146 Euphemism

On Tuesday I slept late and sat late. I had my three mugs of coffee and read the morning newspaper first. Then I emailed my dear friend Billy about my recent conflict with the master. Billy and my old friend John I considered charter members of the first Buddhist sangha to which I had ever belonged.

Billy replied.

"I think conflict is not unusual," Billy suggested, "for those who are fortunate enough to be working closely with a teacher."

I included Billy's remark in my journal.

"Yes, not unusual, in fact commonplace," the master agreed. "But you don't like conflict, right?"

Sigh.

Another taunt.

To me again it seemed the master was being deliberately argumentative and I did not know why.

Did anyone like conflict?

No.

I thought not.

The neurotic and the perverse perhaps.

But rarely if ever in my life had I been accused of avoiding conflict. Had my questions to the master both in my journal and in group discussion been those of a man who hoped and tried to avoid conflict?

I thought not.

"Are you able to acknowledge your feelings to Kudo about his verbal harshness?" asked the master.

I was intrigued by his use of the term "verbal harshness." Was it not a euphemism for verbal abuse?

"What are your feelings?" the master asked. "You've never acknowledged them to me. Have you acknowledged them to yourself? All you have said to me is that you wonder why I'm sometimes verbally harsh," the master added, "and you don't like verbal harshness, right?"

I could not remember my ever using the words "verbal harshness." My own words had been "verbal abuse."

Had I not asked the master directly face to face in public—in group discussion after our monthly World Peace Ceremony—if his frequent namecalling, mockery, and ridicule were not verbal abuse?

Yes.

Did I like verbal abuse?

No.

Did I try to avoid being verbally abusive myself?

Yes.

Did I try to hide when I thought I perceived verbal abuse by others?

No.

I objected to it.

"I guess we are all working out our salvation with fear and trembling and a host of other emotions," Billy said in his reply to me, "laughter, irritation, and boredom."

Billy—after John—I had considered my Buddhist teacher. Over our many years of practice and correspondence his counsel rarely failed to reassure me. Since the master had told me that he was not interested in my point of view—I still did not know what other point of view I could possibly express—and since I felt stymied I had been keeping a list of the daily little images and details of my life—the dharma, the phenomena—that so often burst in wonder and beauty upon the surface of my consciousness. Those of a typical morning—from my waking to my walking into work—I now included in my journal.

The electronic beep of my alarm.

The tiny bead of a button to stop it.

The bead felt by the pad of the end of my finger.

The smell of my yellow urine.

Familiar old red, orange, yellow plastic cereal bowls.

Big jug of white milk.

Seat, wheel, mirrors, shoulder harness.

Intricate cockpit.

Zooming down the concrete ribbon.

Zooming into the twinkling.

Lavender dawn in my rearview mirror.

Big dark orange eye.

Death trap stop light.

Blinker left—tinka tinka tinka tinka tinka tink.

Cheeping chirping birds.

Steel grip.

Heavy door.

Hello job hello hello—good morning hello.

"Blah, blah, blah," the master commented. "What about you?"

Hello.

In the morning I woke at 4:00 and sat forty minutes before my coffee and paper. Ripples of sadness went through me, I said in my journal, as I read the morning newspaper. A man had been roped by his ankles and dragged behind a vehicle for three quarters of a mile. A police officer had responded to a fatal stabbing and discovered the victim was his own son. A railroad switchman had lost a leg between two boxcars. Two Lincoln women the age of my mother had died in an auto accident. An infant had survived a wreck that killed her parents.

"What about you, Bob?" the master asked.

Routine.

My ripples of sadness were not enough for the master.

He demanded more.

When I got to work I walked to my classroom to arrange furniture, prepare handouts, and write reminders on the whiteboard. A young woman was there half an hour early. We said hello and made polite conversation. I mentioned the sadness that I felt as I had read the morning paper, the story of the injured but surviving infant and her dead parents in particular.

"The baby's mother was my best friend," my student said.

"Oh! I'm so sorry."

My student smiled sadly, sweetly, beautifully.

Loss.