Withdrawing to the Mountains

Snow came again last night to Mt. Tremper.  At first just a few inches of icy fluff, the kind that lifts and blows away gently as you plow through it with rubber boots.  By this morning, it had grown to six damp and dense inches, perfect for snowballs launched off the iron bridge on the way to the monastery.  Now it's hovering like a swing state between melting and icing thing over.  The Beaverkill Creek ate it all up as it fell, the dark water still swirling in contrast to the heaps of white perched delicately on the banks and the boulders in midstream.  In spite of tomorrow's equinox, winter is refusing to go gently into spring.  I love it.

Jess was reading an article to me today from the recent issue of Orion magazine.  In it the author offers some thoughts on the nature of our ecological and societal collapse, and then reflects on his answers to this question: At this moment in history, what would not be a waste of my time?  His answers (in bulleted brief - he elaborates in a paragraph or two for each one):

1) Withdrawing.
2) Preserving non-human life.
3) Getting your hands dirty.
4) Insisting on nature's value beyond utility.
5) Building refuges.

The one that grabbed me was, of course, number one. 

Withdrawing.  I have been reflecting all afternoon on this option in my life.  Am I withdrawing right now?  In choosing to live in a small town in the Catskill Mountains, and to prioritize study and practice of zen over other pursuits available to me, am I withdrawing?  If so, does that "mean" anything?  Am I violating a moral imperative?

I have heard from many thoughtful young people, and a few older than myself, that the question of whether and how to withdraw is a big one in life.  As we continue to destroy the planet we live on, we face an infinitely complex crisis, larger than any one aspect of human society or the biosphere.  It can feel so overwhelming that withdrawal seems to be the only option.  How could someone not withdraw in the face of such interwoven injustice, destruction, cruelty, greed, and anger, especially when it is clear that we are all thoroughly involved in perpetuating it?  What can I do to create a positive change in this maelstrom of life?  Is it reasonable to throw myself metaphorically into the gears of this machine of destruction?  Is that something other than withdrawing? Is middling along in the status quo but thinking a lot about social critiques a way of withdrawing from action? 

As I dig deeper, I reflect on what it means to withdraw.  I have discovered and verified time and again that even sequestering myself in a remote monastery for a week of uninterrupted silent practice cannot free me from entanglements of the world.  I can have deeply felt moments of calm in a still zendo, and then come downstairs and feel anxious about the conventionally grown vegetables in the salad.  As I move through life, either in silent reflection, choosing groceries, or ripping lumber on a table saw, I am in the world and the world is in me. In this sense, I'm not even sure how I could withdraw. 

Here at the monastery, we talk of zazen (seated formal zen meditation) as sitting in order to open up to reality just as it is.  For years, before I had my own zazen practice, I thought of meditation as retreating from the world.  You sat still and blocked out distractions from the outside.  Then you worked to somehow clear away distracting thoughts in your head.  I thought it was withdrawal, and I thought it was possible.  Now that I practice, I am beginning to deeply experience the impossibility of that.  When I practice zazen, I see how completely porous (and then non-existent) the boundary is between "me" and "the rest of the world."  There is no withdrawing - in fact, my practice is to enter the world as thoroughly and ceaselessly as I can. 

So if I can't withdraw in a silent zazen retreat, what does withdraw even mean?  I have no clear understanding of it.  I like the idea of withdrawing from systems that are oppressive, unjust, and/or broken - capitalism in America, our healthcare and health insurance systems, all societies that run on massive resource degradation, etc.  I think there is something noble in withdrawing from them.  It is a rejection, a moral statement that reflects our character as we choose to not participate and then accept the consequences of that action. 

But how do we withdraw when the whole system is dysfunctional and we can't escape participating in it?  The health care system in the U.S. seems to be a perfect example.  The system is terribly broken, as indicated by the number of uninsured, the cost of insurance to those who do buy it, the degrading quality of care when you actually get it, and the ineffectual political system where we perpetuate it with greed and fear.  I can't in good conscience participate in such a system, yet I have no alternative.  If I opt out, then I take a risk of losing my shirt in a big way if I ever need in-depth medical care.  Getting fleeced by for-profit health insurance companies (who have been shown to make concerted efforts not to pay when the time comes to use your coverage) seems to be the "safer" choice, where I basically become complicit in order to protect my meager ass(ets).  Really??  How do I withdraw from this?  Do I take one for the mythical Team and go without insurance, while diligently writing letters to my congressman laying out the facts and hoping for change?  Even the Dalai Lama says that we should give up hope as a strategy. 

This question perplexes me.  I'm currently a high-maintenance mammal on an overtaxed biosphere that desperately needs a lighter load, yet I'm certainly not close to withdrawing from that position either.  My existence is a burden on the planet, yet I love this experience of being alive and moving through the world.  I love sitting zazen quietly, taking photographs, building small structures, cooking Indian-fusion burritos, hiking in the hills.  If I built a hut on the mountain, hauled a 50 lb. sack of rice up there, and sat facing the wall and watching my beard grow, am I withdrawing?  I'm still eating and breathing, and I'm still engaging in all the struggles by choosing to not fight them tooth and nail.  While I am living as this loose arrangement of atoms called Chris, can I withdraw from anything?  Or is my only option to lean into it, to make a sincere effort to wake up and clarify my role in this seamless, beautiful catastrophe of life? 

No answers here.  We work our jobs and collect our pay.  We're gliding down the highway and we're slip sliding away too.  It seems this is my practice, to accept what I can and change what I can't.  And all the while, keep cultivating patience and taking a view so long that it brings you back to this moment, this breath.  How will you begin right now to withdraw, and to advance?