Text of a talk given on Oct. 19, 2023, at Still Mind Zendo in Manhattan, where I am a senior student.

Good evening. As I understand it, these senior student talks are meant to be words of encouragement about our practice. While I’m talking to you, I’m also talking to myself.

This is my first talk, and I’m a little nervous, so thanks for showing up. In fact, that’s the title of this talk: “Showing Up.”

There’s a maxim, attributed to Woody Allen of all people, that 80 percent of life is showing up. Some people say it’s 90 percent. I have learned that this saying also applies to my meditation practice. That took a long time to learn.

When I first joined Still Mind Zendo, I was spotty about showing up. I could go a couple of weeks, longer, without coming to the zendo. I skipped retreats. A lot of times I wasn’t even showing up on the mat a few steps from my bed.

But I enjoyed coming. My life seemed to go better when I did. Happier, calmer. Slower to anger. It was a refuge from daily life, from my job as a journalist.

But the mind loves to make up excuses:

“It’s been such a loooong week!”

“I’m soooo TIRED.“

“I’ve got So. Much. To. Do.”

“I don’t have a service assignment, they don’t need me tonight… “

“The teachers aren’t even here this week.”

“My back hurts”

“I have a headache.”

“It’s too hot.”

“It’s too cold.”

“It’s raining.”

“It’s too nice outside to sit indoors.””

“The elevator at the Zendo is broken.” [Laughter]

So many reasons not to show up.

And before I found this zendo, I spent decades not showing up. I’ve told this story before in our discussion circles.

I first tried to meditate when I was 18, home from college for Christmas break. I had found a paperback from the 1970s called “How to Meditate” by a psychologist, Lawrence LeShan, who described a bunch of traditions. I skimmed and picked what looked like the easiest method, counting breaths.

What could be hard about that?

He didn’t call it zazen but that was what he described. Sit comfortably in a quiet place. Be still. Relax. Count each breath up to 10. When your mind wanders, if you lose count, start over.

You can probably guess how it went.

I kept losing count, rarely making it past 2 before thinking of something else. My legs hurt. My back hurt. I wiggled. I kept daydreaming. I didn’t last 5 minutes.

And that was my practice for many years, off and on. Mostly off. I would forget about meditating for years at a time. I was barely showing up.

I did read a lot of books about Buddhism. The Dalai Lama. Jack Kornfield. Alan Watts. I had a subscription to Tricycle. That felt like showing up, but it wasn’t.

When I moved to New York in the late 1990s, I started sitting every few months with a Zen group that met in Manhattan not far from here.

I bought a cushion. Some incense, a bowl. And a Buddha statue. An antique table to use as an altar. …I had all the equipment. Time to get enlightened! [LAUGH]

All I had to do was sit down and show up.

Sometimes I did. Often I didn’t.

Time was passing swiftly, and I was squandering it.

One morning I woke up early. I cleared the books and other stuff that had been accumulating on my altar. I was resolved. I sat zazen. I remember being in the zone. I was right there.

Aaaaah/

My wife was in the other room with our baby, and she yelled something. I jumped up, ran, asked what was going on.

A plane had flown into the world trade center.

So, I went to work.

You might think that 9/11 would have been a wake-up call. The supreme matter of life and death. Time to start practicing for real.

But you would be wrong.

I was working nonstop. It was a strange time. The air in the city was full of smoke. It seemed like the end of the world. People were sad and angry.

I was sad and angry.

Meditation? What was the point of sitting and doing nothing? What had meditation done for the world?

The doubting mind is very persuasive.

I didn’t get back to the mat for a long time.

The zendo where I used to sit moved to Brooklyn. Sometimes I would drag myself there on a long subway ride. The faces and names had changed. The teacher I had met with a few times was gone. What did I expect? That she’d be waiting for me? “HEY! You’re back!”

This other sangha was bigger, a little less personal than we are. That also gave me a great excuse not to show up.

And I was busy with the job, being a parent, and I had a lot of distractions. Twitter. Facebook. Blogs. Podcasts. Game of Thrones. [LAUGH]

For a long time, I wasn’t even showing up for what was happening right in front of me.

[CHILD WHINING VOICE] Get off your phone, daddy.

That’s some strong dharma right there.

This is your only life. Show up for it.

In quiet moments, I remembered.

We moved downtown, about a block from here. I walked by this building for a long time. Years. I knew from googling that there was a zendo up here somewhere.

One Tuesday night, I came here on a whim. The time was ripe. Soon I was a member, I had a teacher, I was having daisan, going to my first retreats, sewing a rakusu, taking jukai. It all happened pretty fast.

Early on, my teacher warned me that Zen was not a hobby. It’s was a full-time job.

That was scary. I already had a full-time job.

It took me a long time to accept this. But it’s true. Part-time Zen doesn’t work. You must show up. And it’s not 80 percent or 90 percent.

Try 100 percent. It means showing up everywhere. At home, at work, on the subway, in the street. And at the zendo.

It takes a lot of practice. And we can’t do it alone. At least, I know I can’t. Roshi Janet said this at our sangha meeting. We’re stronger together. We all feel it.

The power of sangha.

Getting to the zendo, of course, is only the start of showing up.

When you bow, are you showing up to bow? When you chant, are you showing up to chant? When you sit on your mat, are you sitting on your mat? In the kinhin line, are you showing up to walk?

It’s hard work. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting here in the zendo, and I had a great idea for a line in this talk. I thought, I need to write that down! Oops.

And the other night, I was leading kinhin, Bruce was monitoring, and I was feeling every half step. I could feel my breath.

I’m doing it, I thought. Look at me showing up.

Well, maybe not right then!

That’s OK. Compassion includes compassion for ourselves. Start over.

Let me end by reminding you of these words from the Sandokai, a verse we chant on retreats:

If you do not see the way, you do not see it even as you walk on it. When you walk the way, it is not near, it is not far.

By reminding you, I remind myself. Thank you for showing up.