Myoshin, you have been teaching at IMS and other retreat centers quite a bit these past few years.  How did you first get involved with Buddhist meditation?

I grew us in Western Canada, and from a very early age was drawn to nature.  I found a sense of belonging there, a refuge from a chaotic and often painful world.  It was in high school that I first read the book Siddhartha [by Herman Hess].  This book touched a sense of possibility in me that I'd also felt from being in nature.  Something was stirring.  At that time I also read some books on Buddhism, which I found interesting.  I started to meditate, out in nature by myself.  But this was without any formal guidance.  Then in 1975, at the age of 20, I had an opportunity to do a weekend retreat with a teacher.
 

Do you remember what it felt like during this time?

I really didn't have a clue what was happening!  I remember I sat very still, which a few people commented upon; and I remember an interview with the teacher in which he said, "thoughts should be like clouds moving across the sky."  The effect of this retreat was immensely inspiring: I had a sense of not just hearing about the teachings--I could actually practice this.  The feeling was quiet empowering.  I eventually went to Asia and spent time with an Indian guru, where I also practiced other forms of meditation.
 

Did you first go to Asia to pursue mediation practice?

I first went to go trekking in Nepal, beckoned by my love of the mountains.  I had a profound experience at the summit of one of the passes in the Annapurnas: I felt like I had come to a level of contentment and completion.  Up until that point I had pretty much done whatever I wanted; now there was the sense of  "what does life want of me?"  The next step turned out to be the cultivation of a spiritual life.  Soon after this experience, I met some people who were talking about a teacher in a way that interested me, so I went to his ashram in India.
 

What inspired you there?

The first thing I did was a ten-day intensive meditation retreat.  It was not vipassana [insight meditation], but was a more eclectic and active synthesis of techniques.  It opened my eyes.  One of the most striking realizations I remember from that period of time was that I was living a very pleasant life.  I lived out in the country, I had outdoor work (this all fulfilled my love of nature), and I had great friends... yet I say that I was just backing myself into a corner.  There was so much of life that I wasn't opening my eyes to, that I was avoiding.  Meditation was a way for me to open to the wider picture, to both the difficulty and the joy.
 

And eventually this led to Vipassana?

Vipassana continued to filter in through that period, but it wasn't until many years later that I sat my next formal vipassana retreat in Australia.  Prior to this retreat, I had been suffering with chronic fatigue for several years.  People who have experienced a debilitating illness understand that sickness is a continuous practice in letting go.  You cannot plan ahead; you are living in a body that is constantly screaming out.  You are faced with the very real possibility of dying.  I was trying everything to get better-- diets, the exercise regimes, the new age treatments-- I did it all!  And I still suffered.  The 'doing' was exhausting.

When I got to this retreat and sat on my cushion, I stopped doing.  The most striking thing was that all I did was be with my breath.  There was no great experience or realization, just a simple sense of deep acceptance.  Amazingly, the symptoms of my illness virtually disappeared!  I knew then that this practice was something I wanted to look more closely at.

Over the next few years I began to practice intensively with both Sayadaw U Pandita and Sayadaw U Janaka.  I was drawn to their type of practice because it was so obviously helpful in my daily life; I remember people saying, "what has happened to you?"  Through my previous experience with meditation I knew it was possible to drop into very pleasant blissful states but still have no wisdom.  What was unfolding for me through practice with the Sayadaws was a wisdom that was evident both on and off the cushion.  Eventually I decided to go to Burma.
 

What was it like in Burma?  It must have been difficult, in some ways.

Arriving in Burma for the first time was like stepping into another world in another time.  It was a fascinating blend of dilapidated remnants of British colonization with traditional Asian culture.  There were very few cars on the road then, and communication with the outside world was extremely difficult.  Seeing so many monks and nuns of all ages on the streets wherever I went left a special impression on me.

I immediately noticed the diligence of the nuns and laywomen in Sayadaw U Janak's monastery, where I was to do my practice.  There were many old and young women; often teams of mothers and daughters meditating side by side.  I had never experienced this before, being in a country that was so supportive of practice.  Both the wealthy and the poor showed such joy in offering meals to everyone in the monastery, so these teachings could be continued.  This generosity of spirit sustained me when things started to get harder.

There was a disparity, where women seemed unduly subservient and men seemed unduly elevated.  This didn't feel a healthy situation for either, and brought up strong feelings in me of anger, rage, frustration and disappointment.  There was the impression that no matter how realized a woman might be through her practice, she was still always less than a man.
 

So how did you cope with that?

I continued on with my practice for another three months, working with anger, working with the pain.  There was a rage in me that I had never thought possible.  I had always considered myself a reasonably kind person.  I became humbled by what I saw inside my own mind-I know it was made of the same stuff that fuels wars.  There were fleeting moments of compassion, and I understood this was not limited to my own situation but was shared by all beings caught in delusion.  However there was little stability so the rage would return.  I left Burma feeling somewhat hardened and bitter, carrying a heavy weight on my heart.

By feeling the heart's contraction and its accompanying sensations of heaviness and pressure, as well as the mind states of subdued energy, some spaciousness arose.  I was then no longer so caught up in the justification of my beliefs.  I was able to see how much my own relationship to the situation was creating added layers of suffering: judgment and aversion had cut me off.

Almost a year later it happened that I had another opportunity to sit with Sayadaw U Janaka in Australia for a one-month retreat.  I decided to go and check it out - to give myself permission to leave if it didn't feel right, but to see if I could re-connect with this form of practice.  Just in the moment of paying my respects to him, I felt as if everything I'd been carrying from the past simply dissolved.  I immediately settled down and got right into the practice again.

How were you treated as a nun?

As a foreign nun I was very well treated.  The Burmese are so appreciative that women are willing to leave their families, their homes, travel to a foreign country, shave their heads and wear robes - they really value this.  So wherever I went I felt great care.

A lot of my time was spent in a nunnery in Sagaing Hills.  I was important for me to live as a nun amongst nuns.  I wanted to have a taste of what it was like to follow in the footsteps of the daughters of the Buddha.  I found myself deeply touched by the devotion and sincerity of so many nuns that I met.  The conditions for them are not always easy, and yet their strength of heart abounds.
 

Other that the Burmese Sayadaws U Pandita and U Janaka, what teachers have most influenced your practice?

Around the same time as meeting the Sayadaws, I was introduced to Zen Master Hogen Daido Yamahata, or Hogen-san as he is often referred to.  He was regularly visiting Australia, and in addition to sitting several sessions with him, I had the opportunity to take care of him during his visits.  This was immensely helpful, as he seemed to be able to turn any event in life into a dharma teaching.  He is the one who gave me the name Myoshin, which means 'mystic beauty of heart/mind.'
 

How did working with a Zen teacher go for you after all your classical Theravada training?

He helped me to see where I was taking on some of the teachings that I had not understood directly.  I lived as if certain things were true, but I did not really know it for myself.  He was somehow able to direct me into the truth of my own experience time and time again.  Humor and playfulness are a few of the tools he works with, combined with the unwavering Zen stick.  Quite a combination!  It helped me to bring these same qualities into how I practice, and to keep from taking it all too seriously.
 

How did you begin teaching in the vipassana tradition?  And what kind of training have you been getting?

I was first asked in 1995 by Joseph [Goldstein] and Steven [Smith] if I would help in a retreat they were teaching, and so I began training with them and with Sharon [Salzberg].  Since then I have continued to teach with them at retreats both at IMS and around the country.  My training has included giving meditation instructions to groups of students at the retreats, offering dharma talks, taking questions and suggesting answers, as well as sitting in on the interviews conducted by the senior teachers.  I began by assisting with retreats, and then later moved into teaching retreats around the country on my own or with other teachers.  Much of the training also involves a continuation of my own practice.

Study also became important to me.  To be able to go back to the words of the Buddha himself, as described in the traditional texts, has been insightful.  I tend to be a person who does not take easily to academic studies, but I found that reflection on the basic suttas helped to clarify my own direct experience.  I also started to attend some courses over at the study center [BCBS] and found these invaluable.  They helped me get an overall perspective of life during the time of the buddha and the development of the varying traditions in Buddhism.

One of the fascinating aspects of study has been looking at the Pali roots and nuances of many of the terms relating to practice.  There are so many words that do not have just one direct translation.  The many nuances give a fuller meaning and 'felt sense' of the words.  If I were a person who could more easily pick up languages I would be really inspired to study Pali.
 

And what are some of the biggest challenges of teaching?

It forces me to be really honest and accepting of who I am.  I am not the historical Buddha!  By this I mean that one can't live one's life according to another's.  It takes a lot to do this kind of work, to share in the unfolding wisdom of so many different kinds of people.  I have learned that part of taking care of others is taking care of myself.  My earlier illness has left me with a sensitivity of body that I need to pay attention to.  There is so much traveling involved; it can be hard just to keep up enough energy to travel from place to place and to have the freshness to meet each yogi in such a deep space.

I have also had to learn a lot about communication skills.  I'm a very quiet person by nature, so for starters I've had to speak out.  At a very early age I came to believe the adage that the truth could not be spoken, and so to suddenly have to speak to others from my deepest experience was excruciating. I've had to find a whole vocabulary for my inner life in order to convey my understandings.

To me teaching is very intimate and revealing.  What enables me to feel at home in that intimacy is a total trust in this practice and the liberation that is possible.  There is something so valuable to be shared.  It allows me to go through all the discomfort that I often experience in exposing myself.
 

Do you think being a teacher today is any different from 25 years ago?

When the first generation of vipassana teachers began to lead retreats in the West, it was a situation of new teachers guiding new students.  But now, twenty-five years later you have very experienced students sitting together with very new students.  Some of these new students can be a little overawed and intimidated in the presence of the senior teachers.  It makes their own possibility of insight and liberation seem remote and distant.  The struggles a newer teacher has had with their own practice are fresher, and so it can be helpful for those starting out in the practice to get the sense of possibility from junior teachers.  I've had people say to me, "if you can do it, so can I."

These days, a relatively new teacher my find themselves in front of students who have many years of mature meditation experience, and this too brings its own set of challenges.  I need to find way to guide people so that they don't feel belittled or put down by someone who may not have been in this tradition as long as they have.  I don't wish to cause offense.  On the other hand, I sometimes find that I can say something to such a yogi, and feel that it is not taken seriously.  However, if a senior teacher says exactly the same thing, in the same context, it might be listened to with greater receptivity.
 

Does what you teach come from your own teachers?

When I first began teaching, most of what I said seemed to come out in the ways I had heard it from my teachers.  But these days I am more comfortable using my own expression, which comes from my own direct experience.  When I speak from a place of emptiness, there is an ease of expression and a recognition that we each have something unique to contribute.  But I still want to be very careful that the essential teachings are not diluted.  This is a period of great transition, and it is important that the purity of the dharma is transmitted.
 

Do you find your own practice furthered through your teaching, or do you find you benefit more by being able to go on retreat yourself?

It's totally essential to do both.  Each one strengthens the other.  When I am teaching, I do that as my practice, and when I am sitting, that is my practice.  There are times when they are so closely intertwined that I don't see them as very different, though of course each is unique.  One involves interaction; the other lets me stay focused on my own process.  But the quality of emptiness is just the same.
 

What's it like to get to know the people that come on retreats?  Why are people coming, what are they looking for, what are they discovering and what brings them back?

Many people at some point in their lives get a glimpse, in a variety of ways, of something deeply meaningful.  This can seem out of step with their daily life, where there isn't an easy access to greater understanding.  So time passes.  And then, apparently by chance, they might hear about Buddhism and its emphasis on investigation and direct experience.  Something resonates with that earlier glimpse, and an intuitive sense of possibility arises.  The teachings offer a framework and support to go within, to challenge habituated patterns of confinement.  So people come to the practice, like I did, with an appetite for truth.
 

How much of a role does "Buddhism" play in the practice?

The Buddha's teachings lay out a map of the mind.  Practice, for me, is the art of following that map.  Whether this is Buddhism or not, I don't know!

In my first retreat with Sayadaw U Pandita I was struggling with doubt.  In my initial interview he sensed this and asked me, "Could it be you doubt this practice is for you?"  I was stunned at his level of perception, as he had hit the nail right on the head.  He went on to tell me that this practice had worked for many people for thousands of years, people who had no conscious faith.  It could be treated as a scientific experiment.  This gave me an easier container from which to explore and investigate.  I only needed to follow the instructions as best I could, nothing more.  This was such a relief, and in contrast to my imaginings that a set of particular beliefs was required. It became a 'come and see' practice.

It is a danger in any religion or 'ism' to blindly follow.  I think the beauty of this practice is that one becomes aware of deep-seated beliefs, even the ones we didn't realize we had.  In this way we let go of limiting views.  It often feels uncomfortable when this happens, and yet it is essential for real growth to occur.
 

Have there been any recent teachings that have influenced your practice?

Over the last few years I have been sitting with Tsoknyi Rinpoche, a Tibetan Dzogchen master.  I haven't found great differences in the actual practice of Dzogchen, but something in the language has helped me to find a greater immediacy to the mind of no clinging.

One of the benefits I have found from practicing in different traditions is that there is no patent on freedom.  They all offer techniques for recognizing that which hinders or obstructs the mind from clear seeing.  The Buddha had the power of omniscience to be able to see what would help each person that he met.  As a result, there are many practices that can be done in the service of liberation.
 

Where do you think all this is headed?  Some see dharma as profoundly transformative of our culture, others view it  as a passing interest that will soon be absorbed.  What's your perspective on this issue?

I think we are in the midst of a unique time right now, in that people in the West are asking themselves, "How is it that I have so much affluence, and yet I'm still not happy?"

The culture constantly insists that we should be happy.  To admit to not being happy is a huge step.  When we become really honest about our dissatisfaction, these teachings, which are centered on the truth of suffering, validate our experience.  They help break the tendency of identifying personally with our unhappiness.  When we're not so lost in trying to control our lives, trying to get it right, we can begin to examine how things actually are. This comes as a great relief.

For anyone sincerely willing to look into the nature of suffering, the dharma can be profoundly transformative.  And there are not lots of people who have been practicing very diligently at IMS and elsewhere for many years.  Out of their dedication these yogis come to retreat after retreat.  I think a time will come when the fruits of all the practice done by these people -- the wisdom and compassion -- will be evident. It's already starting to happen.  There are many yogis out in society who are bringing the insight and metta they have developed to their work and family environments.  I can't help but think Buddhism will become much more embodied in this country.

The creation of the Forest Refuge in Barre is a great contribution to this future potential, and I am really happy to see it emerging.  It offers the opportunity for practice that we otherwise don't have unless we go to Asia, and it allows people to meditate intensively who might not have the means or the health to spend long periods in Asia.  It will be helpful to all of our practice, and out of this endeavor many more teachers will come and hopefully at least a few fully enlightened beings.

During group interviews, I spoke about how meditation often felt more like a demanding project than a joyful, liberating practice.  One teacher replied that struggle, force, and judgment in meditation don't lead to peace or enlightenment; they merely lead to more struggle, force, and judgment.  He encourage me to be aware of my motives for practicing, to be gentle and to relax my body when I was caught in struggle.

During their talks and interviews, the teachers emphasized that there is so much richness to receive in every moment; none of it is contingent on becoming more than who we are right now.  Constant preoccupation with the future means missing opportunities to learn, serve, love and receive.

For the rest of the retreat I explored my intention: Before most sitting and walking meditations I asked myself  "why was I doing this practice?" There were all sorts of answers: To become 'better' in some generic sense.  To be happier. 'To prove I'm willing.'  To be more loving.  To rediscover right livelihood.  To be at peace.  Rather than trying to judge these different motives as good or bad, I allowed myself to be more aware of them in  friendly way.  After getting lost in 'mind storms' or noticing that the muscles in my face had contracted, I returned to my intention: Was I engaged in some kind of self-improvement project in that moment?  Quite often, the nest recognition of meditation-as-enterprise permitted me to relax back into the present.  Sometimes I returned compulsively to new schemes for improving my life.  To the extent possible, I allowed myself to be with the ache and the longing that lie under the story line, and to return to the breath, my anchor.

Early in the retreat, the teachers introduced to us the practice of metta or lovingkindness.  Metta practice involves the repetition of certain phrases, such as "May I be safe and protected from harm," "May I be happy and peaceful," "May I accept my limitations with grace," and "May my life be filled with ease and joy."  Sending metta to myself and others transforms the retreat.  Metta created a safe container for all my experiences to unfold.

Beginning my meditations with metta was also a way of reaffirming my intention: When I started to meditate and my mind moved towards planning for the future, the quiet repetition of "May I be happy in this moment" often brought me home to the here and now.  When I was agitated and couldn't settle down, I experimented with sending forgiveness into my mind and body.  This particular practice was like placing a soothing balm on resentments I held against myself for past mistakes or for what was unresolved.  Towards the end of the retreat, the teachers encouraged us to send metta to everyone present, and to all beings everywhere.  I felt part of the whole web of existence.  Instead of just my peace and my progress, the practice opened up to include so much more.

In the final days my awareness started to shift.  I became more sensitive to sounds.  The flowers were more vividly colorful.  I felt calmer.  I still got lost in thoughts about the past and future, but often those mind states and the judgments I had about them dissolved in the light of awareness.  Sitting on my cushion late one afternoon, I felt the sun's warmth flooding through the open windows of the meditation hall.  Birds were singing.  I noticed I was deeply happy.  This happiness wasn't accompanied by feelings of expectation or excitement that I usually associate with happiness.  More predominant were feelings of ease, serenity, and gratitude.

Then came the inevitable pang of fear and dread about losing this joy, followed by thoughts about how to hold on to it.  Instead of stiffening against this wave, I lightly turned my attention to the fear and attachment.  I was able to welcome these feelings because they too were part of this moment.  Since I wasn't in a mood to wrestle with them. they receded.  Joy returned, and then eventually left, never to bloom again so fully.  But rather than futilely pursue those pleasant feelings, I relaxed into gratitude simply for having had them and for my capacity to open to such peace.

As the end of the course approached, one of the teachers said to us, "you may be wondering, 'how can I hold on to the peace and stillness I found on this retreat'?"  He answered his own question with a smile.  "Don't worry, you can't."  There was a ripple of nervous laughter in the hall.  Clearly, some of us had already begun to worry about "losing it."

Losing it hit me hard.  On the ninth day, the silence broke.  The conversation at breakfast seemed deafeningly loud.  Feeling completely over stimulated, I didn't know who to talk to or what to talk about.  When I opened my mouth to talk, I spoke too fast; I was uncontrollably friendly and sincere.  I was seized by thoughts about the past and the future.

This wasn't a crisis, I finally decided.  I was merely undergoing an uncomfortable adjustment back into ordinary life, and needed to let go of judging and evaluating myself.  In retrospect, I think my confusion and anxiety stemmed from a secret wish: to emerge from the retreat impervious to suffering, like a soldier fresh from dharma boot camp.

During the retreat, one of the teachers quoted a Tibetan sage who once said, "the issues you are struggling with right now are the issues you will b e struggling with for the rest of your life."  If that is true, the practice isn't about getting rid of bad habits or unpleasant feelings, or becoming someone 'better.' Its about relating mercifully to whatever arises, wanted or unwanted, temporary or seemingly permanent.  Very slowly, I am learning to relate differently to what is difficult in and around me.  That which is difficult and unmanageable actually contains within it a lot of juice and creativity; the difficult, after all, is what brought me on retreat.  Within the unwanted reside the seeds of my aspiration for a deeper, happier life.  When I am not denying any part of myself or my experience, when I'm not picking and choosing which parts of me to own and love, I can relax and smile in the mirror.