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"There is No Such Thing as a Dragon" - Max Erdstein

The following talk was given by Max Erdstein at Unknown Location in Unknown City, Unknown State on March 01, 2024. Please visit the website www.audiodharma.org for more information.

"There is No Such Thing as a Dragon"

Introduction

Good morning. I wanted to take a moment and express my appreciation for Gil¹. Gil was scheduled to speak this morning, but he's taking some time for himself today. Just this community, who's here, and everything that IMC and IRC² is, is a testament to Gil and how much he gives us.

During the meditation, I was thinking about how I first came to this community about 25 years ago. Where did the years go? Gil was teaching in Palo Alto at the Quaker Friends Center—some of you may remember. I had just graduated from Stanford and was working. A colleague said to me—I didn't know her very well, and I was in my early twenties and she seemed much older, probably 27 or something, but was married and pregnant at the time—she said, "Max, I go to these talks on Monday nights. I think you would like them. Do you want to go to just talk tonight or something?" I said okay.

It was a meditation and a talk. I remember parking in the neighborhood. It was off of Middlefield, near that area near Highway 101, and I was working a little bit farther down 101 in one of the office parks in Bayshore. So it was really close. I remember parking in this very quiet neighborhood. It was so dark and quiet, and I wasn't familiar with it, so your senses are a little bit heightened because you don't know the place. I parked and then walked in.

In my memory, it was a long room and people were sitting facing each other. There was a teacher kind of at the end of the room. I remember sitting down and waiting, and waiting, and waiting. Finally, it was like, "All right, okay, I think I get it." Everyone just kind of closed their eyes. It's like that moment where something lets go. You're waiting for something to happen, waiting for some teaching, and then you realize, this is it. Something lets go, and it's like, "Okay, I can be here. I can wait. I can just sit and wait."

Then Gil started to ring the bell and he gave a talk. What I was struck by was how ordinary he was. He was so plain-spoken and so ordinary. There was no artifice. I'd come from the business world, and there's a lot of ego, a lot of presentations and big special effects—"I'm going to sell you something." And this was just so ordinary. But his words went right into my heart. When we hear the truth, something resonates in us. I thought to myself about Gil, "This is someone I can trust."

So I started going regularly, week after week. He would teach on Mondays and Thursdays, and then on Sunday mornings in Portola Valley. Being 21, I didn't have a lot going on, basically, so I had time to go to teachings and talks. I didn't really know why I was going. If someone said, "Well, why do you meditate?" I'd say, "I don't know." I didn't think I had any particular skill at it. It wasn't like, "Oh, I'm really good at this, I should be doing this." It was more like just to stop for a few moments and be willing to be with this mind, this heart, this body. It was such an unusual thing.

This was before iPhones and all the ways that we can so easily soothe ourselves, distract ourselves, and check out. In the 90s, you had to open the fridge or do something to get distracted. But what I felt was that on the days that I could get myself to sit down and meditate for a few moments, it was like things shifted one millimeter, but that made all the difference in my day, in my perspective, and in the capacity that I felt to be in my life.

I sometimes have the image of a moment of practice, or a day of practice, as being insubstantial. One period of meditation, of just being still and quiet, is so thin. It's like a page of a phone book—do you remember phone books? It's so insubstantial, nothing. But day after day, year after year, it becomes something substantial. In meditation, the perfect can be the enemy of the good. We think, "Well, if I don't have 40 minutes to sit, what's the point?" No, any moment we can stop, wake up, open up to our life, and appreciate what this moment is offering to us. This grows, and we stay connected to something that's alive.

The Insight of Impermanence

I feel the poignancy of time passing. If you've been practicing, or just been alive over some years, you feel it. I have this image of myself, maybe because I started practicing relatively young, of still being kind of young. These days I do some work with university students in their early twenties, and I'll say, "Well, you know, when I did that in '95..." and they're like, "Max, I was born 10 years after '95."

When we say "Insight Meditation," what is the insight? What is the insight in Insight Meditation³? Different teachers would say different things, but what I would say—and I think there's good support for this in our tradition—is that the primary insight is that things change. Everything is changing. In some ways, it's the most obvious cliché that everything is changing, but to really see that, to really feel that, to really take in the magnitude of this impermanence⁴ is profound. Every thing changes. Maybe a more tender or pointed way of saying it is: everyone changes. Everyone dies.

This is the insight. And the paradox is that the more quiet we are, the more still we are, the more we can perceive change. It's in direct proportion to how still we are that we can perceive it. Just to notice this: sometimes things happen in life that stop our minds. We have to stop. We have to take notice. Something interrupts our picture of who we think we are and what we think life is. One of my teachers has a line that has always stuck with me: "Reality appears in the form of the unexpected."

Of course, we have our expectations. Often our expectations are that things are going to kind of keep going the way they've been going. There is continuity, but also things change. Sometimes it's that interruption or disruption that makes us stop. It could be the change of a relationship, the ending of a career or a job, or some medical event that forces us to stop. In practice, we're practicing how to stop, how to be present, and how to open to the large and small ways that things change.

One of the amazing truths that the Dharma⁵ points to is that the more we open to impermanence—the more we open to this truth and are willing to be with it, breathe with it, and to whatever extent we can in the moment, accept it—actually, the happier we'll be. More peace is available to us when we're not resisting, fighting, or struggling with the way things are. This is the pivot point of Buddhism: How can I align myself with the way things are? This is what brings freedom. This is what brings happiness. Each moment gives us this opportunity. Each moment is a request to let this in.

The Practice of Non-Conflict

For me, one of the great teachings of Gil's that I've been able to take in, metabolize, chew on, and work with is how to not be in conflict. How to not be in conflict with myself. How to not be in conflict with life. How to not be in conflict with the way things are.

If we think of our practice as the practice of non-conflict, it opens up. We know immediately how to practice. We know immediately what to do: sense into where there is conflict. Where is there struggle? Where is there tension?

When we meditate, just notice in the body: where is the contraction? Where is the sense of tension? Often the physical manifestations of struggle are a great doorway, a great portal to sense into this. Can I open to this body however it happens to be right now? Not in a way that needs to fix, change, and improve, but just to be with, to hold the tension, to hold the tightness. And then, where is the mental tightness? Where is the mental struggle, the sense of, "This is not it, this is not what I'm here for"?

This has been a great guiding light for me. Maybe we could think, "Isn't that going to be a real bummer to just be looking for conflict, struggle, tension, unease, and anxiety?" But actually, it's there anyway. We either see it, or we don't see it. If we don't see it, it controls us. If I don't see my anger, if I don't see my fear, then I act from it—usually in ways that are not that skillful.

But if I see it, if I can feel it, bring it in, acknowledge it, welcome it, and meet it with some care and tenderness, then it's like I'm not in conflict anymore. It's not like there's this fear and I don't like it, it shouldn't be here, and I'm going to try to ignore it. Instead, I'm opening to it. I'm trying to learn from it.

Maybe that which we don't like the most about ourselves—that which we're the most ashamed of, or most fearful of—that's our treasure. That is what this practice is asking us to open to, breathe with, and understand on a level that we haven't been able to understand before.

Meeting the Dragon

It's like the dragon. This is the Year of the Dragon, and in Buddhism, the dragon is the protector of the Dharma. The dragon is a symbol of transformation. The dragon is a symbol of hidden wisdom and knowledge. What's the hidden knowledge, the hidden treasure that's in us that maybe we haven't fully appreciated? What is the potential?

Some years ago, Gil put together a book of short teachings with beautiful photographs of Suzuki Roshi⁶, who was the founding teacher of the San Francisco Zen Center. Suzuki Roshi's Dharma name had "Dragon" in it—doesn't that sound nice? It wasn't "White Dragon," because Suzuki Roshi's student, Mel Weitsman⁷—who is my teacher and Gil's teacher—was named Hakuryū Sojun, which translates to White Dragon. I believe Suzuki Roshi's name, Shunryū, translates to Excellent Dragon or Spring Dragon.

The title of the book that Gil put together was called Why Did the Dragon Come to the West? Suzuki Roshi came from Japan to the US in the late 1950s. The timing was incredible because there was the Beat Generation, who were interested in Eastern things, meditation, and states of consciousness, and then there were the hippies with drugs and psychedelics. All these things were coming together. People remarked how amazing and kind of bizarre it was that all these somewhat wild-looking, unwashed hippies would show up at 5:00 in the morning to meditate with this tiny little bald Japanese man wearing robes.

He had a kind of strictness. If you know Japanese Zen, there's quite a strong aesthetic and a strong form to the practice. It's not like, "Oh, we just come in and do whatever we want and tune in and check out." You come in, you stand a certain way, you bow a certain way, there are bells, and it's a formal practice. To see these wild-looking young people surrender to this very formal-looking practice was profound. They understood that in the form, we can find our freedom. Form and freedom are two sides of the same thing.

Suzuki Roshi was this strict Japanese Zen master, but his mind and heart were so open to the sincerity of these Americans who were suffering, who were questioning, who were seekers. They met each other in a really deep way.

There came a time when Suzuki Roshi was teaching at Sokoji⁸ on Bush Street in San Francisco, which was a Japanese congregation. The older Japanese community eventually said, "What gives? You've got all these crazy people coming in and meditating and they're kind of taking over our space. We brought you over here to be the priest for us, and you're doing this stuff." They basically confronted him and said, "It's either us or them. You have to choose."

As the story goes, the first way the dragon dealt with this confrontation is the way I think we all like to deal with confrontation: he avoided them. He went into hiding and wouldn't open the door. Finally, they said, "You have to make a decision." And he said, "I go with the people who zazen⁹." I go with the people who meditate.

This lineage, even though it's a Japanese Zen lineage, is also part of our lineage through Gil. Gil came to practice through Zen and is a very respected figure in the Zen Buddhist community. I feel the influence of Zen practice very much in our practice here. Even though we don't follow so much of the outward Zen forms, there's something in Zen—the immediacy, the radical openness, the pointing to accepting all of who we are and all of what this moment is giving us right here, right now.

Insight practice and Vipassanā are wonderful. We have a lot of different teachings, techniques, and lists. If you've been around here for a while, you know there are many lists: the twelve of this, the ten of this, the four of this, the eight of this. But one of the things I get from Zen and from Gil is that it all comes down to meeting the dragon. Meeting the dragon in us, who is us.

There is No Such Thing as a Dragon

Now we'll begin the talk—that was all introduction! [Laughter]

The best children's books are not really just for children. I think of The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, and so many great books that when you look at them, you realize they are so deep and can be understood on so many levels. I recently got introduced to a book by Jack Kent called There's No Such Thing as a Dragon. It's really good. I'm not going to read it all, but it goes like this:

Billy Bixby was rather surprised when he woke up one morning and found a dragon in his room. It was a small dragon, about the size of a kitten. Little Billy discovers there's a dragon in his room, so he goes downstairs and tells his mother, "Mama, there's a dragon in my room."

She says, "Billy, don't be silly. There's no such thing as a dragon."

He goes back up to his room. He has this instinct to pet the dragon, to touch the dragon, to meet the dragon, but he stops himself. You know, when your mother tells you that what you're seeing doesn't exist, well, he trusts his mother. He loves his mother. So he ignores the dragon against his better instincts.

An interesting thing happens: the more he tries to ignore the dragon, the dragon grows. He gets bigger, and bigger, and bigger. Next, we find that Billy's downstairs having breakfast. The dragon is under the table, so big he's kind of lifting the table up. The dragon eats all his breakfast—dragons like pancakes, apparently. [Laughter]

Billy's mother still can't see the dragon. Billy says, "Mama, the dragon ate all my breakfast!" She says, "Billy, there's no such thing as a dragon."

Next, the dragon gets bigger and takes up the size of the whole living room, and the mom is trying to vacuum around the dragon, still not seeing it. Finally, the dragon gets so big that he lifts up the house and walks away with it.

The father, who has also been insisting that there's no such thing as a dragon, comes home from work. "Where's my family? Where's my house?" One of the neighbors says, "I think I saw your house across town." The father drives around, worried, and finally finds it. He climbs over the dragon's head, onto the porch roof, and through the upstairs window.

The father asks, "How did this happen?"

Little Billy says, "It was the dragon."

"There's no such thing," the mother starts to say.

Finally, Billy finds his voice and insists to his parents, "There is a dragon! A very big dragon!" And Billy patted the dragon on its head. He acknowledged the dragon. The dragon wagged its tail happily. Then, even faster than it had grown, the dragon started getting smaller. Soon it was kitten-sized again.

"I don't mind dragons this size," said Mother. But the parents asked, "Why did it have to grow so big?"

"I'm not sure," said Billy, "but I think it just wanted to be noticed."

I think when we're not in conflict with our dragons—when we're not denying them, pretending, or ignoring them, but meeting them and taking care of them—we're acknowledging what's true for us. We're not letting other people confuse us or define who we are or what we know is true. Not only are we not in conflict with the dragon, we become the dragon. We become these protectors of the Dharma, protectors of what's true for ourselves and for others.

It's a pleasure for me to be in the company of this great assembly of dragons. Thank you very much.

Q&A

Questioner: At the beginning you mentioned having nothing to gain and nothing to lose. So, are you kind of pretending to be like this? Because obviously, we gain experience and we lose, I guess you can say, time until we die. So there are obviously those two things right off the top of my head. Do we just pretend that we have nothing to lose? How does it work?

Max Erdstein: In Buddhism, like in life, there's this great principle: "fake it till you make it." [Laughter] Of course there are things to gain, and of course there are things to lose. At the same time, in the widest possible way of looking, maybe we can say that because everything is already exactly the way it is, because everything is already preaching the Dharma, expressing what's true, nothing can be lost. This is the realm of transformation. Things are just changing moment by moment.

From the perspective of being a person bound in time and space, yeah, I have a lot to lose and I have a lot to gain. But from the perspective of everything just being what it is, there's just change. There's just this flow of experience. In Buddhism, it's not that one perspective is right and the other one is wrong. It's that we're usually stuck in one perspective.

This practice is about loosening what's usually a very fixed view. Can I open to this other perspective? Can I have the freedom to move between these perspectives? We're going to leave here, and just because everything is changing moment by moment, don't just take any random pair of shoes! Take your own shoes. We need to have the perspective of the self. But can we also open to the fact that there's more to life than just that limited perspective?

Questioner: This life is kind of programmed to be more or less configured, and you pick up the news in the morning—the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, whatever happens to be your favorite rag—and all you get is essentially things that point to conflicts. The question I have is, how do you create the capacity in yourself to be able to maintain your heading, in the sense of the Dharma, without being afflicted or jerked around by all these incredible things that are coming at you every moment?

Max Erdstein: I appreciate the question. I think in a way, this is why the Buddha talked about this practice as going against the stream. We're going against the stream of so much conditioning and so much karma of conflict. Conflict is kind of part of how human beings are constructed and how we build the self.

What I'll say is that just that question, and just that impulse to stop, to breathe, to be open, and to be willing to meet what's in conflict for ourselves in a respectful and curious way—it has to start this way. Some days we'll have more capacity to do it than other days. But to just have that sense that this needs to be seen, this needs to be met, these dragons in me need to be acknowledged. This is where it starts. And then moment by moment, it's a process.

Thank you so much. Thank you, everyone.