Children Are Our Teachers

Children Are Our Spiritual Teachers
By Cheryl Dimof 
Issue 124 May/June 2004 

Like most mothers, I did not come to this wonderful, crazy world of motherhood looking for a spiritual path. My reasons for wanting to become a mother were the usual ones: the joys of watching children grow, introducing them to the beauty of the world, teaching and parenting them alongside my husband. Perhaps I romanticized the concept of motherhood; I was definitely not prepared for the "real thing": the sleepless nights, the messes, the constant repetition, the distractions, and the lack of time to myself. The big questions of my life turned from "What is the meaning of life?" to "How can I get a shower today?" and "How much sleep did you get last night?"

After my younger daughter was born, I left the workplace to be a full-time at-home mom. I was tired of the frenzied pace and conflicting demands of trying to both parent adequately and work full-time. At first, I was ecstatic. Here I was, doing the job I loved best with the people I loved most: my kids. Yet, as time went by, a question began to gnaw at me: "Isn't there more to life than this?"

It wasn't just that I missed the more immediate sense of accomplishment that comes from being praised for a job well done, or that I missed the adult interaction or the sense of contribution to the family coffers that came with bringing in a paycheck equal to my husband's. Perhaps the somewhat more slow-paced (although, I'll admit, very busy) life of an at-home mom had given me more time to reflect on the meaning of my life and had led me to grasp at something that would bring me an even deeper feeling of purpose.

Over the years, I had been sporadically interested in Buddhist philosophy. I found myself seeking out Zen practice and meditation, wanting a way to "calm down" from the stress associated with the full-time parenting of young children, to enhance my creativity and effectiveness in my life with my family, and, possibly to try to re-experience the sense of "oneness" I had felt at earlier times in my life. I was also attracted to the Zen idea of "just sitting." Mothers rarely get to just sit.

In the face of the demands of parenting, "just sitting" is not an easy thing to do. There is always "something else" parents must do. As I sat in meditation, my mind constantly wandered, writing checks, doing dishes, going over the myriad household chores that needed to be done. It was difficult to schedule in meditation around early risings, bedtimes, dance classes, and all the other demands of motherhood. Yet I persisted, continuing to see my meditation practice as somehow separate from my role as mother.

At some point, I decided to seek out a Zen group to sit with. I thought that meditating with others might reinforce my resolve to continue, and that perhaps I would find a teacher who would encourage my practice. When I put the question of mixing the demands of Zen practice with the demands of parenting to a Zen student, she answered that her teacher had sometimes said that "raising a family is like having sanzen all day, every day." According to The Path to Bodhidharma: The Teachings of Shodo Harada Roshi, sanzen is a private interview with a true teacher that is designed to help one let go of ego attachments and bring one closer to enlightenment - which, I believe, in Buddhist philosophy is being able to truly see our interconnectedness and interdependence on one another as human beings. I imagine that sanzen is not an easy thing. The student's statement intrigued me, however; I realized that it is probably true. More than anything or anyone else, it is my children who have led me to question my own nature and deepened my appreciation of the mystery of life.

In his book Wherever You Go There You Are, Jon Kabat-Zinn compares children to "live-in Zen masters," and raising them to having an "18-year meditation retreat." As Zen masters go, my older daughter isn't bad. At five years, she has just the right mixture of fierceness and . . . well, we're still working on the compassion, but I know it's there. As I sat at the table one morning, eating breakfast and reading the newspaper, she exclaimed, "Mommy! When you eat, don't read, just eat!" Talk about reminding me to pay attention!

Jessica also asks the most wonderful koans. (In Zen practice, a koan is a story or question that cannot be solved using the rational faculties and is designed to bring one closer to enlightenment.) One day, she was anxious to play with a friend who would be home in an hour. Every ten minutes or so, she asked me how much longer she had to wait. Finally, she asked me, "How do you know?" When I said, "Because I'm looking at the clock," she asked, "How do you know you're looking at the clock?" Question reality! Other favorites of Zen Master Jessica: "What was here before the universe?" "Mommy, why does my tongue have to live in my mouth?" and "How do you know you're not dreaming right now?"