Back home in my late afternoon zazen I dozed off four or five times in my twenty minutes, jerking awake when my chin and head sank toward my chest. I rarely had that problem unless I put off my second sitting until right before bed at night. I had been sitting early, between 4:00 and 6:00 p.m., to avoid drowsiness. I did not know why I dozed off in the afternoon, but my teaching required a lot of psychic energy. I took intellectual risks, though none would seem a big deal to veteran academics in the humanities, nor to any open-minded adult who liked to read, but my materials and methods appeared daring to first- and second-year college students and even to some managers and administrators at the community college where I taught. I had to be vigilant.
In this my Zen practice helped me.
Five Christian coworkers were trying now to save me, praying, they said, that I would find the truth and peace of Christ their lord and savior.
Jesus!
They were so curious, so intrigued, and sometimes so baffled by me that I could not help but laugh as I wrote of it in my journal. I was reminded again of Thich Nhat Hanh.
"A clever way to enjoy life."
Yes.
How glad I was for the sangha, for the dharma, for the buddha, for the master, for zazen. It had been a good day. I felt good, glad to be alive, happy to be a teacher, grateful, still curious.
Never bored.
Beautiful day, beautiful sky, beautiful sun, beautiful breeze, all so beautiful. As I entered these thoughts in my journal, Katy napped, supine on the porch swing on the deck out back. In the dining room, on just the other side of the window, Ruth read and evaluated the handmade books her typography students had assembled for their first assignment. Perched atop their open cage our two parakeets Birdy Wordy and Blue Bird were quietly warbling. My colleague and dear friend Jules had just called; we'd meet at the Dundee Dell for lunch and talk teaching and baseball. Barry Bonds was one homer shy of 700 and hitting .375 with over 200 walks! Jules hated him—certain that his records were the result of his use of performance-enhancing drugs—and at lunch we would argue and laugh.
"Life is good," I wrote. "Life is short."
I was happy.
I was reading another book by Sheng Yen.
The only thing to do in the course of cultivation [of mindfulness] is to keep moving forward. Like a rocket shooting into the sky we must keep discarding sections until there is nothing more to let go of. When there is nothing in the mind then let go of it. Let go even of letting go.
Ah!
He was good.
On Sunday I arrived early at the temple in case anyone wanted instruction in the duties of doan, shoten, or jisha. I swept the porch and steps and laid out the mats and cushions and sutra books in the buddha hall, set out the charcoal and the incense for service, ground the coffee beans, and got the coffee maker ready. At service there were fourteen present, fifteen with the master, an average crowd. After coffee the practice period group assembled upstairs and talked with the master and each other about our practice. It was always good for me to hear others speak of their practice. It demystified the experience and created solidarity.
I could think only of good things to say.
"I feel a deep gladness in my practice," I said, "and I've come to love members of our sangha."
I didn't say more. I felt my eyes moisten. Had I continued I might have cried.
I didn't like to cry.
Days passed.
Dylan didn't have school on Friday and both he and Katy were happy to see me when I arrived to babysit. We talked and laughed and Katy and I wrestled and teased. At mid-morning we all three walked to the school playground, full of swings, slides, and monkey bars. The kids played, climbed, and explored for almost an hour. We were the only people there and the day was absolutely gorgeous—sunshine, dew still twinkling on the grass, a cool breeze, the children's voices, their giggles, laughter, whoops, and calls, a sound I loved. I sat on the step in the shade of the school and watched. On our walk back we three counted in one small front yard six squirrels hunting acorns beneath an oak tree. The children ran and scattered them. Later the kids spotted a cricket. They cornered it against a retaining wall.
"Don't hurt it, Dylan," I called. "Be kind."
Later I heard Dylan tell his little sister: "Grandpa says don't hurt it, Katy. Be kind."
A few weeks later my wife and I planned to visit our children in Texas. As usual when I traveled, I planned to bring along my zafu, but Michael and Mary and Ruth and I would all be sharing a single hotel room for several nights so I knew that fitting in my morning and evening sittings might be difficult.
But I found a space and a time and I sat.
On the drive to Texas we listened to the Beatles:
All you need is love
Ra tata tata
All you need is love
Ra tata tata
All you need is love
Love
Love is all you need
Love is all you need
Love is all you need
I felt grateful—
"Kudo," I wrote in my journal, addressing my teacher directly, "thanks to your helping me, I feel more capable of helping others, which has been all I have really wanted to do since my awakening in 1975. I remember your saying once that—counterintuitively—if one wants to help others, one should sit more. I have felt and experienced the truth of that advice in the four years I have practiced at Heartmind Temple."
From the master no comment.
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