Most mornings at TAS begin with meditation and a short talk. Traditionally, these are called "dharma talks", where a teacher addresses the students and develops on a particular theme, or gives something quite like a performance. For years now, headmaster and principal have either begun or ended morning meditation with these. Young meditators need context and direction, and the dharma talks provide these.
Often I bring my affectionate and mellow water dog, Milton, to school with me. He tends to follow me around for a while, and then settle into whomever it is most tempted to rub his belly and scratch between his shoulder blades. In the morning, as we herd the students into the large room we use for meditation, yoga, and martial arts, Milton follows along. But for some reason, we have decided that animals should not be in that room- perhaps this is a vestige of Catholic upbringing and sacred spaces- and poor Milton is barred.
This brings a few comments of protest from the students, who doubtless agree that the sensation of a nuzzling dog is a fine antidote to the tedium of sitting quietly. A typical koan- a zen puzzle- leaps to mind: does a dog have Buddha nature? And a conflict between convention: no animals in sacred space, and tenet: all beings are interconnected, is joined.
Koan is a long avenue of study in Zen. I have little experience with it formally. Yet any student of philosophy, or deep lover of art, or person deeply engaged with any spiritual tradition recognizes the provoking value of parodox. In koan study, the teacher presents paradoxes that cannot be resolved by rote or by logic, and the student meditates upon it until it becomes completely enmeshed in their subjective experience. And it is the free apprehension of one's own subjective experience that is the topsoil for the sudden insight into a particular koan.
Koans are tests of a uniquely Zen sort. But they are not, in my limited understanding, tests that a teacher "subjects" a student to. But rather, they are the very relationship itself, in instant awareness to the student, an awareness that the teacher has facilitated and exposed herself to. They are also a chance to notice the difference between one's habitual thinking and one's genuine experience. They are mutual, the very "I-Thou" that Martin Buber wrote of, in contrast to the "I-it" of relationships that transfer goods and knowledge, that dominate, or otherwise create distance between two people.
In our tradition, existence itself- everyday life- is a koan, a paradox. And why not? Isn't perceiving life as irreconcilable to one's own dearly held notions a tremendous kick in the rear? Isn't it a great spur to personal growth? This can't be "taught"; it must be experienced. And in a school, a student's primary experience should be between teacher and student. It should be an experience, not easily reduced to a formula, something that strikes both as open ended and filled with risk: something alive.
A koan, then, for the student at TAS is simply "Why listen to your teacher?". There is no particular answer for that question. Every student must answer it for themselves. Obviously, "because I said so" won't work. Nor will "because your parents (or school district) is paying for this education". A student must look deep within and notice what it feels like to be in such a relationship, one fraught with so much risk and responsibility. It is easy to shy away, or to stick in a box, call it "school" and walk away at the end of the day. Our new students often struggle with how disruptive our teachers are: all day long the usual teacher-student, cat and mouse game is undermined. We have few rules and no punishments. In the end, the question is always "why bother, why am I here?".
Why listen, indeed.
