Episode Details

A couple weeks ago I heard a sound near our back screendoor, as if an animal were wrestling with a large bag of cat food. I assumed my cat Sasha was trying to break into her bag of treats, and noted the sound but didn’t respond right away.

A few minutes later, the sound long faded, I went to check on Sasha to see how far she got with trying to claw her way into her treat bag. As I approached the backdoor I did not find Sasha, nor a clawed open bag of treats. Our screen door was open to the size of Sasha, outside her large bag of cat food lay open on the porch stairs. As I stood, stunned at the sight of a catless night—Sasha whipped around the backyard chasing something that remained in the shadows, her tail puffed out to the size of a racoon’s tail.

I have been thinking about wanting. Hunger. The pull of a certain kind of desire to grasp for, reach out for…something else. This energy often creeps up the stairs of my body from somewhere in the dark and before I even realize it my hand is holding my phone, or reading news headlines, or I’m fixing myself a snack or another cup of coffee.

This time of year wanting seems heightened.

Something about the seasons turning deeper into autumn. Trees shedding leaves as the sun looms lower in the fading day-lit sky.

The animal in us is preparing to hibernate. The hungry heart is trying to find nourishment. 

The pull to nourish, to find safety— in the midst of an uncertain world heightened by a polarizing election, on-going war and climate instability—is completely natural. Our bodies and nervous systems seek balance.

Yet what is nourishing? What is safety when the ground appears to be constantly moving? 

Who is the one whose hand slips up from the shadows, then vanishes back into hiding, as spirals of shame circle?

You just wasted an hour scrolling. I can’t believe you ate that. Wow, you pressed snooze again?  

You’re worthless. Unloveable. Unfit for human consumption. 

The shame says…

When I lived at Great Vow Zen Monastery we had a practice of singing to the hungry heart. Calling to this part of us, this part of others and our world. And instead of shunning it or throwing shade on it or blaming and shaming it—we would invite a spirit of welcome, acceptance, love and understanding.

The chant is called the Kanromon and was written together with Krishna Das and Bernie Glassman. Here are the words, if you would like to sing it too.

Calling all you hungry hearts. 

Everywhere through endless time. 

You who wander, you who thirst.

I offer you this bodhi mind. 

Calling all you hungry spirits. 

All the lost and the left behind. 

Calling all you hungry hearts. 

Everywhere through endless time. 

Gather round and share this meal.

Your joy and your sorrow, I make it mine.

It is part of a ceremony for the hungry heart, called the gate of sweet nectar. A version of this ceremony is part of the daily liturgy at Soto Zen Monasteries in Japan.

It is one of the songs from our liturgy that I brought into my practice outside of the monastery walls. I sing it on walks through town, sometimes before I eat a meal, to my cat and before my altar with a stick of incense as my heart opens to the size of the world. 

It is a song of offering. It is a song of deep love. It's a song that lets me be lost—a song that speaks to those in the shadows. It has the power to save a ghost. To make the lonely, smile. It