Another good thing: there were enough carrots to keep me at it for a solid stretch and I could therefore work on trying to do my task with full Zen awareness. So whenever I found myself thinking something like, Get a load of me in an apron slicing carrots in the kitchen of a Zen Buddhist monastery in the middle of the Catskill Mountains, I would gently but firmly return my mind to the slicing of carrots … to the slicing of this particular carrot … to this particular slice.
As it turned out though, I had misunderstood Richard’s instructions concerning how they should be cut. Not to make excuses, but he’s got this Australian accent. Anyway, he wanted them in strips and I was chopping them into discs. But I didn’t find out until I was all through. Meanwhile, chopping away, the rain on the roof, I felt a quiet happiness, even a certain serenity. Very unusual for me.
When I showed Richard all the chopping I had done, he shook his head. I thought he was showing amazement at how many, how quickly. But he said, “See, actually, what I wanted? I wanted ’em in strips.”
“Oh,” I said, all my quiet serene happiness shot to hell.
I can’t do anything right!
“Never mind,” he said. “We’ll use ’em like this.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Not to worry, mate.”
And his assistant Gido, the giant quiet monk, just to make me feel even worse, patted me on the shoulder as he walked by.
Today we’re having some kind of tofu and vegetable dish with miso soup and dark heavy bread. I find a place at a long table with about ten people, all focusing on the guy to my immediate right, an esteemed guest from Hong Kong who’s here to conduct a calligraphy workshop over the coming weekend. Which I don’t think I’m going to attend. The trouble is, this guy looks a little too much like a Chinese master of calligraphy, in his black Zen pajamas and his long gray Chinese hermit’s beard. And the way he speaks is right out of that TV show Kung Fu, with David Carradine as Kwai Chang Caine.
I used to watch that show a lot. There were always some completely unenlightened, greasy-looking cowboys about to gang up on Caine just because he was Chinese. And he would say to them very softly and quietly, with this look of totally sincere bewilderment:
“Why … do you wish … to harm me?”
And they’d say, “Cuz we don’t like yer kind.”
And Caine would ask them sincerely, “What… kind is that?”
And they’d say, “Chi-nee, that’s what kind.”
And only when he finally absolutely had to, when there just wasn’t any other way out, would he go into Kung-Fu action, chopping and spinning and kicking, beating the hell out of all three or four of them with a mild look on his face, the whole scene taking place in slow motion, which I always took to represent the way Caine was seeing, with his absolute Zen concentration making everything go slow for him while continuing at regular speed for the bad guys, putting them at a serious disadvantage.
Anyway, this calligraphy fellow reminds me of Caine, the way he speaks. For example, just to be making conversation, since he’s sitting right next to me and it would look bad if I didn’t say something, I ask him if he experienced any jet lag after his flight from Hong Kong.
Right away I can feel everyone at the table rolling their eyes and thinking what a mundane question to ask such an esteemed personage.
“Jet… lag?” he says.
So now I have to explain about rapid travel through different time zones and the fatigue it can cause.
When I’m finally finished he says to me, “But… surely … we are always … here. Are we not?” And gives me an inscrutable little smile before returning to his bowl of tofu.
So now I’m supposed to sit here with my mind totally blown.
But you know what? I don’t even think that’s a real beard. I’m serious.
I’m on lunch clean-up crew this week. Our crew chief is this guy Allen who’s a flaming gay, so I’m uneasy when he puts his arm around my shoulder as he decides what to do with me. “Let’s see, why don’t you … I know, why don’t you go out there with a tray and collect any bowls and utensils naughty people haven’t returned.”
Back to being a busboy.
Out in the dining hall I come up to Hojin, the baldheaded old-lady gardener-monk, sitting there telling some eager-looking newcomer about her compost bins. He’s listening as if this is the most interesting thing he’s heard in his life up to now.
There’s some empty bowls and utensils in front of them.
“Take this stuff?” I ask.
They look up.
“Oh, yes,” she says.
And he says, “Sorry. We’re s’pose to bring these back, I know. I just …”
“Not to worry, mate,” I tell him.
It goes well with everyone. No one treats me like a bus-boy. And then I get to the Chinaman, sitting there with his empty bowl in front of him, speaking to the only other person at the table now, someone who wasn’t there before, who’s sitting where I was sitting:
The Abbot.
He’s a big lumberjack-looking guy, baldheaded of course, right now wearing an old faded flannel shirt, like anyone else. Except, he’s not like anyone else. Not anyone I ever met, anyway.
My first experience of him was in the meditation hall— the zendo—as he was walking up and down the rows of us. As he passes, you’re supposed to put your hands palm to palm, elbows out—in gassbo—not only as a greeting but as a way of telling him you’re awake and ready to go, ready to cut straight through to the core. But this guy on the cushion next to me was sitting there in the lotus position, hands cupped in his lap, softly snoring away.
“Gassho” one of the monitors called out to him as the Abbot approached, meaning get your palms together.
But he didn’t hear. So the Abbot bent down as he passed and said in this not-very-loud but clear, clear voice:
“Wake up.”
The guy woke up and put his hands in gassbo.
I felt like I woke up too, all the thoughts in my head flying off like startled birds, and for a good half-minute my mind was as clear as the Abbot’s voice.
I still hadn’t actually seen him though, only his large bare feet as they passed. But I saw him shortly after that, in private.
It’s called dokusan: a one-on-one interview with the Abbot. You go in this room just outside the meditation hall— the Dharma Room—and tell him about some problem in your practice, some wall you’re up against, and he gives you advice. I hadn’t prepared anything to say because I didn’t know I’d be going that morning. I was sitting on my mat in the meditation hall with everyone else, breathing away, when suddenly one of the monks announced, “The dokusan line is open to those nearest the wall on the south side of the zendo” I don’t know north from south but everyone in my row immediately got to their feet and ran—I’m serious— towards the back of the hall and knelt in a line outside his door. So I got up and trotted over.
By the time it was finally my turn I’d thought of a question for him, a good one. I wanted him to see that I may be just a lay trainee staying here for only a month but I’m still pretty deep. Here’s what I would ask him:
“Abbot, how can one strive to attain enlightment? Doesn’t enlightenment require one to relinquish all striving?”
See how he handled that one.
When I heard the ching of his handbell I stood and walked eagerly to the door and entered. He was sitting on a mat on the other side of a bare wooden floor, in a black robe, eyes lowered, clutching his short polished Dharma stick in both fists across his lap.
I carefully closed the door, walked over and knelt before him. I began, as I’d been instructed, by telling him my first name and that my practice was counting-the-breath. Then, just as I was about to deliver my devastating question, he lifted his eyes and looked at me.
What can I tell you? He looked straight into my soul.
I know that sounds corny but that’s what he did. He looked at me and there was nowhere to hide. I opened my m
outh to speak, and all I could say was, “I’m sorry.”
Tears ran down my face. I said it again, “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for coming in here with a bullshit question designed to impress, sorry for all the bullshit that up to now had characterized my entire goddam life.
I wasn’t apologizing to him or to Buddha, Jesus or God, my parents or anyone. I was just sorry.
And he understood. He didn’t say anything, only nodded, but I could see—any fool could see—that he completely understood.
He lifted his bell and shook it, once. We bowed to one another. I got up and left.
Back in the zendo, on my mat, the tears kept coming. And then my nose started running. But we’re not allowed to blow our nose or even sniff during meditation. We can sneeze or cough, since that’s involuntary, but if your nose is running, let it run. Who cares? Nobody sees. Even so, it’s a very unpleasant feeling, so I got all involved with ignoring my runny nose, and quit weeping for my sins.
Anyway, I come up with my tray to the table where the Abbot and the Chinaman are talking together quietly. The Chinaman is sitting up straight with his hands in his lap, the Abbot tilting back in his chair, hands behind his head, looking up as I approach.
I’m embarrassed: Yes, it’s me, the weepy guy.
He nods pleasantly. I don’t think he remembers me.
That hurts a little.
I ask the Chinaman if I can take his bowl and chopsticks, and he’d better not try to show me up in front of the Abbot with some smartass inscrutable remark or I swear to God I’ll grab that made-in-Hong Kong beard and yank it off his smug-looking face.
He says, “Oh. Yes. Please. Thank you.”
Please and thank you. And then as I’m setting his bowl and chopsticks on my tray, he says to the Abbot, “He told me, he … explained to me, jet…” He looks at me, troubled. “What is the term?”
“Lag. Jet lag.”
“Yes. Jet lag. Thank you,” he says, and smiles at me with his crooked brown teeth.
And I smile at him.
And the Abbot smiles at both of us.
Moving on with my tray, I’m still not sure about the beard. I’m not sure about anything. This place is going to drive me around the bend. I’m sure about that.
Writer
1979-PRESENT
I didn’t go crazy at the monastery. But I didn’t attain enlightenment either. Didn’t even come close. And when my month was up I drove away feeling deeply discouraged. I had counted on attaining enlightenment. Then I wouldn’t have to worry any more about being a success or a failure. Imagine Buddha worrying about such a thing.
I drove around in the Catskill Mountains. It was beautiful there, especially now in the fall, but I wasn’t looking, I was staring straight ahead. I drove around for hours. I’m not exactly sure what I was trying to do. Just get lost, I guess. So lost I would disappear or something.
I did get lost. And by then I was getting low on gas, the sun was going down—was down whenever the road would dip a little—and I started thinking about bears. I didn’t want to run out of gas in the dark with bears around. I felt pretty certain about that.
I began looking for somewhere to stop and ask directions to the nearest town. But there wasn’t anything on either side of the road except woods—deep dark woods, where the bears lived.
I finally came on a big open barn near the road and pulled off and got out. There was an old stone house atop a hill on the other side of the road. I walked up to the barn. A handwritten cardboard sign hung over the entrance: Anteque Sale. It was very dim in there.
“Don’t be scared.”
I whipped around.
A fat middleaged woman with high hair and a lot of makeup, in a ratty fur coat and gold slippers, walked up holding a kerosene lamp.
“Let there be light,” she said, stepping past me into the barn, where she set the lamp down on the dirt floor. Then she turned around and spread her arms, indicating her wares: boxes of paperbacks, piles of old clothes, photo albums, plastic dolls, dirty vases, a stack of record albums, some rusty tools, an ironing board with a typewriter and toaster on it…
“Browse around,” she told me. “And if you have any questions—”
“Actually, I just stopped to ask for directions.”
She looked crushed. “Please buy something?” she asked. “All my friends are coming over for my birthday tomorrow and I can’t even afford a new dress. You look like a nice man. Are you visiting? I noticed your plates. I’ve never been to Illinois. I’ve never been anywhere. But you don’t want to hear my troubles. You want to look around. Do you enjoy the Tijuana Brass? I have all their records. They belonged to my husband. He would kill me if he knew. He went out to get a pack of cigarettes nine years ago and hasn’t come back. Maybe he stopped off somewhere. Please buy something? All my friends are coming over.” She was going to start crying.
I told her I would definitely buy something.
“You’re a very kind person. What’s your name? Mine’s Dolores. Where did you say you were staying?”
“Well, I was staying at a monastery, a Zen—”
“A monastery. What happened? Don’t tell me you gave up God for a woman. Please don’t tell me that old story.”
“No, I was just… basically visiting.”
“Did you find peace there?”
“Well…”
“Sometimes I pray and that’s what I ask for: peace of mind. ‘Dear Lord,’” she prayed, folding her hands and closing her eyes, “‘please bring me peace of mind. Please don’t let me go crazy.’” She opened her eyes. “I want to show you something I think you’ll appreciate, being a Catholic.”
She went over to a shaky-looking card table covered with small items and returned with a little plastic Virgin Mary. “Isn’t she cute?” She held it up to my face and tilted it side to side, speaking in a tiny voice: “Hi. My name is Mary. Won’t you take me home with you? Please? I’ve never been to Illinois. Pleeease?”
“How much.”
“One dollar. No, let’s say three.”
I pulled out my wallet and gave her three dollars, which she shoved in her coat pocket along with Mary.
I said to her, “The reason I stopped, I was wondering if you could direct me to the nearest—”
“Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No, I’m just looking for—”
“Because I’m not about to help you escape from the police, if that’s what you’re thinking. You can stay here if you like, but I’m telling you right now, if the police come by wanting to know if I’ve seen a young—”
“I’m not in trouble, ma’am. I’m just trying to get to the nearest town. Really.”
“Don’t call me ‘ma’am’ like that. My name’s Dolores, for God sakes.”
“Dolores. Right. Sorry.”
“Well, don’t just stand there, look around. Help yourself. Anything you want, anything at all, you name it. That’s what I’m here for. Then we’ll talk about hideouts and God knows what. Go on, browse around. Please? Don’t make me beg. Don’t make me cry.”
I knew I couldn’t handle that, so I looked around, feeling very self-conscious with her standing there watching me.
“Both of those dolls are antiques,” she said. “They’re a pair. They belonged to my grandmother, who got them from her grandmother.”
“Really?”
They were Barbie and Ken, both naked.
“Yes, ‘really,’” she said, a little pissed off.
I moved on to a stack of photo albums. When I started opening one she said, “Please do not look through those unless you’re willing to buy. Those are very personal photographs and some of them are rather shocking. Not for the faint of heart, I’m afraid. Twenty-five dollars for the whole set.”
I moved on.
“Those books are very old and rare,” she said.
I looked through the box. They were paperback Harlequin Romances.
“Most of those authors you’ve pr
obably never even heard of,” she added. “Twenty dollars for the entire box.”
I nodded and moved on.
“The Tijuana Brass is planning a comeback,” she said. “Did you read about that? Those are their actual original albums. Very hard to find. There’s also some Hawaiian music in there. Do you like Hawaiian music? My husband was crazy about it. That’s probably where he is right now, doing the hula with some slut in a grass skirt. I’m sorry. It’s none of your business.”
“That’s all right.”
“No, it is not all right.”
I moved on to the ironing board, with a small typewriter and toaster on it. There was a blank sheet of paper in the typewriter and I tapped out a sentence I remembered from typing class.
She came up beside me and read it out loud:
“‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.’”
She looked at me. “What a vivid description. Are you a writer? I could tell. The moment I saw you I thought to myself, He s either a serial killer or some kind of writer. Imagine my relief!”
“Actually—”
“So what do you write, nature books? I prefer fiction myself. I’ve read every one of those books you see over there, every single one, and I’ll tell you something, those people are as real to me as—well, as you are. More real, since I don’t know anything about you, except that you’re a writer, which I think is wonderful. Let’s say … ten dollars.”
“Pardon?”
“Ten. For the typewriter.”
“I don’t really need one.”
“What kind of writer doesn’t need a typewriter?”
“I’m not a writer.”
“Nonsense. Of course you are.”
“No, really. I’m not.”
“Then …” She brought her hand to her mouth.
“And I’m not a serial killer either. Honest to God, ma’am.”
“Dolores. The name’s Dolores. Is that asking so much?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not a serial killer, Dolores.”
“So what the hell are you then?”
I considered the question.
“I have no idea,” I told her, and laughed. It seemed wonderfully funny somehow. “Not a clue!” I said, and laughed some more.
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