Introduction
A difficult day has a way of attracting advice.
“Don’t worry,” someone says. “Let it go.” “Look on the bright side.” All sensible suggestions, and all rather difficult to follow when you’re the one lying awake at two in the morning. Worries are notoriously poor at taking instructions. Old hurts are no better. If we could set them down as easily as a shopping bag, most of us would have done it years ago.
Not every difficulty is dramatic. We can spend half an hour arguing in our heads with someone who isn’t even in the room. We congratulate ourselves on becoming more patient with age, then discover how much patience we have when the kettle won’t boil and we’re already late. Or we look across the table at someone we’ve loved for years and realize we were too busy knowing what they meant to hear what they said.
And some days are hard in ways no cheerful advice can touch. Someone we love is ill. A relationship changes. An ordinary day divides life into before and after. At such times, being told to appreciate the little things can feel like one more job we’re expected to do.
I don’t think we need more instructions about the feelings we’re supposed to have. Most of us are already quite accomplished at telling ourselves we’re doing something wrong. What we might need is a gentler way to look at what’s happening, and a little help deciding what to do next. That is the hope behind The Zen Mirror.
In these pages, we’ll explore seven Japanese words that offer different ways of meeting life’s difficulties. One invites us to question what we think we know. Another asks us to remain present even when we’d rather turn away. Others speak to the mind caught on one worry, to fear, resentment, gratitude, and the kind of stillness that doesn’t depend on a quiet house.
These aren’t a traditional set known as “the seven principles of Zen.” I’ve brought them together because each has something useful to offer. Their histories vary, from Zen practice and Japanese customs to the ordinary word for gratitude. The names may be unfamiliar. The situations won’t be.
Now, you could learn the definitions, close the book, and go back to your day. I doubt much would change. Knowing that we ought to listen more carefully is of limited help when our brother is telling the same story for the fourth time. Understanding courage is one thing; finding some when our hands are shaking is another.
So I’ve chosen to teach through stories. You’ll meet gardeners, craftsmen, parents, neighbours and a few people who are quite certain that everyone around them is the problem. I have a particular fondness for those people. They tend to be excellent company on the page and, occasionally, an uncomfortable reminder of ourselves. Their lives unfold in an older Japan, among gardens, teahouses, mountain paths and homes where the washing still has to be done, whatever wisdom anyone may have discovered that morning.
These people don’t all get what they want. They make mistakes, hold grudges, worry about their families, and sometimes behave generously when they don’t feel especially generous. Some difficulties improve. Others don’t. A teaching that works only when everything turns out well isn’t much use on the days we need it most.
Between the stories, I’ll share something of the teaching behind each word and what it might offer in our own lives. I hope you’ll find a few questions worth carrying with you, too.
Why call the book The Zen Mirror? The image of a mirror has a long history in Zen, but I like it for a simpler reason too. A mirror has no interest in giving us the face we’d prefer to see. It shows us what’s there, including the tired eyes, the familiar expressions and the occasional bit of breakfast on our chin. A good story can do something similar. We begin by watching someone else’s life and then notice one of our own habits looking back at us.
That needn’t be an occasion for self-criticism. The point of seeing more clearly isn’t to find another reason to be disappointed in ourselves. It’s to discover where a little kindness, honesty or courage might make a difference.
Each chapter ends with Carrying It With You, a few practices and questions you can try without rearranging your life. There are no marks for completing them, and no need to become an expert at being calm. If something doesn’t suit you today, set it aside. Near the back you’ll also find Stories for Particular Days, to help you return to a story when you need its company.
I can’t promise that these pages will make you peaceful in every circumstance. They won’t remove grief, settle every quarrel or keep the people we love from changing. What they may do is help you notice the moment when you still have a choice: to ask instead of assume, to stay instead of turn away, to accept a kindness, or simply to give yourself a little room to be human.
And if one of the stories makes you smile, so much the better. We have enough difficulties without insisting on being solemn while we meet them.