I was interested in and what my patients needed - relief from suffering. I meditated and went to retreats. I found a mature teacher to guide me and friends to accompany me along the way. I started a meditation group, founded a Zen center, was ordained as a Priest, spent time in a training monastery, and practiced in Japan. Eventually I allowed a good bit of the ancient Asian forms of practice to fall away. Now I teach this same freedom from suffering, just as I am, in this body, at this time, in this culture, under these circumstances, right here in Austin.

And along the way, I turned back to the actual teachings of Jesus and discovered what the young boy could not have seen; that this freedom was what the Jesus story had been about all along. I now understood that the yearning to respond to that “call”—to be seen, to be accepted, and to be loved unconditionally—was a universal desire, not a Christian or Buddhist desire. Everyone wants to be “saved,” no matter what their spiritual tradition; saved from a disconnected life that is not their own. What was touched as I sat singing that song of invitation was the soft spot in all of us, and it was this tender place that Jesus and Buddha had recognized and met with their lives. They responded as compassionate healers and wise teachers, and their kindness has made a profound difference in the world over the past two millennia. As a result, I now have the opportunity to live a life of truth - just as I am - held in that radiant light of wise care that these great teachers demonstrated in their lives. And you have that same opportunity—just as you are.

Horizonless Intimacy

This is a piece I wrote while teaching in Ireland. Recently, I have been drawn back to this image and these reflections because the perspective of “horizons,” those apparent limits we live with, and “intimacy,” the stance of awakening presence, are so important in spiritual practice. I hope this small story touches something intimate for you and opens your horizons.



I captured this image as I took an early morning walk along the beach in Bray, Ireland (County Wicklow) this past Monday morning (7/28/08). I was looking across the Irish Sea as the sun made its way up through the clouds. If I would have been able to see beyond the horizon where the sea and the sky appear to meet, I would have found northern Wales on the other shore. In fact, on the previous afternoon while walking along another stretch of beach just south of Bray near Newcastle I ran upon a granite marker tucked among the boulders of the seawall protecting the railroad that passed nearby. On the opposite side of the railway from the nearly hidden marker was an abandoned and decaying building. The marker indicated that it was from this site and this tiny station that underwater telegraph cables were first laid beginning in the late 1880s, connecting Ireland and Wales. These connections were in use through the early 1930s. What happened then? I suppose technology changed what was possible. Horizons for communication were extended and expanded.

If my view across the Irish Sea could have extended even further that morning, beyond the Welch border, I would have encountered the midlands of England where I had just spent the previous two weeks teaching and walking on the moors of Derbyshire. Further still and the English Channel would have come into view and then the Netherlands, France, and the whole European continent. Where would it have ended? With a higher or more complete view, when obstructions or limitations are released, when horizons vanish, what can be seen? Apparently there is no end to the great view of a liberated mind, which I am only imagining, even while my particular human senses are, of course, quite limited.

These past three weeks have been very concentrated for me—many days of teaching and very deep encounters. I worked with a number of wonderful people who were wholeheartedly offering themselves to a process of assisted self-discovery in mindfulness. They were curious about what they could see and what horizons they might explore as their self-identifications relaxed into the more diffuse awareness and warmth of intimacy. In my reading this morning, I ran across this brilliant statement by the late Irish poet John O'Donohue: "In the human face infinity becomes personal."

As I turned my attention to the vastness of the morning sky, into the cold wind, and toward the glistening sea last Monday, my awareness expanded and opened, inviting the unbound possibilities of my heart and mind to know themselves more fully. In the very next moment, in the reflected light of that same morning sun as I turned and looked into the eye of my friend Donna with whom I was walking, that vastness became personal, close, and alive. This is also what I saw in the faces of the participants in the retreats over these past three weeks. In the reflected presence they offered to each other, they began to see their own brilliance and fullness, flaws and limitations, all perfect because they were whole. This is the same infinitely transformative potential I see in the faces of each person who brings themselves forward in our Inquiry Groups, who come to practice discussion, and who sit in the zendo every day. We offer ourselves to each other so we can remember our vulnerable humanness and, in the bargain, get a glimpse of the divine. “In the human face infinity becomes personal.” What are the limits of this liberating intimacy? Our spiritual ancestors suggest that it is boundless. Let's turn to face each other again and again, and in that reflected presence, discover this truth to be our own.