124 Felicity

I had mentioned in my journal that in my class in academic discourse I had assigned the essay "Education and World Peace" by Krishnamurti and that in the essay Krishnamurti made exactly the same points as Einstein but in language more direct and straightforward and slightly less affected and old-fashioned. The concepts—reason, objectivity, ethnocentrism, egocentrism, the errors of nationalism and militarism—had been just as difficult for my students to accept in Krishnamurti's text, I noted in my journal, but his text had been easier for them to understand and to respond to in their commentaries.

To this observation the master responded:

"You know, of course, the limitations of reason and that objectivity is impossible, don't you?"

I did.

But my repeated acknowledgment of the fact had not been and would not be persuasive to the master; and his perception of me and of my commitment to and faith in reason would become one source of the rift in our relationship. The more I wrote of reason the more my differences with the master emerged. In the effort to determine our true self and our true nature the master and I did agree on the importance of personal experience.

But not, he insisted, on the value of science and reason.

"I put much more stock in intuition, in wisdom, and in understanding," he said.

Were we really so far apart?

Not two.

"The ultimate goal for Einstein is selflessness in the service of all humankind," I said.

Altruism, philanthropy.

"For both the Christ and the Buddha that also seemed the goal."

No?

"My ultimate goal," the master responded, "is to wake up and to see clearly."

Buddha means awakened person, the master explained, and the experience which transformed the life of Siddartha, the master added, was his awakening to his true nature.

"Until you deeply awaken," the master said, "you will be of no service to humankind."

No?

"What do reason and science have to do it?" asked the master.

I wondered.

Was an unawakened surgeon, I wondered, of any service to humankind? An unawakened nurse? An unawakened farmer? Was an unawakened garbage collector of any service to humankind? An unawakened plumber, an unawakened nurses' aide, an unawakened gravedigger, an unawakened childcare provider, an unawakened cook, an unawakened dishwasher?

Yes.

I thought so.

The denial was hard to understand.

Had reason and science anything to do with it?

Yes.

I thought so.

Their peremptory dismissal was hard to understand.

Had my almost forty years of teaching reading, thinking, and writing been of no service to humankind? Though perhaps unawakened, I felt good—I wrote in my journal—productive, committed, engaged, fulfilled, content, loved, loving, happy, glad, and very grateful. The last time I had written a sentence like that the master had responded with what I assumed was a rhetorical question.

"What else is there?" he had asked.

To want he meant.

Now I felt so good I not only asked it again I also presumed to answer it.

"Nothing."

Not so fast!

"How about unproductive, uncommitted, disengaged, unfulfilled, discontented, unloved, hating, sad, and ungrateful?" the master replied. "Isn't this part of it, too, sometimes even in the very next moment?"

Sure.

But in the moment I wrote that wasn't how I felt.

Hm.

The master concluded with a favorite exchange between student and teacher.

"What is buddha?" a student inquired of his teacher.

Love?

Awakening?

Sky?

"Dried shit stick!" his teacher answered.

At the one-day sesshin, for me everything went well. My legs held up. They were sore by the time of the two late afternoon zazen periods, my left knee the worst, but the pain reached a plateau and then never got worse. I just sat through it, walking every forty or fifty minutes or so and then reversing legs. At the final two-hour zazen period after supper I sat an hour before I walked. The master urged us to give our very best effort and he guided us as we sat.

I tried.

"If you have pain," the master said, "just put your mind where the pain is and sit for a while with the discomfort."

I tried.

His counsel helped me immediately, I tried even harder, and the pain did indeed fade in and fade out as I sat with my mind on it, the pain sometimes disappearing mysteriously altogether until I woke to its absence, and then it would reappear and be present again.

"Enjoy your breathing," the master added. "Enjoy your breath."

I did.

I read constantly of enlightened masters, teachers, gurus, yogis, and adepts of one stripe or another. One Sunday one of the new visitors to the temple was a young woman named Felicity who was a student of Jetsunma, the Buddhist teacher whose life and teaching had been described in The Buddha from Brooklyn, a book I had read and then passed onto the master. After zazen, service, and the master's dharma talk, I spent our informal tea and coffee time at the picnic table with Felicity, who told me what a wonderful person her teacher Jetsunma was.

"It is obvious how special and how different Jetsunma is from her students," Felicity said. "By contrast the master here seems to put himself on an equal basis with everyone."

I explained to Felicity that she was both right and wrong on that score.

Master.

Felicity compared Jetsunma to the Dalai Lama, whom Felicity said she had once met.

"I could actually feel my DNA being changed by his presence," Felicity said.

Felicity seemed to be serious.

I mentioned to Felicity that my friend Billy had attended empowerments given by Penor Rinpoche, the Tibetan lama who according to the book I read had recognized Jetsunma as in fact a special teacher, and I told Felicity that my friend had met the Rinpoche and liked him.

But Felicity said there were so many Tibetan lamas in and out of Jetsunma's estate that for Felicity they had all merged into one lama and Felicity could not keep them straight.

Felicity also commented that the Heartmind seemed "a house" and "not a temple." She intended only a slight disparagement. Heartmind was a two-story family residence that the master had converted to a temple. By contrast Felicity described at length Jetsunma's elaborate temple and grounds and their material splendor with which she was deeply impressed. The revelation that her teacher Jetsunma was the reincarnation of a Tibetan lama was also important to Felicity though she seemed uncertain why. I knew that Jetsunma had come first to public attention by her organizing continuous prayer for peace.

That I liked.

Later I related our conversation to the master. I didn't want to be too negative. I told him that Felicity had been very nice, very polite, very friendly, indeed so much so that I'd mentioned the fact to Felicity.

Felicity had smiled broadly.

"Everyone I meet says I am the happiest person they have ever met!" Felicity had exclaimed.

At my mention of this the master frowned darkly and remarked:

"She will go down!"