People with extra physical challenges – disabilities, chronic illnesses, or advanced age – often find it impossible to participate fully in Zen practice without special accommodations. Seated meditation (zazen) can be painful, and the demands of silent meditation retreats (sesshin) can be prohibitive. However, an important part of Zen practice – especially sesshin – is how everyone follows the forms together, doing the same things at the same times. The whole idea is to minimize the need to exercise personal choice, and to use a certain amount of physical discomfort to bring us up against the existential matter of our lives. How can Sanghas support the Zen practice of people with physical challenges while preserving what is supportive to those without them?
Quicklinks to Article Content:
Keeping Practice Forms Versus Accommodations
The Value of Physically Rigorous Forms
The Modern Egalitarian Ideal
I was inspired to create this episode in response to two recent questions submitted by listeners. Both questions had to do with the need for accommodations in traditional Zen practice due to disability or chronic illness – especially when it comes to doing sesshin. Sesshin is a central practice in Zen – residential silent meditation retreats, usually lasting 5-7 days. Even sesshin adapted for western lay practitioners tend to be physically challenging, with around 8 hours per day of seated meditation, formal meals, very few breaks, and less sleep than most people are used to getting. Meals are communal and practitioners are deprived of many of their usual comforts and coping mechanisms, including eating a diet that agrees with them, sleeping in their own bed, or maintaining an established exercise routine. I describe the joys, challenges, and importance of sesshin in Episodes 21 and 189.
Keeping Practice Forms Versus Accommodations
I want to share the listeners’ questions to make this discussion real and personal:
Jo wrote:
My question is this: Can a Sangha adapt Zen forms for ill practitioners without compromising the efficacy of practice? (In other words, is Zen only for healthy people?)
I have been a member of a Zen Sangha for 23 years but have had chronic pain for the last 8. There has been some resistance from my Sangha to relax some procedures around practice. For example, I cannot attend sesshin unless I go for at least three days. Since I can only manage two, I am effectively locked out of this. I completely get that people coming and going can be distracting and that there is a tipping point where forms become so stretched that they may become ineffective or, in fact, something other than Zen. It can be challenging to work out where that point is.
Care wrote:
[This question] is a little difficult for me to ask because it is a sensitive subject. My question is regarding my desire to one day attend sesshin.
Although you would not be able to tell by looking at me, I have some physical issues. The biggest barrier at a retreat would probably be those with my hands, although there are some other issues as well. At a “beginner’s retreat” I attended, we had work practice, including practice in the kitchen. We needed to pass food to others during oryoki [a Zen formal meal ceremony] and do oryoki itself, etc. All those things – without specific accommodations – would not be beneficial for me to do… I use specific utensils and dishes, would need special tools/accommodations for gardening tasks, could not carry or wash/dry heavier dishes, etc. I need to complete occupational therapy exercises every day for my hands (which do not take very long) – those exercises are not something I can skip for a week.
I am reading a book where they talk about the importance of harmony at sesshin in the form of everyone “doing the same thing.” The issues I have would mean a lot of small accommodations but also deviating from that harmony in ways defined above.
…I recall reading a story in the Pali Canon…some of the monks abandoned one of their fellow monks who was sick…perhaps they perceived him to be some kind of inconvenience or hindrance to their practice. When the Buddha saw this, he did not find this behavior to be very wise or compassionate and told them they needed to care for their companion in his time of need. I understand this to mean he is saying it is not beneficial to disregard or abandon people who are just different from us in general, or because we interpret them to be a problem or “inconvenience.”
From this perspective, I do not really interpret myself to be an inconvenience or a problem…but I am not sure how requesting accommodations like this would be received by folks at sesshin. Do you think these kinds of accommodations would be considered a problem or are they unreasonable? Or would it perhaps be better for me to do retreats by myself?
Jo and Care ask about adaptations of the “forms.” A “form” is an established way of doing something, and most Zen forms are ways we do things together when we are practicing as a Sangha. Forms include how we take off our shoes before entering the meditation space, how we bow to our meditation seat, and how we do certain ceremonies. There are also many forms associated with sesshin, including how we maintain silence and eat formal meals. (I discuss the importance of forms in Episode 18 – Zen Forms (Customs and Rituals) and Why They Matter.) Some forms are fairly arbitrary – just a way we do things when we’re together so we can move in harmony. Other forms are considered essential to our practice, such as our posture in zazen.
Jo and Care ask about adapting some Zen forms in order to accommodate those with physical challenges. You might ask, “Which forms are essential, and which not so much?” Obviously, what really matters is not whether we move our bodies in certain ways at certain times, but whether we are being transformed by our practice. So, in a sense, no forms matter! Still, very few of us have the self-discipline to practice with no forms at all, and the cohesiveness of Sangha is at least in part dependent on shared forms. So, as Jo says, where do we draw the line?
When I think of my own Bodhicitta – my own deep desire to practice – my heart aches to think of anyone who feels similarly being excluded from the practice in any way, for any reason. My own inclination as a practitioner and teacher has always been to find ways to accommodate those with disabilities, chronic illnesses, or the physical challenges that come with aging. I once served as an assistant to a blind friend so she could attend sesshin.
However, as long as people are aware of what Zen practices like zazen or sesshin usually require, they may avoid getting involved in the practice at all. Therefore, the opportunity to accommodate them may never arise. What if we “lowered the bar” in a general way by, for example, making attendance at any part of a retreat schedule optional, so you could choose to nap or read instead of coming to meditation. We would probably get many more participants at retreat, including people with greater physical challenges, but an essential aspect of sesshin would be lost. Jo puts it perfectly: “There is a tipping point where forms become so stretched that they may become ineffective or, in fact, something other than Zen. It can be challenging to work out where that point is.”
The Value of Physically Rigorous Forms
Why does Zen need to be physically challenging? When I meet with people in sanzen (a one-on-one meeting with the teacher) during sesshin, they often ask why retreat needs to be so hard. Why do we have to sit so long? Why does everything have to be so rigid? Why do we have to keep going to the Zendo (meditation hall) even when we’re exhausted, sleepy, or in pain? Why do we have to sit inside instead of out in a sunny meadow? Why do we need to keep sitting even when our meditation feels dull or scattered?
My honest answer to these questions is, “I don’t know.” It’s just that nothing else seems to work as well. The ritual of sesshin (and silent meditation retreats in other Buddhist traditions) have evolved over millennia. Remaining in silence and meditating throughout most of the day – with breaks only for meals and little work and rest – brings about a change in us, no matter who we are or how long we’ve been practicing. It brings us up against the existential matter of our life. Some of this is due to the quantity of meditation, some of it to the lack of choices, but a significant amount is due to our (at least occasional) physical discomfort. Perhaps such discomfort triggers our survival instinct.
Buddhism is supposed to be the middle way between asceticism and sensual indulgence. According to the oldest Buddhist texts, this model of practice was the Buddha’s very first teaching. He had spent his youth in a life of sensual indulgence which lulled him into spiritual complacency. He then spent his young adulthood practicing ascetism – almost starving himself to death. Finally, recognizing the futility of practicing in either extreme, the Buddha accepted some simple rice gruel for nourishment and settled himself into a relatively comfortable spot under a tree. He vowed not to get up until he achieved the spiritual liberation he sought.
Clearly, the “middle way” of the Buddha and subsequent ancestors is pretty ascetic by the standards of most modern lay practitioners. The longest essay written by Zen master Dogen, “Gyoji: Continuous Practice,” tells the stories of over 20 Dharma ancestors. He praises their diligent practice, highlighting – in most cases – things the ancestors did that would be certain to cause physical discomfort, including never laying down to sleep, living in cemeteries, continuing daily physical labor even in old age, sitting zazen in cold and decrepit buildings, and subsisting on chestnuts and acorns rather than being concerned about storing up food. Dogen emphasizes how these ancestors prioritized practice, reminding themselves constantly of how short life is. He writes, “Even when you are uncertain, do not use this one day wastefully. It is a rare treasure to value… Old sages valued this one day more than their own living bodies… What skillful means can retrieve a day that has passed? …Thus, sages and wise ones in olden times valued each moment, each day, and each month more than their own eyeballs or the nation’s land.”[i]
From one point of view, if you truly want to awaken, you are willing to put your body on the line. Concerns about health and longevity get set aside except for the bare minimum necessary to keep you practicing. This ideal of dedication is not simply a myth about distant Dharma ancestors. I once attended a 3-month practice period at a remote monastery where the teacher had some known heart issues. I remember him fingering a little vial of his nitroglycerin tablets as he gave the afternoon Dharma Talk. He had experienced some minor heart symptoms, and most students wanted him to leave because if he had a heart attack at the monastery, he would be an hour or more from medical care. Nonetheless, this is where he chose to be – continuing to practice with us and offer us his teaching. The work we were doing in that silent practice period was engaging the Great Matter of Life and Death. I will never forget how I felt as the teacher demonstrated with his own body, his own life, the importance of what we were doing.
Relatively speaking, silent meditation retreats as practiced by modern, mostly lay practitioners in the West are quite comfortable. Meditation spaces are heated, sometimes even air-conditioned in the heat. We have nourishing, balanced meals – usually three of them a day. We often have beds to sleep in, sometimes even private rooms. We’re not asked to sit in meditation for longer than 30 minutes at a time without some kind of posture adjustment or walking meditation.
Still, sooner or later, almost everyone experiences at least some pain from sitting so much. For most of us, the pain can become quite considerable at times, even though it doesn’t cause any damage. It’s pretty much inevitable that there’s at least one point during sesshin where we feel exhausted physically or mentally and would much rather rest or take a break than go to the meditation hall. It’s the positive peer pressure of everyone else doing the same thing that makes it possible. It’s a rare person who has the self-discipline to do a solo retreat that has as much rigor as a typical communal one.
The Modern Egalitarian Ideal
So now that I’ve discussed the value of sesshin being physically demanding and of everybody at a retreat doing the same thing, what about accommodations for practitioners with extra physical challenges? At the very least we all get older and will accumulate aches, pains, chronic illnesses, and special needs as we do so. You might expect that our Dharma traditions would include provisions for this, but they don’t. At least not that I know of.
We are starting to create new ways to make deep practice accessible to a much wider variety of people than ever before in Buddhism’s history, but we need to realize that our egalitarian ideal is a modern one. Even more specifically, this is an ideal especially championed by the progressive parts of western, industrialized cultures, where Buddhism is growing. We hold it as self-evident that everyone should have equal access to all aspects of Buddhist practice, no matter their life circumstances or physical state. We want our teachers and Dharma Centers to offer ways for everyone to practice as deeply as they want to, regardless of gender, race, culture, or income level. We want to include parents of small children, those with mental health issues, and those with physical disabilities and chronic illnesses.
Our desire to be inclusive in Dharma practice is wonderful. As a woman, I would have had few opportunities to practice throughout the history of Buddhism, let alone be a teacher of all genders. Over the past 2,500 years, it has been relatively rare for lay practitioners to be able to practice every bit as deeply as monastics and be taken seriously by Dharma teachers. In the past, a whole host of life circumstances could mean you had little or no opportunities to do rigorous practice with Sangha, including work and family obligations, distance from practice centers, societal constraints on your activities due to race or class, not to mention physical disability or chronic illness. Such challenges obviously still exist, but these days there are many possibilities for you to practice in spite of them – especially since online opportunities expanded exponentially during the COVID-19 lockdown.
Before this modern era, most cultures encouraged people to be more or less resigned to the situations they found themselves in. Certain men with wealth and status might have had more options, but everyone else was encouraged to look forward to the next life, where you might be reborn in heaven or more fortunate circumstances. If you were lucky enough to encounter the Dharma and you wanted to devote yourself to a rigorous practice of meditation and study, you might have had the option to leave home and become a Buddhist monastic – but this usually required physical health, a male body, and the permission of your family. (There were female monastics at the time of the Buddha, but the reality over the ages is that the opportunities for women to ordain were extremely rare, and their families were usually against it.) Therefore, if you were a woman, poor, disabled, or busy with the responsibilities of lay life, you could pray to be reborn as someone who could become a Buddhist monastic in the next life. This may sound like cold comfort to a modern ear, but I suspect that most Buddhists throughout history would find our egalitarian expectations quite remarkable.
On the other hand, I should note, certain forms of Buddhism did try to become as inclusive as possible. Alongside meditation-centered traditions like Chan and Zen, devotional traditions like Pure Land Buddhism arose and spread widely. Practices like chanting the name of Amida Buddha with pure devotion or reciting the name of the Lotus Sutra were offered as ways for anyone to achieve salvation, regardless of their life circumstances. Dharma teachers often contrasted these “other powered” practices with the “self-powered” practices like Zen meditation, pointing out that many people aren’t up to the demands of Zen practice. There is beauty and depth in “other powered” Buddhist practices, but of course they don’t address the desire of people with physical challenges to participate more fully with a meditation tradition.
It’s valuable to remember our Buddhist history not because we should give up trying to make our practice more egalitarian, but because it can help us be more patient with our traditions. One of the best things about Buddhism is how it continues to evolve over the millennia as it meets new cultures and conditions. If a tradition as we encounter it seems unnecessarily exclusive, we can remind ourselves it’s not personal.
For thousands of years most human institutions – not just Buddhism – have relied on the simplicity of homogeneity. When you’re trying to do something together, it’s just easier when you’re all men, all white, all able-bodied, or all from the same socio-economic class. To be honest, it’s also easier if you’re all women, all Black, or all share a similar disability. Diversity is challenging! It requires us to imagine the viewpoint of people who are significantly different from us. It requires us to anticipate challenges other kinds of people might have, and to keep an open mind when they tell us certain of our cherished ideas or ways of doing things don’t work for them. It requires us to be constantly attentive to others, rather than being able to sink into self-absorption because we can count on everyone around us being more or less the same as we are.
Of course, the fact that diversity challenges us is a perfect reason to embrace it in our Dharma practice and our Sanghas. It’s not only about inclusivity, it’s about liberating ourselves from our own delusions and attachments.
In Part 2 of this episode, I will draw on Buddhist teachings and the experiences of many practitioners to make the case for trying to accommodate people with physical challenges even in our most rigorous practices. Then I will discuss a bunch of tried and tested ways Sanghas can do this, and how to negotiate with a Sangha if you are someone with physical challenges.
Endnote
[i] Dogen’s Shobo Genzo (p. 547). Shambhala. Kindle Edition.
Photo Credit
Image by Steve Buissinne from Pixabay
