105 Steady

One afternoon Ruth and I left our school work and drove to the DeSoto Wildlife Refuge, one of our favorite getaways. There we saw by far the largest flock of turkeys we had ever seen, about a hundred gleaning a winter corn field, the remainder of white snow, the black dirt, and the dead yellow stumps of stalks composing a starkly beautiful scene framed by the tangled black and gray limbs and branches of the leafless winter trees at the borders of the field. At another spot two nut hatches flitted about the trees and fence, eating the birdseed someone had left atop the posts. The geese and ducks were gone. The lake and riverbend were frozen. From inside the visitor center the alternately dull and shiny glaze of thick gray and silver ice highlighted with swirls and patches of white snow was a vast brilliant mirror imperfectly reflecting the blue and moving white sky.

Then I had driven to Emerson to bring my mother, at the time eighty-six years old, up to Omaha for the weekend. She had cabin fever bad and was overdue for an outing. In my own eccentric yet dedicated way I had practiced Buddhism for twenty-six years and my mother had always been suspicious of my interest in it. Now my growing involvement with the temple had intensified her concern and on our drive she questioned me.

"Why do you spend so much time at that temple?" she asked.

I considered.

"Is it compulsory?" she inquired.

I laughed.

"No, Mother, of course not!" I said.

She frowned.

"Well, then, what is the purpose of it?" she asked sternly.

Hmm.

I had to think for several seconds. An introductory discourse on the idea that there is nothing ultimately to be attained did not seem to me the appropriate response to her inquiry.  

"To become kinder," I said finally.

She frowned.

"But you're already kind!" she exclaimed.

I laughed.

On the first Sunday of March there was a double service in the morning, both a memorial for the master's teacher Dainin Katagiri and the regular monthly World Peace Ceremony. In his dharma talk the master continued his explication of "Verses on the Faith Mind." The master's observations on violence and nonviolence, on politics, and on remembering the other side of every alleged truth were useful to me. Then, after the usual informal tea, sangha members who were participating in the winter practice period met with the master upstairs and discussed their problems or difficulties in their practice and commitments. There were normally three such meetings each practice period. Several people mentioned their resistance both to rising early in the morning to sit and to maintaining their daily journal, both of which had come relatively easy for me. So far for me things had gone well and I felt positive and good about my practice. I had no serious complaints.

"My job, my marriage and family, and my practice are all three interesting and fun," I said when it was my turn to speak. "I know I'm fortunate," I added, "and I'm grateful for the opportunity to learn and to practice the dharma." To conclude I repeated a remark I had read in a book by Thich Nhat Hanh: "Buddhism is a very clever way to enjoy life!"

The master smiled.

I smiled.

Then he cautioned me: "Don't get too high!"

Yes.

I understood his warning.

Zen.

But I felt centered, balanced, and steady.

Not euphoric.