88 Harold

One night the master also taught us a simple chant, a single syllable which in Japanese, he said, meant the Way.

"Ho!"

We were to extend the vowel sound, the "o," until we had to inhale, and then repeat the syllable. The practice was similar to what I had done on my own and on my visits to The Farm with the syllable "aum" or "om."

"Ho!"

We students all chanted together. I was immediately aware that I was louder than anyone else. I did not want to stand out or to call attention to myself so I quickly lowered my volume. As we chanted, repeating the "o" sound together, the master interrupted the practice by calling my name.

"Bob?"

"Yes?"

"Please don't take this wrong but—" the master began.

He stopped for my okay to continue.

"Yes?"

"You really sound kind of wimpy," he said grinning.

I laughed.

So when we resumed chanting I used my full normal voice.

"Ho!"

It felt good.

The master made no special claims for Buddhism, for zazen, or for himself. There was no real drama in the class until our third meeting more than a month after the attacks on the Pentagon and on the two Towers of the World Trade Center in New York. Though recent, the subject had not come up. We students had not asked about it, our instruction was in meditation not in philosophy, and the master had not mentioned it. On this night we were sitting zazen and Harold, sitting as usual in his chair, was experiencing obvious difficulty.

The master repeatedly reprimanded him.

"Harold, stop moving your feet—you're disturbing the others."

Minutes passed.

"Harold, stop moving your hands—you're disturbing the others."

Minutes passed.

"Harold, please, stop fidgeting—you're disturbing the others."

Minutes passed.

Finally exasperated, the master lurched up suddenly from his cushion and grasped Harold's two ankles with his hands and moved Harold's feet to the position the master considered proper. Then the master did the same with Harold's arms and hands. It took several minutes of minor adjustments to Harold's posture—to hips, back, legs, feet, arms, and hands—before the master was satisfied and returned to his cushion and mat on the floor. For two or three minutes we sat in silence. Then Harold's breathing became audible. He inhaled deeply and expelled the air in long audible sighs one after another. Then his deep breaths, still audible, grew irregular and it was obvious to me that Harold was experiencing distress.

"Harold, please—" the master began again.

Harold interrupted him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Harold exclaimed now clearly crying but trying hard not to cry. "But I'm so upset over the terrorist attacks!" he said. "Aren't we even going to talk about them?"

He pled.

"Just follow your breath," the master said in a voice that astonished me with its measured calm and complete absence of emotion.

"I can't!" Harold cried.

"Yes, you can," said the master.

"No, I can't, I can't!" Harold said again. "I'm so upset over the attacks!"

"It doesn't matter," the master replied. "Just sit and follow your breath in and then follow your breath out."

"But it does matter!" Harold insisted. "It matters to me!"

"Enough talking."

Harold regained control of his emotion. The five other students and I had maintained our posture and silence. Harold's feet were visible in my line of sight. He adjusted them. His breathing slowed until his breaths were no longer audible. Now we all sat in silence and breathed.

"Follow your breath in," the master said quietly.

The master paused.

"Follow your breath out."

Time passed.

"If consciousness arises," the master said and then he paused, "it means that the present moment is not being attended to."

His voice, calm and quiet, communicated a profound reverence.

"When consciousness arises, just return to your breath. When you return to your breath, check your posture, and then just follow your breath in and follow your breath out."

We sat till the end of class.

There was no time for our usual discussion. The subject of the terrorist attacks never came up again. I was deeply impressed by the way the master had responded to Harold. I was grateful to Harold, too, and glad that he'd said what he had. He didn't return for our last two classes but he had evidently made an appointment with the master and spoken with him during the week. At our next meeting, the master apologized for what had transpired and in a way he also apologized for Harold. The master informed us that this was not the first time that Harold had enrolled in the meditation class. Harold had registered at least twice before, the master said, and just like this time he had been unable to attend more than two or three classes. Harold had also more than once arranged to speak with the master in private, the master told us, and I later learned when the master showed them to me that Harold had written the master long letters in turgid, marginally coherent prose on metaphysical topics.

"Harold has a lot of issues," the master told us.

It was two years before I saw Harold again. He attended the annual sangha picnic in the summer. I reminded him of our class together and he talked for over an hour about semiotics, numerology, synchronicity, and mystic coincidence, all apparently an obsession of his. Had I permitted it, I got the impression he would still be talking. Like others I have known, it seemed that Harold just could not sit still, be quiet, and listen. Harold was just the first of many people I would meet at the Zen Center who seemed simply to disappear.