205 Return

The flood of the rest of my life—my wife and family, my children and grandchildren, my job, my teaching, my students, my reading, my writing, and my book—rushed immediately into the big hole left by my expulsion and filled it. I had enjoyed immensely two books by the popular contemporary atheist Sam Harris and I corresponded with many friends about him and about Bertrand Russell, the man Harris said "had been there first."

Harris:

I submit to you that there really is no society in human history that has ever suffered because its population became too reasonable, too reluctant to embrace dogma, or too demanding of evidence.

I began reading and rereading Russell, whose books and essays I had enjoyed as an undergraduate with a major in English and speech and with minors in history and philosophy.

Russell:

I think all the great religions of the world—Buddhism, Hinduism, [Judaism], Christianity, Islam, and Communism—both untrue and harmful.

Much of what Russell and Harris said resembled Buddhist demonstrations, "proofs," of the absence of a fixed, solid self, I told my friends at the temple, and I understood and appreciated, deeply, the unequivocal affirmations by Russell and Harris of evidence, logic, and reason, the "thinking" that the master had called my main practice "issue."

Edward had read Harris.

Jews, Christians, and Muslims claim that their holy books are so profound, so prescient of humanity's needs, that they could have been written only by an omniscient being. An atheist is simply a person who has entertained this claim, read the books, and found the claim to be ridiculous.

"These arguments need to be stated," Edward said.

I thought so.

"Too often we roll over and give undo deference to religious nonsense," Edward added.

Russell:

It is thought virtuous to have Faith—that is to say, to have a conviction which cannot be shaken by contrary evidence. Or, if contrary evidence might induce doubt, it is held that contrary evidence must be suppressed…. The conviction that it is important to believe this or that, even if a free inquiry would not support the belief, is one which is common to almost all religions…. A habit of basing convictions upon evidence, and of giving to them only that degree of certainty which the evidence warrants, would, if it became general, cure most of the ills from which the world is suffering…. I should wish to see a world in which education aimed at mental freedom rather than at imprisoning the minds of the young in a rigid armor of dogma calculated to protect them through life against the shafts of impartial evidence. The world needs open hearts and open minds, and it is not through rigid systems, whether old or new, that these can be derived.

Russell was dead but I told Edward—

"I'm grateful to Harris for being willing to act as the lightning rod in this matter."

Infidel!

I was surprised that an attempt had not been made on his life by a zealot.

Indeed.

I feared for his safety.

His life.

For several months Edward and I continued to correspond about these matters and on occasion about our jobs—Edward had a new one—and about practice and people at the temple. From his doctor the master had gotten permission to drive and he had exercised this privilege.

Progress.

Edward wished that I had heard the guest teachers who had given talks in the master's absence. Sonuno Peterson and Karen Lostal, Edward said, had been wonderful to sit with and to hear. Their names were not familiar to me. Edward had been impressed that the master attracted such generous good friends who had given of their time and traveled at their own expense to help the master and his students in his time of need. I was not surprised. Nananda often said that in the American Zen Buddhist community the master was highly respected. I had never doubted it. I, too, wished I had been able to hear them. I told Edward that I was now just a temple ghost like the old friends who had haunted me there when for whatever reasons they had suddenly stopped coming to zazen and to temple events and had seemed to evaporate and disappear with not even a mention by the master.

Missing.

Such a cold letting go had always bothered me.

Gone.

"Temple ghost."

That is what I had become.

Yes.

Edward liked my phrase.

Out.

"I hate losing folks that way but that's what happens," Edward conceded.

Yes.

"We come and we go."

Yes.

Impermanence.

Truth.

The master's terrible illness, surgery, and near death had affected Edward profoundly, Edward said, and having nearly lost his teacher Edward had become more independent. He'd had to do so.

"It's my practice now and I will carry on with or without a teacher."

Edward explained.

"I am grateful but I really feel like I'm on my own now."

Ditto. 

"I can't lean on my teacher again," Edward added.

Yes.

To me this sounded right.

I never had.

I told Edward that I thought greater independence in his practice sounded healthy but I added that I had not realized that he had felt in his practice so dependent on the master. Nikki had said more than once in my presence that she would feel lost without the master but I had never felt that way myself and I supposed this was because in my own eccentric way I had practiced for twenty-five years before I even met the master and through this practice I had developed an unshakable confidence and faith in the truth of the Way.

"But I will always be grateful to Kudo for teaching me to sit," I hastened to add.

Zazen.

"It was a wonderful gift."

Edward replied.

He had not been slavishly dependent on the master but his teacher had kept him on the path.

"He woke me up lots of times."

The master had made Edward focus on what was important when Edward was dawdling.

Dean, too, felt this way.

By increased independence Edward meant his recognition that he could not rely on the master to set him straight anymore because the master might not be there or might need his strength for something else.

"I know what I need to do," Edward said. "It's time to just do it."

Edward explained.

"I don't think I need so much guidance anymore."

Edward closed with a remark that, given all that had happened, meant much to me.

"It feels good to be corresponding with you."

Forgiven.

I was still plugging along on my book.

Editing.

I told Edward that I had carried the narrative through the emails I had sent and received in the aftermath of my expulsion. It had been pleasant, I said, to summarize and to quote from his message on truth and kindness. Reading and writing of my experience of the master I felt almost like he was still my teacher and, yes, indeed in a way he still was. I often wondered, I explained, how our relationship as teacher and student might have developed had I adopted Edward's approach to the requirement of the journal and just not written at all when it felt too difficult. But the truth is that I had felt it my Zen duty to try. Then for my book my original plan was to invite the master to read the final draft and to respond before I showed it to anyone else—but now I was concerned about the effect my story might have on his health. Though it was simply an honest personal account of my own experience of Buddhism, of Zen, of Heartmind, and of Kudo, its point of view was the same one that had so frustrated and annoyed the master when he encountered it in my journals.

Now what—

In early April it seemed a long time since I had heard news of the master and his recovery.

By email I inquired.

I told the master that I hoped he was having a Good Friday, that my friends at Heartmind had stopped writing to me, that if he found time and felt up to it I would like to know how his recovery and rehabilitation were going, and that I hoped he was healthy and happy.

"You're in my thoughts every day," I told the master, "hundreds of times a day."

It was no exaggeration.

The master replied to my email the same day I sent it.

Good news.

His recovery had been going well, the master said, and he planned on being back to full strength by the end of the summer. Indeed he was driving again, as I had been told, three times a week to outpatient therapy; with the two big dogs he had even been hiking on the prairie for short distances; and in general, he said, he had been getting out and about. The master was especially pleased to be sitting daily.

"Cross-legged!" he exclaimed. "Life is good."

Eleanor was back for a two-week visit, the master informed me. Then she would return to Tassajara for the summer. The Buddha's birthday would be celebrated at the temple on Sunday and then after the ceremony Eleanor would talk about her practice at Tassajara.

There would be a potluck after.

"Why don't you come if you can?" the master asked.

I could not.

"Just five more weeks for me," I added, "and I'm free again."

Summer—

Teacher—

Nirvana—

At a party in May to celebrate Alison's and Mark's daughter's graduation from high school I met Edward, we talked, and Edward informed me that on the coming Sunday was the lay ordination for James.

"Do you want to attend?"

"Yes but—"

"I'll ask Kudo and let you know."

Yes.

Permission granted and—

There I was—back at Heartmind.

Vows—

Do no harm.

Do good.

Serve all beings.

It felt good to hear the precepts conferred and to visit during the potluck after with friends in the kitchen and at the picnic tables in the backyard. I enjoyed washing dishes at the kitchen sink—plate, glass, cup, fork, knife, spoon—a job that had been a regular part of my practice at home for twenty-five years and at the temple for five. I stepped outside one time more to say goodbye to James and to friends still talking over coffee and dessert and to express my gratitude to the master.

"Thank you for inviting me," I told the master. "I've enjoyed it."

"Take care," he said.

I waved.