Improvisation as Dharma
Two people enter a black box stage. One looks at the other, excited, and says, “Oh my god, here, I got you this cake!” The other smiles and says, “Wow, chocolate and vanilla, my favorite flavors of ice cream!”
”I know the party’s not for four hours, but I just couldn’t wait to give it to you.”
”Oh! Well—thanks! I’m excited for the party too, but maybe let’s put it back in the freezer so it doesn’t melt?”
In Improv Nation, Sam Wasson writes about the birth of a uniquely American form of theater based on connecting with other people on stage spontaneously, based on ideas and suggestions, or loose forms, rather than a script. For the record, the above scenario is a rough transcription of a simple scene my partner and I made up in our apartment after I excitedly told her about the original rules of improvisation that I learned from the book. The Westminster Place Kitchen Rules, as they became known, were the first time that anyone had codified officially, or just written down, any evidence-based principles of the nascent art-form. They were:
Don’t deny. If Severn says he has a bunny in his hands, he has a bunny in his hands.
Whenever possible, make a strong choice. The less obvious the better.
You are you. What you think of as your “character” is really just a magnified piece of you. Therefore, onstage, be you.
The first rule of improv became simplified into the phrase, “Yes, and,” and essentially means: the first rule of improvisation is you must always agree with the choices your scene partner makes, and you must add to or embellish those choices with the choices you make.
Well, you might as well ask: what does this have to do with the Dharma?
This blog, and the podcast that will eventually grow out of this, is essentially about the ingredients of democracy as it has been conceived in the United States, and what the Dharma both has in common with those ingredients and what it might be able to do with them to incubate the best of democracy and everyone in it. “Become Buddha, see everyone as Buddha,” as the saying goes. Also, it goes on: “See everyone as Buddha, become Buddha.” Democracy, I’ve noticed, only works best when people have faith in each other and want to help each other. It works when we take care of each other’s needs.
The simple precepts of improvisation are I think one of the purest ways we can access the spirit of “see buddha, become buddha.” In order to say “Yes,” in order to recognize what choice my partner is making onstage as “true” and validate it, I must recognize their value. I must shut off my own thinking mind and truly listen. One of my teachers, Zen Master Wu Kwang, once wrote that the Latin root of the word obedience, “ob audiens” means “to completely listen.” In improvisation we must be obedient to our scene partner, to completely listen, not just to their words, but to their emotions, to their body language, and in doing so something else appears and becomes clear. And it is in surrendering to this listening that we ourselves begin to wake up and listen to our own true nature. Something else appears too, especially when both people are really paying attention: trust. The audience, the third collective participant in any scene, is delighted with what they see, which is always the product of two ensemble members organically and spontaneously relating to each other. The subject matter is almost irrelevant.
In a similar way, in zen practice, we have certain forms: we sit for some time, get up and walk for some time, sit down again some more, rinse and repeat. Sometimes we work together, sometimes we eat together, sometimes we have a private, one-on-one meeting with a zen teacher to check our practice. At first, zen students come to a retreat and think, “I am doing this,” or in other words, I’m struggling with this day alone, by myself. But the repetition of practice of all these simple forms allows the “I” to be gently subsumed by “we,” as in, “just now, we are practicing together.” “Just now, 10 people sitting still.” It is the mundane element and the simplicity of the experience that makes it so profound.
Don’t deny. If Severn says he has a bunny in his hands, he has a bunny in his hands.
So too, improvisation, and so too, democracy. One of my improv teachers, Louis Kornfeld, said in my last class more than a few times that outlandish choices at the beginning of a scene rarely work out well, because their usually chosen out of fear and, once chosen, must be committed too. Sure, a bear wearing a tutu on the moon is an absurd character to play, but what do you do with that? How do you relate to that experience? That’s starting a scene heightened to the utmost; there’s really no energy left to commit. Those kinds of scenes often crumble and fail because the scene partners can’t find their relationship in all the absurdity.
On the other hand, consider again the scene at the top of this post: there’s really nothing inherently extraordinary or “heightened” about it. It’s just a scene about two people, a birthday, and cake. But what do we know about them after reading that dialogue? We know one got the other cake (and, thus, their relationship—most likely friends, at least); we know the flavors of the cake, that it’s ice cream, and that the recipient is excited about that. And we know that there is a party, but not for another four hours—so the giver was so excited they jumped the gun and wanted to celebrate their friend’s birthday now. Of course, we are only reading words on a screen, so we have lost all the ways that people emote (body language, voice, facial expression, timing, etc.), but we can pick up that the birthday friend is happy, but maybe a little bit more practical than their party-loving peer. All while trying to be graceful about it: thanks, but maybe we put it back in the freezer? The two characters have created a whole world of possibilities from such a simple premise that it could go in any number of directions: the friend could agree, and acknowledge the cake might melt; the friend might be so excited that she just wants to eat some now. Add some more details about how these two feel about each other, and what their relationship is (are they friends? lovers? roommates? siblings?), and that’s a solid scene. If this were being played out on stage, people would be laughing, because they can see themselves in such an ordinary and cute situation.
In my mind, any kind of spiritual practice needs to be like that. Nothing crazy, just simple and practical. One time I was going home after a night out at a swing dancing social, and I met a woman at the L stop who began our interaction by asking about the train, and then sharing her chocolate cake with me. We got talking and quickly established that I taught meditation. She excitedly began telling me about a meditation retreat she attended in Arizona with Dahn Yoga*. It was beautiful, she said, and then, “OH, my goddd, I had the most profound experience.”
”And what was that profound experience?”
”Well, a lot of us were meditating outside, and I was sitting on this raised plateau of some sort, with my eyes closed, and then I felt this big rumbling, like an earthquake! After the meditation was done I asked someone else, ‘did you feel that?’ and they said, ‘feel what?’ ‘That shaking!’ ‘No, I didn’t’. I mean, that’s like, woah man!”
At this point we had gotten on the train, and were standing, sharing a pole at the back of the car. I smiled, and paused, then said, “So you felt something special. But let me ask you this: how does that relate to your everyday life? How do you use that experience?”
Immediately her eyes went wide in surprise, and gasped, “Oh! Oh, I guess, it doesn’t.” Then she frowned.
“Having a special feeling is not good, not bad. But correct practice allows you to access wisdom you already have, and connect with other people, and help other people. So an eminent teacher once said, ‘Keep a mind that is clear like space, and functions as meticulously as the tip of a needle.’ So, moment by moment, how you keep a correct situation, correct relationship, and correct function? How does meditation help you be a kinder, wiser, more helpful human being?“
“Oh! That makes sense. Thank you.” And she was happy again. “What are those three, correct sit…”
“Correct situation means, ‘what’s happening right now?’ Right now I’m on a train speaking to you. Correct relationship means, ‘who am I in relationship to you?’ Right now we’re having a conversation about meditation, and I’m a dharma teacher, and you’re a curious seeker. Correct function means, ‘how do I help? What is my job?’ Right now my job is to stay present in this conversation and help make things simple and clear, so you go home with a clear understanding of what practice is. If you pay attention, moment by moment, your correct situation, relationship, and function become clear and you can connect with and help other people.”
If you pay attention, moment by moment, your correct situation, relationship, and function become clear and you can connect with and help other people.
I think of meeting that woman on the train sometimes when I think about the simplicity and the practicality of Zen meditation. The Dharma is very clear, it’s simple, and anyone can understand it, even a child. So when I spoke with this woman, I didn’t need to say a lot for her to instantly understand what I was talking about. Improvisation is the same: scenes need not be complicated, but they can be absurd, as long as the escalation is little by little. Escalation is the heightening that comes from our natural, organic reactions to each other on stage. And you and I and everyone in the audience can tell when someone makes an artificial choice, one meant to go for laughs or to go to the extreme. Because those artificial escalations are made out of fear, just like the ways that we harm each other and ourselves in real life are made out of fear. We make mistakes, which is okay, but then we are afraid, or embarrassed, and want to defend those mistakes as not mistakes. And that’s when the house of cards comes down.
Improvisation is life. Life is improvisation. We can choose moment by moment to connect with each other, to find out our relationship to one another and to help one another. Or we can only focus on ourselves, but we can’t actually live without being in relationship to other people; that’s a delusion. We’re never separate from others. If we deny that, if we deny other people’s connection to us, and deny other people’s choices, on stage and in life, then we will have problems. And people won’t like us. But if we act as if we are connected with each other, then our choices will become harmonious.
*No bullshit, Dahn Yoga is a cult. Read all about it here.