On Friday, October 20, 2006, I expressed in my journal the remark that I believe inspired my teacher to give up on me. For months I had been wondering about my book. In the beginning I had thought my book would be little different from the first-person narratives I read regularly in the quarterly newsletters of other Zen temples. The master stacked them on the coffee table in the buddha hall and while I waited there on the couch before evening zazen on Tuesdays I thumbed through new issues and if I had time before I hit the han I read in them the short essays by students and teachers about the epiphanies and ordeals of Zen practice. These essays were informative, invariably positive, a few worshipful, even mushy, most a combination of personal anecdote, explication, reflection, testimony, and witness. Later it became increasingly clear that my own narrative would be different from most I read. The master did not fit the tender stereotype. I thought of the master as the Zen equivalent of my high school football coach.
1 Instruction.
2 Practice.
3 Repetition.
4 Discipline.
5 Exhortation.
6 Disparagement.
7 Derision.
8 Pain.
9 Repeat—
I remained confident that I could offer an honest account of my experience and in spite of all that had transpired I continued to believe that the master might permit me to relate in my book the details of what he had called his "mistake"—his past brief romantic relationship with Nananda. Their relationship had not been illicit, it was now sixteen years in the past, and so far as I knew neither party had any complaint about it. I could not omit it from my book.
I said so in my journal.
"If I include it," I asked, "will it mean the end of our relationship?"
I stared at what I had written.
"If I include it—"
Several times again on Saturday I stared and thought some more.
"If I include it—"
Then on Sunday morning I sat and stared and thought again.
"If I include it—"
The master had himself once been a student and a teacher of English. I knew that he knew that the story belonged in my book—but at the very least I knew that the master would call me in to talk.
I felt up to it.
It was 7:47 in the morning.
I knew that the master sometimes read his email in the office before zazen at 9:00. He had scheduled a meeting of our practice group immediately after his dharma talk. I wondered what I should say there about my practice. I wondered what the master might say, if anything, about me and my book and my question.
"If I include it will it mean—"
I did not know what to expect but I could think of no good reason not to ask it.
None.
Nervous I clicked on "send."
Done.
There were only six of us at the meeting. Two or three practitioners had been unable to attend.
"I read a student journal this morning—" the master announced to begin our meeting.
He paused.
"—and as I read it I felt a twist of my intestines."
He paused.
The master said that for several weeks his irritable bowel had been giving him fits. He apologized for the rumbles and whines that his digestive tract had been making in the zendo and he apologized and expressed his gratitude to Eleanor in particular for tolerating what he described as his incredibly loud and long farts. None of us was embarrassed in the least. We were concerned only about his health. Edward and I had only recently discussed the alarming noises that issued from our teacher during both morning and evening zazen. Similar noises had immediately preceded his previous hospitalizations and it was impossible not to interpret them this time, too, as a dire warning of perhaps still more serious problems yet to come.
"Do you believe it was the stress of reading the student journal that caused the pain you experienced this morning?"
Eleanor asked.
"Yes," said the master. "I do."
If for no other reason than his health, Eleanor told the master, he should consider withdrawing from the relationship. In her opinion, she said, both teacher and student sometimes had to go their separate ways. That was basically the decision at which she herself had eventually arrived, Eleanor explained, in her relationship with Nananda at Laugh Out Loud. It had just not felt quite right to her at some point and she had not really known why.
"I just finally decided myself," Eleanor said, "that I should not be leaving every dokusan in tears!"
Eleanor smiled.
Chagrin.
"You don't think that was Nananda's fault!" the master interjected.
"Oh no, no, no!" Eleanor exclaimed.
No.
She shook her head.
No.
No.
"It was all me!" Eleanor said. "It was all just me!"
She smiled.
"Yes!"
The master nodded.
"Me!"
Eleanor explained.
That had been the situation which led her to ask the master if he would accept her as his student.
"I think you should withdraw from it," Eleanor said now to the master. "I think you should."
She waited.
"I think you should!" Eleanor exclaimed.
Yes.
She nodded.
Yes.
Yes.
"End the relationship if it is having that effect on your health!"
Yes.
With that I felt my fate was sealed.
The end.
The master said nothing.
The meeting moved forward. Eleanor briefly related her own practice issues. With the master's blessing she planned to spend three months in retreat at Tassajara. Eager to go, Eleanor was nevertheless worried about the cold, since there was no heat at Tassajara, and worried also about early morning zazen there. Reveille was at 3:45 and Eleanor, too, suffered from colitis.
Eleanor frowned.
"Two factors aggravate my irritable bowel," she explained.
We waited.
"Cold and not getting enough sleep!"
Eleanor smiled.
"You'll be fine!" the master assured her.
"Really?"
"Yes."
It was my turn.
"Everything usually seems to go well in my practice," I said, "except for my relationship with my teacher."
I paused.
"The journal in particular."
I thought for a few seconds about how to proceed.
Forward.
"For several months I have been afraid that Kudo might terminate our relationship."
I waited.
"I have been tempted to do that more than once," the master declared.
I thought.
I myself remembered only once that it had come to that. It had been when the master had told me that I was stuck in emptiness and that he did not think he could teach me any longer.
Incorrigible.
But in just the past few weeks the master had let me know that he no longer trusted me and that he would be guarded and wary now about what he told me. By this I had been saddened. The thought of intentionally deceiving the master, my teacher, or of deliberately withholding from him anything at all about my life had never crossed my mind.
I had to be honest and open in order to be taught and to learn.
I knew that.
I was not sure even now what to call the concatenation of events which had transpired since the master had first told us in discussion that there were things in his past that he could not reveal to just anyone for fear that their general knowledge would ruin his reputation.
Intrigue?
Yes.
Discriminative thinking?
Yes.
Insecurity?
Yes.
Mistrust?
Yes.
Doubt?
Yes.
Misunderstanding?
Yes.
Yes.
All of the above—
Yes.
"I think that it is perfectly understandable and okay for a teacher to terminate the relationship with a student," Eleanor said for the third time and this time Eleanor added, "or for the student to terminate the relationship with a teacher and to look for a teacher more compatible."
Everyone sat silent.
I waited.
Eleanor looked at the master.
Unmoved.
Silent still.
The master appeared solemn and pensive as he considered her remarks.
We waited.
We waited.
Eleanor looked at me.
I waited.
"It happens," Eleanor said.
She nodded.
Ugh.
It sickened me slightly to see and to hear Eleanor act as an advocate for the termination of my relationship with my teacher but I could not think of a word to say. I did not know what to do. I did not know what was best. I understood that Eleanor must have been very concerned, deeply concerned, worried, just as I had been, just as we all had been, about the master's health. It had been Eleanor, after all, whom the master had gotten out of bed in the middle of the night, more than once as I recalled, so that she might rush him to the hospital to determine the cause of his abdominal pain.
Anxiety.
I remained silent but I was myself determined not to quit.
No!
I had done that once and do it again I would not.
But if my teacher felt that he could no longer teach me then I was prepared to accept his decision.
Silent.
We waited.
Nikki placed her palms together in gassho.
"Nikki?" the master said.
"Bob used the word 'afraid' today," Nikki said, "and this is the first time I've ever heard Bob acknowledge that he feels any fear whatsoever and I just want to say that I feel his doing so now is positive."
Hm.
Everyone looked at me.
Fear.
I smiled.
I felt I had been misunderstood and for an instant I considered saying so but instead I just sat and watched the temptation arise, linger, stay, pass on through my mind, tugging "me" slightly, just a nibble, and then evaporate as I breathed.
Fear.
I nodded.
Yes.
I don't remember the practice issue that Nikki addressed in her remarks when it was her turn to speak; but I remember that Dean talked of his mind and his attention and concentration.
Next.
Edward felt remorse, he said, for the way that he had treated Ivan in training him to be shoten. Until today when Edward had served as shoten himself, he said, Edward had not realized how the many recent changes in temple protocol, necessitated by the increasing attendance at Sunday service, had made the job of shoten much more complex than it once had been. In other practitioners, Edward explained, more than anything else he had always hated arrogance.
"I realized today that I have been more arrogant than anyone!" Edward exclaimed.
Edward cried.
He found his breath and audibly inhaled.
Out.
In.
He calmed himself.
I hurt.
"I've been the most arrogant one of all!" Edward exclaimed.
Tears.
Repentance.
God.
Edward's lips and mouth trembled, he sniffled, tears glistened in his eyes, and Edward wiped them away with his hand.
It was a moment precious and profound and tears moistened my eyes, too, and in my heart I felt for my friend the ache of pity and love.
No one spoke.
His poignant confession had moved all of us and we sat simply in silence until Edward regained his composure. Words of objection and denial climbed to my mind, to my mouth, from my heart but I remained silent, I just sat, and I followed my breath. More than two years later as I read, rewrite, and edit my book I cannot help but wonder how our sangha, our relationships, our practice, and our understanding might have been changed had the master ever said to us what Edward said.
James was the last of us to speak.
We waited.
James had struggled, he said, with the daily journal.
The journal!
I felt strangely comforted by his remarks. In the past Edward had struggled with the journal, I knew, and also Mark and Alison and Dean. For many of us, it seemed, the journal had sometimes been a source of contention.
James complained about the master.
"His comments seem gratuitously argumentative," James said.
James paused.
"No matter what I write."
Indeed.
"Just sit with them," Eleanor suggested.
Eleanor was trying to be conciliatory, helpful, and encouraging, I understood, but Eleanor herself had neither personal experience nor personal knowledge of this practice issue. I was certain that unlike the rest of us, because Eleanor was a resident student at the temple and spoke daily with the master, for her the requirement of the daily journal had been waived.
I asked.
"Do you submit a weekly journal?"
"No."
I made a face.
"But I feel I know what it's like!" Eleanor exclaimed.
No.
I shook my head and I smiled.
No.
No.
"You don't know what you're missing," I joked.
I grinned.
"I speak all the time with Kudo!" Eleanor exclaimed.
I nodded.
Yes.
"I'm corrected and criticized," Eleanor said. "I get mad, too!"
I nodded.
Yes.
"I get annoyed!" Eleanor exclaimed.
Yes.
I nodded.
Yes.
"I feel like I understand what you mean!" Eleanor said.
"No."
I shook my head.
No.
"I don't think you do," I insisted. "The journal is different."
"I agree," said James.
"I do, too," said Edward.
Dean listened.
The master, too, just sat and remained silent.
We adjourned.
There was nothing new in any of this and there was not much more to be said. At the end of the meeting we walked downstairs and I removed my rakusu from around my neck and tucked it into its case. Near the bottom of the stairs Edward did the same. James busied himself with the altar and the doan closet. He was preparing to stay for an hour to care for the flowers on the temple altars. Just a few feet away Eleanor was putzing around in the kitchen, preparing lunch for her and the master. The four of us composed a quiet domestic vignette.
"I was glad to hear you speak of your struggle with the journal," I told James. "It's nice to know that it's not just me. Alison has had trouble with the journal, her husband Mark had trouble with the journal, too, and Dean, too, and I think Edward has also had trouble with the journal," I said.
"Definitely!" Edward exclaimed.
"It feels sometimes like the master makes comments just to stir the pot," said James.
"Yes!" I said. "That's exactly how it felt to me."
Eleanor looked from the kitchen.
"I told him so," I said.
I smiled.
Eleanor frowned in disapproval.
Hm.
Had our conversation appeared to Eleanor so inappropriate that she might feel obliged to report it?
I wondered.
But to me at the time this possibility seemed unimportant.
I didn't care.
In the past several of us had complained both to the master and to one another about the journal; and though Eleanor had been a resident at the temple now for a year and a half I supposed that she knew little of the history of our local sangha. I had never told anyone anything about my practice that I had not also told the master nor had I ever told anyone anything about the master, about my sangha friends, my practice, or me that I cared if they told another. I had committed myself to the way, to the practice, and to the master—though the degree to which I was committed to the last the master himself now disputed—and, on the rare occasion when I had written to someone and said something I later doubted, I had forwarded to the master a copy of my email so that he would know what I had said and could correct me. I had been prepared from the very beginning of my relationship with the master to be open and honest with him. I had no interest in a relationship with him of any other kind. I felt about the master just as I felt about my doctor.
If I were not totally honest with him how would he be able to help me?
It made no sense.
None.
What would be the point?
None.
I had committed.
Only later when the shit had hit the fan did I remember the conversation at the bottom of the stairs and wonder if it were perhaps an instance of "triangulation," at the time a concept and a word with which I was unfamiliar.
My thoughts that afternoon were on the journal. I wondered again if the master himself really felt that the journal had been a successful device in his teaching. I wondered again if maybe the master should give it up.
To me it felt counterproductive.
Contentious.
But the master was the teacher and not I. James and I had only recently become acquainted and since James had expressed some of my own frustration and confusion about the journal I emailed James. In a paragraph I summarized the history of my experience at Heartmind.
"It is all weird as hell sometimes," I told James, "but I have learned so much from the master that in spite of everything I continue."
I told James that the master and I were on the verge of yet another confrontation, that I did not consider myself a negative influence in the sangha, but that I believed the master did.
"I am determined," I explained, "to ask my teacher any question to which I need or want an answer."
Honest inquiry—
Honest answer—
This seems still the crux of the conflict as I recall it all so many months later.
"This is the issue," I told James, "between him and me at present."
Truth—
Trust—
That was then.
Now I can see it all from my teacher's perspective.
Submit.
No.
I would not.
No.
I did wonder, I said in my email just as I had said in our practice group meeting, if the master would kick me out. It had been a comfort to me to learn that James, like Dean and Edward and Alison and Mark, had experienced difficulty and pain with his journal and that it was not just me.
Enough.
That same Sunday afternoon I also forwarded my most recent journal to my youngest son. I kept him informed of my practice and of my relationship with the master just as I kept my wife informed of these matters, and my nephew, too, who had been present at Heartmind on several occasions during the seven months he had lived in my home while he worked a temporary job in Omaha. To my nephew and to my son I had forwarded the master's replies to my journal, then my son's responses back to the master, and so on forth and back again.
The master expressed no objection to my facilitating such communication.
He seemed to enjoy it.
To my son I emailed my journal and therein my question to the master about whether he would permit me to continue as his student if I included in my book the story of his "mistake."
"I haven't received a reply to this yet," I said.
Truth—
Trust—
I hoped for both.
"I do wonder if the master will ask me to leave," I added.
Trust.
"If I include it will it mean—"
End.
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