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Gaylon Ferguson

If you have ever gone on a diet, you know that most diets require some sort of intervention. Eating a bit less is not enough.

By and large, the same is true of meditative practice. Most types of meditation require the practitioner to undertake a program in the service of a goal. Whether a particular program aims to tame the unruly mind, cultivate equanimity, or foster compassionate wisdom, all require practitioners to make some changes in their attitudes and behaviors, replacing one set of habits with another. And most prescribe specific techniques, such as repeating a meditative verse, contemplating a Zen koan, of “labeling” mental phenomena as they arise.

In his new book Welcoming Beginner’s Mind (Shambhala, 2024), the veteran dharma teacher Gaylon Ferguson proposes a fresh alternative to those traditional methods. As Ferguson notes in his introduction, meditative practice is based, at least in part, on the premise that something is amiss—or missing—in one’s life as it presently is. Meditation supplies a remedy.

By contrast, Ferguson offers a practice premised on the belief that “welcoming is our true nature.” Just as we welcome friends, relatives, and sometimes strangers into our homes, we can do the same with the present conditions of our lives, however auspicious or adverse. We can welcome rather than resist them. Beyond that, we can also welcome ourselves, however selfish or altruistic, inferior or superior we perceive ourselves to be. Framing his discussion in the Ten Oxherding Pictures, a revered visual allegory depicting the Buddhist journey to awakening, Ferguson offers a synthesis of Zen and Tibetan meditative traditions, broadly dividing his sequential (but non-progressive) method into three distinct stages.

First among them is the Welcoming Exercise, the foundation for all that will follow. Instructing us to sit upright comfortably for three minutes, Ferguson invites us to “trust and taste whatever arises,” “the entire range of feelings, sensations, thoughts, perceptions, and concepts.” In contrast to mindfulness meditation, the objective is not to “be here now,” to pacify the mind, or “to change our experience, transforming ourselves from this to that.” Rather we are to be “guided by what we are sensing and feeling,” allowing our lives “to be as bitter or sweet as they are without manipulation.” In short, we are to practice what Shunryu Suzuki Roshi called “beginner’s mind,” a “basic openness” that he regarded as “the secret of meditation.”

In the second stage of this practice, the Natural Noticing Exercise, we are again directed to sit for three to five minutes, noticing “whatever we might notice: sights, sounds, smells, the temperature in the room, thoughts in the mind, sensations in the body, feelings in the heart.” This time, however, we are exhorted to be “curious about what we notice.” Rather than discipline the mind to remain on a single object, we deliberately allow it to roam.

As Ferguson readily concedes, the Noticing practice may appear superficial when contrasted with the deep contemplation characteristic of intensive meditative retreats. But its relative superficiality is consistent with its purpose, which is not to plumb ultimate reality but to explore “ordinary, conventional, dualistic mind.” In essence, it is “an appreciative inquiry into natural noticing itself.”

“Inquiring,” the third stage of the practice, joins “non-effort with effort” and enlists our innate curiosity in the service of contemplative inquiry.  As its primary tool, this exercise employs a familiar question from the Zen tradition: “What is this?” By repeatedly asking this question of images, thoughts, feelings, and sensations as they arise, we allow insights to emerge of their own accord. As Ferguson notes, this mode of inquiry has little in common with a police investigation or prosecutorial interrogation. Gentle in tone, it invites intimate feelings to surface and intuitive understanding to manifest, while also encouraging “the beginner’s mind of not-knowing” to arise and flourish.

In the Ten Oxherding Pictures, the practices of welcoming, noticing, and inquiring precede later stages of the journey to awakening, including “Forgetting the Ox” and “Being in the World.” In his concluding chapters, Ferguson gives due weight to those stages, while noting emphatically that all are to be understood not as means toward an end but as ends in themselves. All engender “beginner’s mind.” In this way the Ten Oxherding Pictures and Ferguson’s method differ from such Western analogues as John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress or William Hogarth’s Industry and Idleness, which illustrate progressive steps toward a desired moral destination.

Longtime practitioners of Zen and Vipassana (“insight”) meditation will recognize elements of those practices in Ferguson’s formulation.  In several ways, the Welcoming Exercise recalls the Soto Zen practice of shikantaza (“just sitting”), and the Inquiring exercise bears a strong family resemblance to Vipassana practice. But the presence of those contributing elements takes nothing away from Ferguson’s wise, original, and accessible synthesis. On the contrary, his unconventional method is a worthy addition to the growing body of confluent practices that constitute Western Zen.

Photo: Gaylon Ferguson

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If we wish a houseplant to flourish, we provide it with water, nutrients, and light. We set it near a window. But should we wish the same for ourselves, for those we love, and for humanity in general, what are the counterparts of those necessary conditions? What practices, activities, and qualities of mind contribute to human flourishing?

In his timely new book The House We Live In: Virtue, Wisdom, and Pluralism, an ambitious endeavor to forge a pragmatic, “flourishing-based” ethic for our pluralistic, multicultural society, the Zen priest and psychologist Seth Zuihō Segall identifies multiple “domains of flourishing.” These include “relationships,” “accomplishment, “aesthetics,” social acceptance, “meaning,” and “whole-heartedness.” Exploring the last of those “domains,” Segall invokes a practice from the Soto Zen tradition.

Known as menmitsu-no-kafu and translated by Segall as “whole-heartedness,” this practice might most simply be characterized as giving full attention to whatever one is doing, be it driving, chopping vegetables, or listening to a friend. But, as Segall explains, the practice also entails “exquisite, careful, considerate, intimate, warm-hearted, continuous attention to detail.” And, in contrast to those meditative practices prescribed for self-pacification and self-improvement, menmitsu is directed outward rather than inward: toward the benefit of others rather than oneself.

Traditionally, menmitsu is taught by Soto Zen instructors and practiced within the confines of a temple or Zen center. There, ordained monastics and committed Zen students learn to embody menmitsu as they engage in their everyday activities: “donning their robes, sweeping the walkways, refolding their bowing cloths, assembling and disassembling their eating bowls, lighting incense, and so on.” All are to be done with “exacting, meticulous attentiveness.”

 As Segall readily concedes, not all of us are “called to the same degree of attentiveness” or prepared to practice menmitsu in every aspect of our lives. At the same time, Segall suggests, “we could do well to take a page” from this integral dimension of Zen practice. Practiced in excess, menmitsu can look like OCD and feel like hypervigilance—and, if one is married, drive one’s spouse to distraction. But, practiced thoughtfully and with moderation, menmitsu can indeed enhance our lives and those of others around us.

For my own part, I have found it most productive to apply the principle of menmitsu primarily to those daily activities I most value and enjoy, including formal Zen meditation; studying and practicing the classical guitar; reading and re-reading great literary works; cooking; conversing with friends and family; and, most centrally, the craft and art of writing, which can embody menmitsu in at least three ways.

To begin with, the practice of literary menmitsu can begin with the choice to write with a pen or pencil rather than a keyboard. However archaic handwriting has become in the age of the iPad, writing by hand is not only a sensuous, intimate way of “getting the better of words,” as T.S. Eliot once put it. Handwriting also promotes precision of diction and meticulous attention to detail. “Writing maketh the exact man,” wrote Francis Bacon. And if that maxim is true of writing in general, it is even more so with respect to writing, slowly and deliberately, by hand. For decades, I required students in my literature courses to write daily précis and responses in their own hands on 4 x 6” index cards, as a way of precisely comprehending the poems and stories they were reading and forming their own interpretations. I was seldom disappointed.

Second, I have found that scrupulous observance of the time-honored conventions of English grammar, rhetoric, and usage sorts well with the practice of menmitsu. Evolved over many centuries and exemplified by such masters of English prose as Jonathan Swift, George Orwell, and Scott Russell Sanders, those conventions promote clarity, concision, eloquence, and force. Beyond the basic “rules” taught in English 101—the avoidance of dangling modifiers, comma splices, faulty parallelisms, and the like—literary menmitsu can be practiced by observing such fine points of usage as the difference between “anxious” and “eager” and such grammatical details as the use of the possessive pronoun before a gerund (“his running for president” rather than “him running for president”). Fussy as such distinctions may first appear, collectively they can make the difference between lucid, accessible prose and an indigestible verbal paella.

 Last and most important, literary menmitsu can be practiced by keeping one’s intended reader uppermost in mind. If I aspire to be “careful,” “considerate,” and “warm-hearted” when composing a poem or letter or essay, I can do my readers a favor by recalling the dictum attributed to Ernest Hemingway: “Easy writing makes damned hard reading.” Writing well, in my experience, is an exacting labor, not only of love but also of respect for the majesty, beauty, and ancestry of the English language and the sensibilities of one’s potential readers. A mode of “flourishing” rich in discovery, reach, and invention, the practice of literary art can also be an expression of compassion and a concrete, lasting embodiment of menmitsu.


Seth Zuiho Segall, The House We Live In: Virtue, Wisdom, and Pluralism (Equinox 2023), 102.

Photo: Aaron Burden

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       Scott Chapel    Drake University

Scott Chapel
Drake University

Four weeks ago, in anticipation of the fiftieth anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination, we of a certain age were asked to recall where we were when the president was shot. As it happened, I was then a sophomore at Drake University in Des Moines, Iowa, and I listened to the announcement of the president’s death in the lobby of Goodwin-Kirk Residence Hall, where a few of us had gathered around a portable radio. In retrospect, however, the question of where I was seems less important than where I went, having just received that sad and shocking news.

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Bexley,_pond_at_Danson_Park_-_geograph_org_uk_-_972263Here in the village of Alfred, New York, many of us subscribe to our community newspaper, the Alfred Sun. And some us have discovered that the Alfred Sun, accompanied by a few well-placed squirts of Windex, can make short work of washing windows. The Sun is compact, maneuverable, and eco-friendly. Two full pages will suffice to wash a standard casement window. You can wash as many as three with a single issue.

A few weeks ago, I was engaged in that very task, but the work was not going well. Although I’d liberally applied the Windex and energetically rubbed it off, thick streaks remained. Repeated efforts produced the same result. Newsprint is effective for cleaning glass, I recalled, because the oil in printer’s ink repels the dirty water. Could someone have quietly switched inks? Should I try the Times Literary Supplement instead? (more…)

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Every morning at half-past six, I make a cup of coffee for my wife, using a device known as an AeroPress. Simplicity itself, this device consists of a plunger, a cylinder, a paper filter, and a perforated cap. To brew a cup of coffee, I place the AeroPress on top of a mug, pour the prescribed amount of freshly ground coffee into the cylinder, and add a small amount of hot water to release the flavor. Moments later, I add the full complement of hot water, insert the plunger, and press down. If I press too hard, I will encounter formidable resistance from the volume of air trapped between the plunger and the coffee, and the AeroPress won’t work. But if I press gently, with virtually no effort, the plunger will go down smoothly, emitting an audible sigh as it reaches the bottom. Almost always, the result will be a delicious cup of coffee.

I first heard about the AeroPress from a friend and fellow Zen practitioner, who also makes morning coffee for his missus. That is perhaps no accident, because the skills required to operate the AeroPress resemble their counterparts in Zen meditation. Both the AeroPress and the practice of Zen require balance, patience, and steady attention. Beyond that, both enlist the kind of energy known to Taoists as wu wei, or “effortless effort,” whether the object of the effort be the breath, the contents of the mind, or the situations encountered in everyday life. Press too hard, and you will fail. Press lightly, aligning yourself with natural forces, and you will allow the desired result to occur.

Most meditative practices begin with attention to the breath. Some schools of meditation, including Zen, advocate the counting of breaths in general and exhalations in particular. Others employ such words as “in” and “out” to track the process of respiration. Whatever the method, however, many people find it difficult to observe the process of breathing without attempting to control that process or bring it into conformity with an imagined ideal. To counter that tendency, I have found it helpful merely to listen to the breath, as the Zen-trained teacher Toni Packer advises, rather than employ an analytic method. In the same spirit, one can view oneself not as the owner/operator of one’s breathing but as the one  “being breathed,” both by one’s body and by the life force common to all living beings. Approached in this way, the breath becomes an object of interest rather than willful concentration.

Turning from the breath to the contents of the mind, the same quality of attention may be applied. In his essay Samadhi of the Self, the Soto master  Menzan Zuiho Zenji (1683-1769) defines the contents of the mind as “emotion-thought,” which he views as “the root of delusion; that is, a stubborn attachment to a one-sided point of view, formed by our own conditioned perception.” The purpose of zazen, or sitting meditation, is not to suppress thoughts, as some would have it, but to clarify “how emotion-thought melts.” Through the regular practice of zazen, “the frozen blockage of emotion-thought will naturally melt away.” This will occur not through cutting off thought, a practice Menzan likens to cutting the trunk of a tree and leaving the root alive. Rather, it will occur through effortless effort: through mindful observation of self-centered thoughts and their emotional subtexts. The equivalent of a gentle hand on the AeroPress, such observation serves to illuminate the roots, the dynamics, and the consequences of ego-centered, prejudicial thinking. Over time, it can thaw the frozen block of emotion-thought.

But can that degree of awareness, attainable within the confines of private meditation, be sustained within the arena of everyday life? Can it withstand the violence, physical and verbal, of contemporary culture? In his address in Tucson on January 12, President Obama invited us to ask ourselves whether “we’ve shown enough kindness and generosity and compassion to the people in our lives.” He also asserted that “what matters is not wealth, or status, or power, or fame” but “how well we may have loved.” Those are stirring words, and they rightly locate the nexus of non-violence in immediate, human interaction. At the same time, they remind us of the centuries of negative conditioning—the monumental blocks of emotion-thought—that must be addressed with awareness, if the President’s vision of a kinder society is to be realized.

Given present conditions, that may seem a Herculean project, requiring nothing short of a social and spiritual revolution. But such a project can begin with an effortless effort, which is to say, with a clear and intimate awareness of what we are about to say or do in this very moment. Living in that awareness, we can ask ourselves whether what we’re about to say is necessary, true, and kind, and whether our words and actions are likely to be hurtful or harmful. And we can speak and act accordingly.

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*Menzan Zuiho Zenji, “Jijuyu-zanmai” (“Samadhi of the Self”), in Shikantaza: An Introduction to Zazen, edited and translated by Shohaku Okumura  (Kyoto Soto-Zen Center, 1985), 106.

The AeroPress was invented by Alan Alder in 2005. For more information please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/AeroPress. In the photo above the AeroPress rests on a cup by Robin Caster Howard.

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“April is the cruelest month,” wrote T.S. Eliot, but here in Western New York, the month of February seems more deserving of that honor. And for the meditative practitioner, no month presents a sterner challenge. Be here now? You must be joking. I’d rather be in Sarasota. Or better yet, St. Lucia.

In the “Faith-Mind Sutra,” Seng-ts’an, the Third Ancestor of the Zen tradition, offers this advice:

The Great Way is not difficult
for those not attached to preferences.
When neither love nor hate arises,
all is clear and undisguised.
Separate by the smallest amount, however,
and you are as far from it as heaven is from earth.*

To follow the Great Way—the path of liberation from conditioned suffering—is to set aside our habitual preferences. Summer over winter, for instance. Or, in winter, St. Lucia over Western New York.

That may sound like being numb or in denial, but in its context Seng-ts’an’s meaning is quite the opposite. What he is urging is an openness to whatever we encounter, be it sun-drenched beaches or sub-zero temperatures, cloudless tropical skies or a Buffalo winter. Putting our preferences in abeyance, we fully experience our environs.

Beyond that, Seng-ts’an is enjoining us to recognize that by preferring one thing over another, we separate ourselves from the world we live in. We identify with our preferences, fashioning an “I” that dislikes cold weather, that prefers sand and sun over ice and snow. If what we prefer is presently available, we like it and want more of it—and want it to last forever. But if it’s not, we stand apart, resisting what is present and complaining of our lot. On a really frigid day, we blame the cold for being cold, the winter for being winter.

Such responses are not to be suppressed. Their roots lie in generations of conditioning and in social forces well beyond our control. At the same time, what has been learned can be unlearned, and what is causing us suffering can be diminished, not by willful self-denial or efforts at self-improvement but by patient meditative inquiry. In her essay “Consciousness, Attention, and Awareness,” the Zen-trained teacher Toni Packer puts it this way:

Sometimes people say, “I ought to drop this habit, but I can’t.” No one is asking us to drop anything. How can we drop things when we are in our customary thinking and suffering mode? We can drop a bowl of cereal, but our habitual reactions need to be seen thoroughly as they are taking place. When there is awareness, a reaction that is seen and understood to be a hindrance diminishes on its own. It may take a lot of repeated suffering, but a moment comes when the energy of seeing takes the place of the habit. That is all. Seeing is empty of self. The root of habit too is empty.*

Rather than struggle to drop our habitual reactions, we cultivate awareness of those reactions and allow them to change in their own time.

If you would like to explore this practice, you might wish to take a meditative walk on a cold winter day. As you set out, bring your awareness to your body—to your feet as they slog through the snow, your arms as they rhythmically swing, your face as it meets the cold. Open your eyes to the landscape, your ears to the sounds of winter. Then bring your awareness to your resistance: to the concepts and judgments that cross your mind. Pay particular attention to your likes and dislikes, your comforts and discomforts. Continue this practice through the month of February, and see what becomes of your aversions.

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**Seng-ts’an, Faith-Mind Sutra, tr. Richard B. Clarke, http://www.mendosa.com/way.html.

*Toni Packer, The Wonder of Presence (Shambhala, 2002), 134.

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