178 Secrets

In my commitments for this practice period I had included exercise but for lack of time I had found this commitment to be one I could not keep. Once in a while, however, I walked—half exercise half kinhin—from home up Fifty-second Street to Capitol and back, five miles in seventy-five minutes, and as I walked I tried to be attentive to my body, to my step, my rolling hips, my gait, my balance, my swinging arms, to my rhythm, my breath. I walked a mile before my lungs stopped burning and by the end of my walk my left arch hurt and my hips ached. Thoughts mushroomed up from my mind like crazy but just a step or two later or a block or two later I'd wake up and return to my step and my breath.

"Good practice," the master commented.

Validation.

I had considered this "practice" before I ever met the master but I had let him talk me out it.

"Practice without a teacher is not practice!"

On Friday I had walked five miles again. I had to return to my step or to my breath over and over again. My mind had been wild and repeatedly it had gone wandering off to one thing or another. Once or twice I had walked a full block or more without my really being conscious of where I was or what I was doing. But from sitting meditation I was accustomed to returning to my breath so I tended to do that first and then I would remember to bring my attention to my body and to my step, not so different really from sitting zazen and following my breath and checking my posture. My pace was four steps to one breath, two steps to the inhalation and two steps to the exhalation. I was trying to be more attentive to my diet, too, and I had only a bowl of cereal and milk and coffee before noon.

God damn it I was fat!

Fat.

Both Krishnamurti and Thich Nhat Hanh thought there was no excuse for it.

My idols.

I had started reading Buddhism Is Not What You Think by Steve Hagen, the book from which Dean had read during his dharma talk the previous Sunday. I was still thinking about Dean's talk and I said so in my journal. The people at Zen Lite had told Dean what they think, I wrote in my journal, and then in his talk Dean told us what he thinks about what they think, and then I wrote what I think about what Dean thinks about what they think and next, I concluded, Kudo told me what he thinks about what I think about what Dean thinks about what they think, and now I write what I think about what Kudo thinks about what I think about what Dean thinks about what they think, and soon Kudo will tell me again what he thinks.

"All this thinking isn't that important?" the master remarked. "Is it?"

No.

Not at all.

But—

What is important?

I mentioned also in my journal that I had skipped my morning sitting and shouldn't have.

I had woken early enough and plenty rested.

"I'd just been lazy."

Yawn.

"Good that you're honest!" the master remarked.

Hmm.

It was a curse.

After zazen, service, and dharma talk we had a practice group meeting and it was there, in response to one of our group who had spoken of how hard it was to acknowledge a failing in front of us all, that the master mentioned that there were several things he had done in his life that he could tell only a very few people—those the master knew he could trust with the confidence—because the general knowledge of those past acts would ruin his reputation.

I mentioned this remark in my journal and I added that it was hard to understand.

Intrigue.

What was it was all about?

What?

Little did I know that this would be the beginning of the end.

I journaled.

"Secrets of some kind?" I wondered.

I speculated.

"For most people such secrets usually involve either drugs or sex."

The master ignored my reference.

Different topic—

"You are way overdue for a seven-day sesshin," the master stated.

Hmm.

Rohatsu sesshin, the commemoration of the enlightenment of the Buddha, always fell the first week of December, which was also the first week of winter quarter classes at the college.

"If that is a bad time for you," he suggested, "how about sitting a seven-day sesshin at another temple?"

I had no interest in that.

No.

I was way overdue, too, he added—

"For an extended period of practice in a temple or a monastery."

Retreat.

"This kind of practice would help you immensely."

Hmm.

Help me how I wondered.

Submission.

"How about coming to Philadelphia this June?" the master suggested.

No.

In the summer this book would come first.

It nagged me.

I was still waiting to learn if I would get sabbatical pay for producing a part of it.