167 Mad

Impermanence.

By midmorning of the next day, less than fourteen hours later, I was right back where I had started. What on earth had I been thinking? I could not give the dharma talk! All I could think about was my teacher.

I emailed the master.

"Today I am thinking of my talk. I continue to struggle with my ambivalence about our relationship. Do you think it might be better if the talk is given by a student who is experiencing fewer doubts than I am at the present? If you still want me to try I will do my best—but with regard to my practice just about the only thing on my mind is us and I can't talk about that with you not there."

Too awkward.

"It wouldn't be right," I said. "What do you think?"

I wondered.

"Can you help me?" I inquired. "I'm at a loss."

The master promptly replied.

"Alison will give the talk. I will tell Edward. What do I think? This is not about 'us,' Bob. It is about 'you.' Sit down, point the finger back at yourself, and whatever you find there drop it. You are at a loss? Good," the master said. "Now allow things to come up from there."

I felt relieved.

"Allow things to come up from there."

Yes.

This was what I had been doing or at least been trying to do since the very beginning of this ordeal nine months before yet my study of myself had yielded nothing of the dishonesty and cowardice the master insisted I should find. The next two weeks were uneventful but the master had scheduled a meeting of our practice group after service on the first Sunday of October. In front of the group—the master, Eleanor, Edward, Alison, Dean, James, and Nikki—I would have to address any issues that had come up in my practice. There I hoped to be able to put the problem behind me but I knew that I might very well be asked for specifics and, if so, I did not want to wander. On a small sheet of paper that I could fold and carry in my pocket I made a list—a recapitulation—and hoped I would not have to consult it. I titled it "My Conflict with the Master—He Felt I Needed Confronting."

1  The master attributed to me feelings I didn't feel—deep anger and deep sadness.

2  When I said I wasn't feeling deep anger and deep sadness the master said I was dishonest.

3  When I said I hadn't been dishonest the master said I was afraid to admit to the sangha and to him what I really felt.

4  When I said I wasn't afraid of revealing anything to him or to the sangha the master called this denial.

5  The master implored me to admit—to confess—that what he had been saying about my dishonesty and cowardice was true.

6  But I could not—and I cannot—say what I do not feel or think is true.

7  The master said that I was stuck in emptiness and that he didn't think he could teach me.

But the practice group meeting passed without incident.

Nikki spoke first.

Her job.

When it was my turn to speak I explained that the master had felt I needed confronting; that in our conflict I felt that we had reached impasse; that I thought either the master or I might find it necessary to end our relationship but that the master had suggested we meet face to face for an hour every other week; and that although the master continued to confront me I felt that our relationship had improved.

No one present at the meeting asked for the particulars—and why would they? Except for Eleanor and James, everyone present had heard the story of my conflict with the master more than once.

Nikki had two questions.

"Do you think the obstacle is in you or do you think the master is wrong?"

"I think the master is wrong."

Nikki nodded.

"Are you scared?" she asked.

I didn't know what she meant.

"Scared of what?"

"Scared that you might lose your teacher," Nikki said.

"No."

"That possibility would terrify me!" she said.

"No, I don't have that kind of fear," I said. "My faith in the teaching and in the practice is so strong that I can't imagine losing it."

Nikki nodded.

I thought.

"I don't I think I feel as reliant on the master as you do," I added.

I thought again.

"On my drive to work one morning I considered the possibility that my relationship with master might end," I said. "My love for him and my gratitude for what I have learned from him brought tears to my eyes."

Silence.

My breath.

Now it was Alison—then Edward, Eleanor, and James.

The master was the last to speak of his practice. The master mentioned what he had learned from sharing the temple with Eleanor, his fatigue, and his trying perhaps to do too much. Someone asked—I forget who—if the master ever got sick and tired of the questions students constantly asked him. The master acknowledged his impatience and frustration with students who after six or eight years at the temple still failed to do what he had repeatedly told them to do.

But tired of their questions?

"No."

The master thought a moment.

"What makes me mad," the master said sounding suddenly mad, "is when my students blame me for their inability to practice!"

The full stress, weight, force, and accent of his sentence fell squarely on its second "me."

I did not know what the master meant.

We adjourned.

Forward.

Time passed.