by Susan Dunlap
“Yeah, I mean, before Aeneas hooked up with meditation it was like he’d been dropped on earth from another dimension. Like he knew he was in an alien society. Our rules had no meaning to him. He could see Reality, of course, but no one knew that. To his family, to everyone, he was a guy going wacko.”
“But when he was up here, he fitted in?”
“His parents couldn’t fucking believe it. It was like a miracle. I didn’t realize then how desperate they were to be reassured. They didn’t blink at the pile of tin I was driving. That tells you how frantic they were, because a month later when I wanted to come back they wouldn’t let Amber come with me, even though I had a Jag.”
“You don’t think that’s the reason?”
From San Francisco to here was five hours, ending in miles of sharply curving two-lane blacktop that was the Switchback of Temptation for the sports car driver.
“The thing is,” Justin was saying, “Amber was just a kid. It was not like there was anything between us. I was seventeen. In a year I would be away at Cornell on the other side of the continent, and she’d still be in junior high school.”
“But she wanted to drive up here with you in your Jag.”
“Yeah. Maybe it was the car; maybe it was just getting away from her parents for a couple days.”
Maybe it was already him? But I was too—too what? sorry for? angry for? ashamed for? Amber to suggest that possibility if it hadn’t occurred to him. If I hadn’t been so worried about Roshi, if it hadn’t been six in the morning, I would have had trouble fighting off the urge to shake him silly for not seeing that he’d been the only stable thing in Amber’s young life, little as that had been.
Yet, he had driven her here when she needed it. And now, six years later, he was still around. So, despite anything else, he was responsible, right? That was the important thing—a responsible guy who would fetch the doctor for Leo. Right? The end justifies the means, right?
Wrong! In stunt work you learn pronto that the end definitely does not justify the means. Sloppy means can kill you.
Justin twisted the stopper back in the thermos and held his hand out for the keys.
What was underneath his shaved head and stoic garb? Why was it so important to you to come back here now? I wanted to say. Did you do it for Amber? Do you care more about her than is apparent?
He turned to face me for the first time, leaning in toward me with sudden eagerness. The last time I’d seen that ilk of posture was when I’d made the mistake of asking, “Just what are the twelve steps?”
“Aeneas was the most amazing Zen student I’d ever seen,” he said in a voice high with excitement. “Before the opening there was a three-day sitting, tangario. In tangario students sit nonstop—no breaks, no kinhin, three days. Maureen and Rob sat a lot of it. Roshi sat more. Amber and I and a bunch of other people sat a couple periods. But Aeneas sat the entire thing. I mean the entire thing. It was amazing, inspiring. I would have followed him to Japan—”
“If he’d gone to Japan,” I put in.
Ignoring my comment, he said, “Aeneas was Enlightened, like the Buddha. No one understood that. He didn’t need to be like ordinary men, to waste his time in school learning unimportant things so that he could spend the rest of his life selling his time for money. He already knew what Life was.”
Oh, rats! A fanatic!
“Here, he was like a prince walking among beggars. People here were so ignorant they didn’t realize what they had in their midst. The Japanese roshis saw it though. That’s why they took him back to Japan—”
“But they didn’t, Justin! They didn’t take him to Japan.”
His head gave a quick shake and he looked toward me as if for the first time.
“Aeneas didn’t go to Japan, Justin,” I repeated.
“He didn’t go to that specific monastery, the one Leo thought he’d been at. We don’t know he’s not in Japan.”
“We don’t know he’s not on Mars.”
Automatically my fist tightened over the keys. How could I possibly trust Leo’s life to this fanatic?
“The postcard service is bad from Mars.”
In the dim light I could make out the suggestion of a smile. I gave him major points for that, took a deep breath and reminded myself: fanaticism does not mean you can’t handle a pickup. Au contraire. A knowledgeable fanatic is better than a sane person who can’t drive off pavement.
I quizzed, “Justin, the road’s muddy. What if you get stuck?”
“There’re boards in the bed. I’ll slip them under the back wheels, I’ll rock ’er.” He turned, and in the foggy predawn light looked to be staring me in the eye, “Trust me, I’ve kept that old Jag running for years. I can drive this thing. I’ve been through the town. What do you need?”
I sighed. He had passed my test, albeit with a D minus. I trusted him, in theory. Still, I held out the keys tentatively, as if I was offering Roshi’s stricken body.
“Get a doctor for Roshi.”
“Done! There’s a drugstore in town. They’ll know the doctor. I’ll catch him before he’s got a chance to leave home. I’ll have him back here by lunch.”
Justin snatched the keys, stuck them in the ignition, and started the engine on the first try. The old yellow truck that had grumbled along the road with Leo now hummed eagerly. As I jumped out, the overhead light showed the face not of a fanatic but of a car-guy off on an adventure. Justin whipped the truck back, turned it toward the road, and headed out, gliding from high point to high point as he skirted the potholes.
It was like the truck had been reborn, reincarnated into a new, four-wheel drive model not to be fazed by wind, water, rock, or tree. The question was not whether Justin would snag the doctor, only how soon he’d get him back to Leo. It was twenty after six now. By lunch Leo would have a stethoscope on his chest.
For the first time since I’d arrived at Redwood Canyon Monastery I breathed in deeply and felt my shoulders relax. I smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I glided back to Roshi’s cabin, feeling the soft rain on my face as if it were sunshine. He was asleep, but that frantic thrashing had ceased and he lay curled on his side snoring like a little pink piglet. Even the fire required minimal stoking. It was as if the cosmos was trying to make up for the miseries of yesterday. I smiled at his safe, sleeping, soon-to-be-healed form, walked out his door and was back in the zendo for the last zazen period before breakfast.
“When sitting zazen, be alert! Hear the farthest sound,” Yamana-roshi often said. He meant it as a way to keep from getting carried off by the maelstrom of thoughts, to sit in silence just listening. In the Ninth Street Zendo with trucks rattling and cabs screeching, buses groaning and cars slamming on brakes, listening to sounds was a given, but hearing the distant sounds behind the traffic noise was a challenge. Here, now, it was no problem to listen beyond the rain on the roof, to the swish of leaves, the creak of a branch, to cock my ears for the first, distant sound of the truck on the road bringing the doctor. It was way too soon for Justin to have made it to town, much less back again, but still I sifted every sound.
At breakfast hour, Roshi woke up long enough to swallow four spoonfuls of watery oatmeal, and I could have cheered. I was beginning to wonder if I had panicked sending for the doctor and if Roshi would chew me out. It would be a small price to pay.
At the after-breakfast break I slept the sleep of the relieved. And when it came time for the lecture, I found I was actually looking forward to hearing Rob.
I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it definitely wasn’t what he did.
He sat in the front seat, on a raised platform, a tan, like the rest of us. Just like Roshi, he adjusted his robes, pulling, tucking, shifting the layers as the ashy-sweet smell of incense wafted through the room. Each skirt had to be spread over his crossed legs and tucked in under his knees. The flap of his okesa, the black outer robe that went over his shoulder sari-like, needed another pull. Then the whole thing had to
be checked again. Finally he rocked side to side, eyes shut, finding the center of balance. He did exactly what the Roshi had done, but he did it more precisely. What surprised me was that the effect was not persnicketyness, but rather that of an attentive performance.
I glanced across the zendo at Maureen. Her brow was wrinkled as if she was judging the aesthetics. All robes and no heart?
Barry sat next to her, eyes closed, head drooping, either on the verge of sleep or caught up in thoughts of criollo beans. Or maybe the Big Buddha Bakery?
Rob said, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” came the scraggly reply led by the old-timers. The words seemed to echo as new students realized they were expected to respond aloud.
Rob’s head bobbed diffidently in response and when he spoke it was in a low, easy tone.
“This is the first of our sesshin talks. Maureen will be giving the one tomorrow, and Barry later on. The purpose of a lecture is to help us get through the hard work of Zen practice. You’ve been here three days now, and I don’t have to tell you how hard it is getting up hours before dawn, in the cold, waiting in line in the bathhouse, waiting for your food—food you didn’t choose—sitting on your zafu hour after hour after hour, until you run out of story lines in your mind and you have to face silence. We all ask ourselves—and other people definitely ask us—‘Are you crazy? Why did you seek out this practice? Why settle on something so foreign?’ Not only is Zen Buddhism from Japan, by way of China, by way of India, but its basic teaching is beyond words.
“Roshi asked me to speak on the tale of the Sixth Patriarch, which is one of those stories that came from China to Japan to America, and here to this obscure monastery in California. Here’s the story: The Fifth Patriarch was the head of a large monastery in ancient China. He was an important man. The monastery included a school for young monks, pretty much like a strict boarding school. You can picture it. The Fifth Patriarch was getting old, and he realized he had to choose a successor from among these student-monks of his. So he set them a test. Anyone who figured he had grasped what life really is—traditionally that’s called enlightenment—could write a poem to show his understanding. Poetry was a valued art, and monks were given training in it.”
Rob paused, letting his eyes close a moment, giving all of us time to see the Chinese monastery in our minds. I was just relieved he believed it was Roshi, and not me, who had chosen the topic. Rob shifted forward.
“The test put the monks on the spot. Not only were they being asked to stand up in front of all their friends and fellow students and say I’m the best one, but they were going to have to read out their poems in public. So, as soon as the Fifth Patriarch left, the students batted the prospect back and forth among themselves. ‘You do it!’ ‘No, you, you’re always saying how smart you are!’ ‘I’m not reading my poem in front of all you guys!’ You can just imagine these boys. Finally, they all agreed that the best student would stick his neck out first. He was the senior monk; his name was Shen-hsui. Everyone had assumed all along that he would succeed the Fifth Patriarch.
“But, Shen-hsui wasn’t about to read his poem in public in front of all the monks. Shen-hsui knew that even though he had done his best, worked hard, studied hard, he hadn’t made the final leap of understanding. But he was the best student, the senior monk. So what could he do? No matter what he did he was likely to be humiliated. You have to feel sorry for the guy.”
I stared at Rob. Rob feeling sorry for anyone hadn’t struck me as possible. Nor had it crossed my mind he could be so congenial a speaker. Around the zendo people were leaning toward him, smiling in the way of children at story hour. It was hard to believe this affable guy was the tyrant who yanked me out of the truck. I had sure assigned him the right topic.
“For Shen-hsui,” Rob said, “the poem was the equivalent to taking the SAT or the state bar exam, except that only one person was going to pass. So he slaved over that poem. Finally, when it was as perfect as he could make it, he still didn’t have the nerve to read it aloud in front of everyone. Instead, he crept out in the middle of the night and wrote his poem on the wall where the Fifth Patriarch would spot it first thing in the morning. Then, if the Fifth Patriarch approved of it, he would step forward and say it was his. If not, he could slink away unnoticed.
“So morning comes. By this time the other monks have spotted the poem. They figure it’s Shen-hsui’s. There’s been a buzz throughout the monastery. Everyone’s hanging around the wall waiting for the Fifth Patriarch to come by. They’re discussing the poem; they’re thinking it’s pretty right-on.
“Suddenly, someone sees the Fifth Patriarch, an old man, walking slowly down the path, probably leaning on a stick. The tension mounts. The Fifth Patriarch stops. He reads:
The body is like the Bodhi tree
The mind a clear mirror standing
Clean the mirror without ceasing
So not one speck of dust obscures it.
“The Fifth Patriarch considers. The tension is almost unbearable.”
Rob raised a hand, palm out. “I have to tell you now a couple things. This poem has been translated many times and my ‘poem’ is my paraphrasing. For those of you who are new, the Bodhi tree is the tree the Buddha sat under while he meditated and became enlightened. It was almost like an outer skin, protecting him while he sat there.”
Rob paused, looking slowly around the room, deliberately letting the tension build. Maybe it was his courtroom experience, but he was a good storyteller, as the eager expressions on faces across from me attested.
“The students watched the Fifth Patriarch consider this poem that had already impressed them. Finally, the Fifth Patriarch signaled for incense and lit a stick in front of the poem. And everyone figured Shen-hsui had succeeded. He was in! Things were as they should be, as everyone expected all along. Off they went to celebrate.
“But, the Fifth Patriarch held Shen-hsui back. He told him that they both knew Shen-hsui was a very good student; he’d worked hard, but he still hadn’t seen, he wasn’t enlightened. He told Shen-hsui to keep at it, to try again.
“Meanwhile, the rest of the monks, Shen-hsui’s friends, figured he’d succeeded. What’s poor Shen-hsui going to tell them? You really have to feel sorry for this guy!
Rob paused again; this time his striking blue eyes remained open, but his gaze went opaque, and I wondered what he was thinking about Shen-hsui. Rob exhaled deeply.
“And that would seem to be the end of it. But . . . along came another monk, not an educated student like Shen-hsui but an illiterate kitchen helper, really the lowest of the grunts in the monastery. No one expected anything from this guy, except to scrub the pots out. But earlier, in fact, he had heard one of the sutras, the scripture poems, and he had become enlightened. And now when he heard Shen-hsui’s poem, he knew it was wrong.
“So he got a friend to write another poem—his poem—on the same wall, next to Shen-hsui’s:
The body is not a bodhi tree
There is no mirror standing
Fundamentally nothing ‘is’
So what is there for dust to cling to?
Small gasps came from around the zendo, even though the tale was familiar. Rob smiled.
“Exactly. Even in my paraphrasing, you heard the certainty in this pot-scrubber’s poem, the arrogance.
“And so, when the Fifth Patriarch read the poem, he anointed the pot scrubber his successor, the Sixth Patriarch.”
Rob leaned down, picked up the teacup at the corner of his mat, and sipped slowly, as if to let the point settle in. But the tension from the story persisted and the payoff had been inadequate to relieve it. Rain splatted on the closed windows, the air seemed close, and the incense smoke thick. I remembered my momentary panic when Rob had demanded a topic. But this one hadn’t come from nowhere. There had been some reason it had been in my mind.
Rob tilted the cup to his mouth, but the tea was already gone. He pretended to drink and replaced the cup.
&n
bsp; “There are many points in this parable. The one most valuable for us, in the beginning of a long sesshin is not the obvious one, the Sixth Patriarch’s show of his sudden understanding, but the more subtle one which is the Fifth Patriarch’s treatment of Shen-hsui.
“What the Fifth Patriarch said to Shen-hsui was that he had not made that leap to understanding yet. But that all the work he had done was an essential base from which his leap would be made. That’s why the Fifth Patriarch encouraged him to keep trying. Maybe—probably—if no one else had come along he would have succeeded. We’ll never know, and that’s not important. What is important for us is to understand that all the waiting in line, the taking tiny half-steps in kinhin, the sitting on the cushion without moving, the letting go of thoughts and coming back to silence, doing it over and over and over and over again; this is what we do, so that when a flash of understanding comes we are capable of seeing it.”
He sat back, reached for his cup, reconsidered, and drew his hand back.
When it became apparent that Rob was through speaking, Maureen raised her hand. Rob jerked toward her, as if he hadn’t planned on entertaining questions. He glanced at his watch. I knew the schedule; it was too soon to cut off discussion.
He nodded.
Why had I given him this topic? Something had happened before I stepped out of Roshi’s cabin and smacked into Rob.
Maureen leaned forward, almost off her cushion. She had a black shawl pulled tight around her shoulders but her hands poked out the bottom. Rather than resting in the mudra—right hand on left, thumbs very lightly touching—they were braced as she spoke.
“Like you said, there are a lot of ways to look at his tale. There’s poor Shen-hsui, the guy who’s so busy following the rules he has no room left for inspiration.”
Rob’s lips started to curl, but he caught himself before they could reveal anything.
“But,” Maureen continued, “there’s also the Fifth Patriarch, the roshi. What this tale makes clear is that the roshi is the total authority. He knows his students; he cares about them. But in the end, he makes his choice for the dharma. In the end, friendship, loyalty, investment—I mean of time—don’t matter.”