I come to Zen from a Christian background, so my practice and the motivations behind it have a strongly Christian flavor. I taught myself how to meditate--in those days, I called it "silent prayer" for lack of a better term--the summer of 1989 while at a nondenominational Christian camp in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. In those days I was an earnest "born-again" Christian who wanted to "know God"; by the end of my first week into a month-long stint at camp I fervently wanted to know what God wanted me to do with my life. Not finding clear answers in hours of Bible study, sermons, hymn-singing or praise-and-prayer meetings, I ran away from the hubbub and fellowship of camp to retreat to a distant rocky cove to figure things out.

I remember that I took my Bible and my journal with me that day, and I remember that the day was sunny and I hiked in my bare feet. I also remember wading and climbing out to a large, weather-sculpted rock in the middle of a clear, sandy-bottomed lagoon--to this day I consider that rock to be my first Zen "teacher." Sitting on that rock awash with questions--Who am I? What should I do? What is God's will for me?--I sat too awash with physical sensations: the cool roughness of the rock beneath me, the persistent warmth of the sun above me, the shimmering brightness of the water about me. Apart from these simple perceptions, however, I remember little of what precisely happened that day: at some point before day's end, before hiking back to camp barefoot and at peace, I let go of my questions, convinced that God's silence was a satisfactory answer.

Sitting on that rock, I came to discover a fact that others had known all along: that where I was at that moment was the precise point in both space and time where I was intended (by God or otherwise) to be. My doubts and questions were not answered but instead erased: although my uncertainty about my future remained, I realized for the first time that the unquestionable truths of the present moment--that this rock is gray and speckled with green lichens, or that the water is crystal blue and cold--were more than enough. Although I had sung many loud, enthusiastic songs affirming that "God's grace is sufficient for me," it wasn't until I ran away and sat on a rock that I realized that God's grace is made manifest only in the particulars of the present: as Thoreau noted in Walden, "God himself culminates in the present moment."

Sitting on a rock is one thing; bringing the practice of the present moment into your life--and using this practice to help people--is another. For months after returning from sitting on the rock, I tried to reenact what had transpired, whatever it was: without yet having read or heard much about meditation, I experimented with postures and techniques and discovered that it was easier to stay awake if I sat on the floor and easier to keep focused if I repeated a single word (at the time, mine was "Father") over and over in time with my breath. During those first innocent months, my practice was wholly my own: I wasn't imitating what I had read in books, and I didn't tell anyone what I was doing--I wouldn't have known how to explain this wordless kind of prayer to other people, and I feared that my "born-again" friends would deem me a heretic.

The danger of such solitary practice, of course, is that it can easily become "me centered": it's easy to come to meditation or prayer with a wish list of things one wants to attain--peace of mind, holiness, enlightenment, special spiritual gifts. Luckily, though, I hadn't thrown away my Bible that day on the rock, so one of my favorite verses--a passage from Paul's letter to the Philippians--helped shape what would eventually become my Zen practice:

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death--even death on a cross! (Philippians 2:5-8)

The goal of spiritual practice isn't any attainment that can be "grasped"; instead, a spiritual attitude is one that lays aside one's own supposed holiness, status, or attainment in order to serve others. The Greek word Paul uses to describe Christ's incarnation--kenosis--literally means to empty oneself: later, Paul describes his own ministry by writing that he was "being poured out like a drink offering," a libation sacrifice that required a worshipper to pour out a cup of wine down to the dregs. Whole-hearted service is a matter of total self-emptying: retaining the residue of self-interest or self-glorification makes for an imperfect offering. The only way to become spiritually adept is to lay down one's desires for and ideas of attainment--when these hindrances are gone, one can become a humble and obedient servant, someone who helps this world.

Thus the mind of Christ and the bodhisattva way are the same: a "bodhisattva-Christ" lays down individual attainment in order to help others. There are many mundane ways that this lofty principle plays out in my busy life as a wife, graduate student, English teacher, and Zen Center resident: some days, it means taking the time to answer the Cambridge Zen Center door or telephone; other days, it means putting aside my work to answer a student's questions. In my life, spiritual practice is a time and a place to renew and "re-fill" so I can empty myself even more: the simple practice of asking "what is this?" or "how can I help?" as I encounter Zen Center visitors, students, friends and family is an essential part of staying awake to their needs and concerns.

Sitting on a rock some seven years ago, I learned that the present moment--"just this"--is sufficient for me; in the years since, I've learned that my being present to others--"just helping"--is necessary for the world. These years of practice have also shown me that this "just this" mind and this "just helping" action are really one in the same--and it seems to me that this mind and action are exactly what our world needs more of.