Not Zen 170: Different Grasses

Grasses by Natubico, Wikimedia Commons

She strolled out onto the back porch, put her hands on her hips, and gazed. For a moment, she watched the orange sun sinking behind the clouds. Then her attention turned to her father. He'd been sitting in the garden for half an hour. He remained seated, not moving. She grew concerned.

"Why have you stopped planting?" she asked. She strolled from the porch to the garden plot. Her father raised his hand spade and resumed digging.

"Feeling, noticing," he said. He turned up a fist-sized lump of dirt. "Just lost in thought, I suppose."

"Was it about planting the alfalfa and onion grass around the entire border of the garden?" She pushed her toe up against the edge of the turned ground. "You said they would keep away pests and then we'd eat them. Or were you thinking of something else?"

"Alfalfa grass can pick up the tastes and traits of other plants, especially other grasses."

"I've noticed."

"Plants aren't completely separate. Species aren't distinct."

"There can be a bit of blending. But not much, I think."

"When I was young, I studied myself intensely," he explained. "Like you, now. I corrected my flaws, corrected my concept of flaws, adjusted myself, and adjusted again. It was a continual process. I saw myself as a small part of a great world. The separation between my body and my mind dropped away. The separation between my body and the world dropped away."

"Kind of an achievement." She had known this from growing up with him but she enjoyed hearing hints of his youth.

He shook his head. "It was only the letting go of desires."

"You have moods but still you seem at peace nearly always. So it must have lasted."

"As I aged," he continued. "I came to realize that what I thought of as my 'self' had many aspects. My concept of the mind was limited. It always would be. My concept of the world was limited. It was a minimal insight in a sort of monkey-brain, framed by misleading perceptions. The idea of unity in the world became something else, a concession that even the best human actualizations are childish, almost innocent. Our best and worst concepts are part of nature. Our actualizations are like all things natural. They are a bit rough, a bit changing, a bit different than what they seem. My clinging to peace dropped away."

"It still fills you."

"That is natural, I think. My concepts of myself and of others dropped away. The idea of a self became useless. Sometimes I watch my limited perceptions. That is, part of me is sometimes still quite mindful. But sometimes not. There is a blending of those states."

"Why draw distinctions?” She rolled her eyes. “You are always so satisfied regardless. Why do you do anything at all?"

He laughed. His other hand found a second spade to his left. He held it out for her. She grabbed it by the handle.

"There is not really a me and there is not really an option of doing or not doing. Come on," he said as she put a knee on the ground next to him. "Let's plant the different grasses."

Not Zen 169: Many Last Chances

from Wikimedia Commons by Adam Jones

Her home wasn't fancy. She'd lived most of her life without art. Except for a few donations that lined a living room shelf, she still didn't have any. No one counted the framed drawings in multi-color crayon that she'd acquired over the years. Of those, roughly half had been made by her children, the rest by her grandchildren. They lined the back of a kitchen countertop. The two she liked best sat on either side of a photograph of her former husband. 

On the morning of her birthday, she rose to prepare the kitchen for her guests. She rolled over and sat up. Her muscles felt weak but she was lighter than she used to be, so it evened out. Her feet met the floor. She shuffled to her dresser. With unsteady hands, she pulled out the middle drawer. After a moment of fumbling, she found her best blouse.

It took her longer than usual to get ready. The blouse was her problem. At the bottom, it had small buttons. At the top, it fastened with pegs and loops. She could feel that she hadn't gotten the buttons to work. After a while, she gave up, exhausted, and sat on the bed.

She sat long enough to catch her breath, then stood to try again. This time she could hardly feel the buttons, much less fit them into their buttonholes.

"Son!" she rose to shout. 

Exasperated with herself, she sat back down. In a minute, her oldest child appeared at the bedroom door. Not long ago, she would have found it humiliating to need help to get dressed. Now she was merely glad that someone was here. 

In the kitchen, she put her son to work for as long as she could. Unfortunately, they both needed to take breaks to sit, rest, and have tea. They didn't quite finish the preparations. Her son started playing host as soon as the guests arrived. The earliest were his wife, their kids, and their grandchild. The grandchild was a two-year-old girl who ran around the living room screaming for no reason other than she could. 

Inside of an hour, the rest of the extended family had arrived, including other grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

"How suspicious," she said. Once more, she helped herself to the stool in the kitchen. Younger women had taken over the details anyway.

"What is?" asked her son.

"A lot of great-grandchildren seem to have shown up this time." She pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. "In fact, I think it's all of them."

"Good for them."

"Maybe." Her index finger pressed the glasses back onto her nose. She blinked and studied the young men and women laying out food on the dining table. "Good for this party you're throwing, you mean."

"What I mean is that the little ones don't see you much. You don't get around."

He'd made a similar comment yesterday when he arrived. Of course, he was the oldest and he'd already lost his younger brother. He was facing mandatory retirement soon, too. His company was forcing him out.

"You're worried that this is my last birthday, aren't you?" she said.

"Well, it could be," he allowed in a rather weak voice.

"I do feel like sort of an old beaver."

"Mom?" He looked at her as if he were wondering if her mind might not be working right. "I hope you're about to make a joke about dams or something."

"No. I mean, I feel like a wild animal that has to hunker down in the winter." Sometimes her mind wasn't quite right, she thought, but this time she knew what she meant. "I might not make it through next season."

They looked out over the kitchen, dining area, and most of the living room, all of them full of family and friends.

"I can see how you might feel that way." He nodded slowly. "But maybe you'll outlive me. I don't know. Maybe this is my last chance to see everyone but it's still not yours."

"But then I would be seeing them at your funeral."

"Probably." He smiled. He didn't seem at all upset by the idea.

"No thanks. I've had plenty of last chances." It took her a moment to compile a list in her head. Even so, she couldn't really grasp them all. There were too many and the ones at the top of her list were only examples. "I had my last chance with your father but I didn't understand it. I couldn't comprehend him dying. Before him, I had my last chance to hold your brother. Earlier I had my last talk with my mother. And with my father, of course, although he didn't want to say anything."

"Why not?"

"At the time, I was mad. Later, I understood that he was just in pain." She'd been a self-centered young woman, she thought, to have misunderstood. She'd assumed it was about her somehow. "Likely enough, the pain was all he could think about. But he still didn't want to talk about it."

"Couldn't a doctor have helped?"

"It wasn't done." She shook her head and looked on the counter for her drink. Unfortunately, she hadn't poured one for herself yet. "Anyway, I learned. I've had a lot of last chances at this point."

"Did you appreciate them?"

"Not always." She sighed and set her hands in her lap. "But it's always a last chance for something. Are you appreciating this? I mean, this moment. You organized it."

He grinned as he surveyed the family members and extended families. There were so many. Even the people who had been friends and neighbors, who weren't related, could have filled a room. A smile crept onto her face as she took in the sight of him looking over the crowd.

Not Even Not Zen 8: A Bandit Accountant, 1.1

A Bandit Accountant

Chapter Thirty-Two Minus Thirty-One
Scene One: Fired

Denario sipped a penny ale as he considered his dilemma. The mayor had refused to pay for the final installment of his audit. He had, in fact, tossed Denario out through the front door of the town hall with the help of three toughs. The accountant had shaken his fist and cried, “You can't do this!” but, in fact, it had already been done. Two of the mayor's loyal men kicked him when he tried to stand.

“Like I told you,” said the mayor. “If you're still around by nightfall, you're dead.”

Kevin, the red-haired guard with shoulders that belonged on a horse and who Denario had once liked, brushed his hands of the dust they'd accumulated in throwing him out.

“The stagecoach,” he whispered, “leaves before sunset.”

Then he kicked Denario again. The mayor stomped back into his office and the toughs watched Denario for a minute to make sure he didn't try anything stupid like re-entering the building. He hobbled away with bruises on his thighs and arms. At least they hadn't broken his fingers, he thought. He knew that these country folk in towns like Ziegeburg killed outsiders with little excuse, often in mobs at night.

As Denario drank, he wondered if he were immune to their lynchings.

Surely he had made enough friends here. He'd lived in the boarding house for nearly three months. The farmers and tradesmen seemed to like him and they didn't particularly care for Mayor Figgins. It was Figgins who'd broken the contract, not Denario, and the accountant wasn't his first victim, either. But that was Denario's real problem with leaving: the contract. He had been depending on the final installment to pay his way home.

“Bless, Denario.” A tanned, gnarled hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“Gordi.” He nodded. He'd heard the old man coming.

“I stopped work early today. Ye too, I hear. I know ye've got to skip town.”

“Well,” he began, unsure how to respond.

“'Ave ye got time for a last game of darts?”

“Of course, Gordi.” Denario downed the rest of his ale. He was good at darts. It was very nearly his only physical gift. He couldn't outrun a pregnant milkmaid. His arms could just about manage a bale of hay if the bale didn't knock him down. He could swim but he feared the water. He'd hired a man to teach him swordsmanship but the instructor had given him one lesson and returned the rest of his money with the advice, 'Don't waste your time.' Denario couldn't even hold his beer. He was a three-cup drunk.

He could throw, though. He was decent with a half-brick or anything lighter. Darts was his favorite activity – or at least his favorite of those he got to engage in regularly. He supposed he would have to say goodbye to his fiancée before he skipped town. He wasn't looking forward to the conversation and hoped she would at least try to talk him out of leaving. Sometimes he thought she was too good for him despite his coming from the big city. Most of the time, in fact.

During the Three Handfuls game with Gordi, he kept score of each dart sequence and secretly kept score of a second game in his head. For the secret game he chose Poke Jonni, which involved scoring a number immediately after the other fellow scored it. That was different from getting triplets in each number, as players did in Three Handfuls, so it kept Denario extra entertained. It was hard to win at both games at once. It was fun keeping score in both, too.

“Ah, ye win again,” said the wheel-maker at the end, as Denario sunk a triple fifteen right behind Gordi's fifteen. Denario had won both games, in fact, including the Poke Jonni in his head.

“I think you let me.” He pulled out the darts and handed them back to his friend.

“Nah, ye always win at darts. I always win me money back at cards.” It was an odd trend they'd developed and it was strange to Denario because he knew he was excellent at cards. Yet Gordi was better at certain games, especially those in which he could bluff. Also, Gordi cheated a little, probably, although Denario didn't really mind. The accountant didn't want to make his money from gambling.

“At least let me play you a game of Mad Kings to make it up.”

“My favorite.” Gordi gave him a regretful look. He'd won drinks from everyone in the bar at that game. “But no, ye have a stagecoach to catch so I hear. Can't keep ye.”

At the bar with the penny he'd won from Gordi, Denario started to panic. If a farmer had learned about Denario's troubles then the news was all over town.  He checked the other faces in the Proud Pony. He knew them all, the miller's deadbeat son, the cloth merchant, the pot-bellied rancher, and they had all been watching him until the moment he turned around. Their glances shied away, a mixture of embarrassment and curiosity. Even Gordi wouldn't meet Denario's gaze as he sat next to his rancher friend.

The town of Ziegeburg was large by regional standards and it supported, barely, three drinking establishments. One was called Hippogriff's. It had gilt lined doors and sat in the center of a neighborhood referred to as The Towers. It was far too rich for Denario. Hippogriff's would admit an accountant grudgingly but it would have thrown out a wheelwright or a potter unless accompanied by a better member of local society.

That was the best place to drink. The worst was the one that occupied the southwest end of town just outside the gate. It was called Bottoms Up. The place was too cheap to have a wood floor, just straw over dirt. The Proud Pony had a dirt floor, too, but it was cleaner somehow. The barman didn't tolerate thugs or bandits. His establishment catered to the wealthier farmers and part-time tradesmen like Gordi.

Denario had no idea what went on in Hippogriff's but he was sure that the news of his disgrace had already reached all ears at the Proud Pony and Bottoms Up.

“Last beer?” muttered the barman.

“Alfie,” whispered Denario with both hands on the bar. “This is terrible. I can't leave but everyone is telling me I should. What about you? Do you think I should buy a place on the stagecoach? What happens if I miss it?"

Alfie's eyebrows rose. His lips moved but no sound came out for a while. When he finally spoke, he checked to make sure no one was too close to hear.

“If you miss that stagecoach,” he said, “walk.”

“Seriously? Won't bandits catch me on the road?”

“Maybe. Maybe they'll catch the coach, too. They sometimes do, nowadays. The roads aren't as safe as when I was a boy.” He picked up a clean mug and decided to clean it some more. He rubbed it hard with his rag. “But getting robbed is better than having the mayor's men hang you by your neck off the jailhouse at the center of town. That sort of thing scares the children. I got a little girl now who I don't want to see that.”

“Hadn't thought of it your way.” He slumped against the bar top, the image of his body dangling from a thick rope in his mind. Now he realized why those three joists jutted out from the south wall of the jail. He should have clued in when he heard someone call them the gibbet beams. “But I'm engaged to Widow Brightli, you know. And today I'm getting chased out because the mayor's brother pocketed a share of the baron's tax collection.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” said the barman with a stony face.

“It's why the mayor wants me to leave. His brother ...”

“And don't say it again.”

“Ah.” Denario nodded  He sat upright. “I suppose I should have another ale, then.”

“One penny, sir.” The barman had clearly been about to give it to Denario for free but must have changed his mind when he heard the crazy notions swirling in Denario's head. There was a heavy, round copper piece pinched in Denario's fingers. He handed it over. The barman's stuck it in his pocket and grabbed a mug in his thick fingers. When he slid it, full to the brim, across the counter, he said, “I'd drink fast, sir, if I wanted a word with the Widow Brightli. And if I were in your situation, I would want that last chance, sir.”

“I need a plan,” mumbled Denario to himself.

“Kiss the widow and step on the stagecoach.” The tough man softened his tone just slightly. “That's your plan, sir.”

Scene Two

Not Zen 168: Unknowing Privilege

In a forest, on a high hill, there lived a bearded hermit. His home lay to the northwest of a small town. Children hiked from the valley town to visit him up on the hill. He tried to discourage their intrusions on his solitude. Their parents, however, continued to let the children roam.

The parents and the children regarded the hermit as a tolerant man. This was the case. He endured the noise and the naive questions of his visitors. He took them to the garden and encouraged them to work as they chattered about the details of their lives. The hard labor discouraged a few. He spoke to the rest about matters of spirituality. That drove away more.

A handful of visitors remained as regular callers to his home, however. One of them who returned many times was a young girl, dark-haired and small. The hermit watched her grow, over the years, into a young woman.

"When there's no other person here," she asked one day. "Do you remain quiet?"

He nodded as he tended his garden beside her.

"I think I would like to be a hermit," she said.

She didn't say anything more for hours. Instead, she worked in silence. After she straightened and took a break, she hiked farther up the hill. She seemed to be looking for sites to build her own hut. Although he liked her, he felt some alarm. He did not want her to live so close. Fortunately, she found a vantage point and surveyed different hills. She seemed to settle on one above the northeast of town. A home there would have fewer trees for shelter but it would have access to a stream. The solitude would perhaps be better because the slopes by the stream there looked steeper.

He approved. Although he did not say a word, she caught him studying the site. Her eyes glinted. She smiled as she walked back to his home.

"So would you really recommend a solitary life for me?" she asked him when she arrived.

"For anyone who wants to be alone in their contemplation of holy existence, I do recommend it," he replied.

Her decision seemed so resolute that he expected that he would not see her again. However, a few days later, she returned. In her company was a woman the hermit had never seen before.

"I am her mother," the woman said. She fluttered her robe to wave off the heat of the steep walk. Without smiling, she bowed her head politely.

The hermit bowed his head as well.

"You recommended a solitary life for her?" the mother asked.

"She may find it good."

"She may. It's not that women don't also wish to be hermits, alone in the wilderness. Clearly, you live a beautiful life." The woman expanded her arms as if to encompass not only his hut and garden but the entire wilderness.

"Then what is the problem?"

"The problem is that men cannot seem to permit women to be alone."

"I would. Many men would, I think. Most."

"Many would gladly allow women that freedom, of course, but it only takes a few to make the practice impossible. It is not the point of being a hermit to occupy oneself constantly with self-defense."

"I had not thought of that." The vision disturbed him. A young lady's hermitage would often be under threat. But it did not surprise him except in that it hadn't occurred to him before. "You are correct. I'm protected by being a man and by having nothing to steal. Otherwise I would come to harm."

"Women on their own must take pains to appear diseased or crazy. My daughter would have a difficult time with either." Her glance slipped to the young lady by her side, calm, self-assured, and glowing with health.

"She would."

"A nunnery, perhaps, or a quiet life with a quiet family on the edge of town would work. But can you see that being a hermit is not an option?"

"It would be needlessly difficult." It saddened him to agree.

"I'm surprised to hear you admit it. I thought you must be telling all of the children that the life of a hermit is best."

"This way of living is best for me." He took a deep breath of the mountain air. "Thank you for enlightening me. This is why each path must be different. When I took a vow of poverty, I had not expected to ever see myself again in a position of privilege. But I have been living with this particular privilege the whole time."

Not Zen 167: Always-Land

His daughter leaned forward in her chair. She closed her book. Her finger remained in place so she could open it again in an instant.

"Daddy." She turned her head towards him. Although the whole family had packed into the living room to read after breakfast, he was the closest to her. "What do the people in Neverland call this place?"

The question made him sift though his childhood memories. He'd read the same book. He should have known what the children there called the real world.

"Home, I think." It was a right answer but he was pretty sure his daughter was looking for more.

"What about the grown-ups? That's who I mean. The ones who live there. Like, it's the mermaids, the warriors, the gnomes and fairies, the pirates, and those kind. Do they have a name for our place?"

He leaned back and stretched his arms. His gaze swept the room. His youngest son had sprawled on the couch with a comic. His wife bent over a magazine by a casement window, shoulders hunched, forearms resting on the sill. 

"The Mainland, maybe?" He sighed. His attention turned from his wife to his child. "My memory isn't so good. There are probably other names for our place in the book. I'm sure there would be more that aren't written."

"I know." His daughter stretched out her words as if she'd made the most obvious point to someone not understanding. "I want you to tell me the other names."

"You want the unwritten names?" he chuckled.

His girl didn't laugh with him. She folded her arms and waited for an answer.

"Well, this place is the opposite of Never-Never Land." He closed his book. This time, he gave his daughter a moment of serious thought. "So this should be called Always-Land."

"Okay." She shook her head in agreement. Good. "But Neverland is where you don't have to grow up. That means that here in Always-Land, we're growing. Right?"

"Sure." He hadn't thought about it but of course she was being logical. "That's the point, isn't it? Always-Land is the opposite of daydreams. Here, what's important is our awareness of how things are. In our shared land, we maintain connectedness. We allow ourselves to be conscious of our responsibilities."

"That's too much, daddy."

"Okay, I make too much of awareness and responsibilities, maybe. We build those things up in our minds to be too difficult, too imposing. Maybe that's why, in Always-Land, we make so many gateways to the Neverlands. Fantasy lands don't take up much space. We have room in our lives for escapes."

"Is that good?"

"Fantasies are like everything else." He drew chopping motions in the air with his open hand as he tried to illustrate the point. "Knives are good for cutting up your food. They can be used for bad things, too. If you meet someone who is too preoccupied with knives, like to the exclusion of having friends, you probably think they're sad and creepy."

"Yes, yuck."

"It's the same with the Neverlands we make. Do you let them do something good for you? Are you learning how to be brave or smart or a good friend?"

She turned over her book in both hands and looked at it doubtfully. "I think so."

"Or do you get overly occupied with fantasies? That's where it goes wrong."

She barked with laughter. 

"It's not the poor potato's fault I'm fat," she said.

"What?" He shook his head. "You're not fat."

"That's what you said yesterday!" She raised an eyebrow at him as if he didn't listen to himself, which often he didn't.

"Oh, right. I see what you mean. I was complaining that I eat too much." He patted his stomach. "Well, here in Always-Land, we continue to develop. And it happens to us whether we pay attention to it or not."

"Why wouldn't someone pay attention?"

"Good question." He lifted himself from the chair. "I don't know if there's one answer or many. But we should pay the best attention we can. With awareness, we cultivate the goodness in ourselves. We can let everything else just fall away as we grow."

Not Zen 166: Peace Process

On a hill nestled between greater hills, in a cleft of the hill's rocky south face, lived a colony of mastiff bats. Each year after the snow melted from the mountains around them, the bats bore their children. Mothers nursed the young in a protected nook of the colony. Fathers brought back food for the mothers - usually moths, birds, lizards, and pieces of fruit foraged from the forest floors.

One spring, the smallest of the children found herself being pushed around by members of the colony. Other young ones would not give her space to rest. Her parents were gentle souls and felt ashamed by her complaints. They did not want a bullied child. On the other hand, they were not willing to confront the parents of larger children.

"Don't yell," they told her. "It excites the bigger ones. Ignore your bullies and they will go away."

The next evening, her parents headed out to hunt. Other young bats pushed the smallest one. When she didn't respond, they raked her with their wing claws. It hurt. Frightened by the sight of her own blood, she fought back. But there were too many. She fled and took shelter in the hanging moss outside of the nursery. She emerged only after her parents returned and called for her.

When she told them what had happened, they said, "You must not strike back. Anger begets anger. Violence begets more violence."

Since she didn't know how to stop the violence, she started to avoid the other children. During times when both of her parents were gone, she hid in crevices, or behind sleeping children, or in the hanging moss. There weren't many places she could go. Each time the bullies found her, they teased her, raked her wings, or bit her ears.

Only when she nursed with her mother did she have peace. In those times, she dreamt of flying. She longed to join her father in freedom. She stretched her wings as often as she could. Thanks to her motivation, she was the first of the spring litter to leave the nursery.

"Finally I will be free from bullies," she told her mother. Her mother gave her a reassuring embrace.

She flew only in the cave, at first. But soon she ventured out. For two nights, she was right about the relief she experienced. Although she was still the smallest of her colony, she flew in peace. She watched her father's methods. She learned to hunt by studying him and her uncle. Patient fellows, they showed her how to locate insects of the right size for her. Her uncle stressed the need to avoid the edges of the treelines where owls roosted.

On the third night of her self-sufficiency, as she dove at a moth, another bat swooped close. It was one of her former tormentors. He had left the cave. He screamed at her to ruin her echolocation. A second, larger girl snatched her moth.
 
She screeched at them with outrage. The bigger two flapped away, laughing.

"Don't provoke them," her mother replied when she learned of the incident.

"Provoke them by eating?" She had to confront the impossibility of her parents' advice. "You think I should stop having food?"

Her next few days of hunting were interrupted by the bullies. Sometimes she ate in peace. Too often, she didn't. Hunger did odd things to her mind. She considered dire solutions. One long, hungry night, she followed one of the bullies and attacked him while he was eating. It was a fight she'd known she would lose and it was over in a few seconds but, if she couldn't eat, she felt determined to make sure that her tormentors knew how she felt.

As she landed on a tree branch, a larger bat joined her. She spun, ready to fight another tormenter, but it was her uncle. 

"I suppose you're going to tell me that I should let the bullies do what they want," she said.

"No. It's bad for everyone when that happens," he replied. "Violence and thievery is the result."

She lifted her head. It wasn't the usual answer she'd heard. "Then what?"

"All of us must train ourselves." Her uncle spread and re-folded his wings. "Some of us become expert at self-defense in the air. Your parents were not willing to learn. But I am willing to teach you."

She couldn't imagine that there was anything someone could teach her that would help.

"Peace cannot be obtained through fighting, my parents say." It was the only thought that came to her mind.

"Yes, your father is childish in that way." Her uncle chuckled. "He and your mother have an immature concept of peace. Social equality and justice are not achieved once then then forever set. Peace must be maintained in a continual process."

"But my parents say ..."

"There are some of us in the colony who achieve calm lives for a while by being meek. Those folks depend on the justice maintained by others."

"That's my parents."

"Yes, and it is a position of luxury. Perhaps they don't realize it but their meekness means someone else must do the work. Not everyone can escape responsibility. Some are called upon, for a short while or for a lifetime, to do the hard work of maintaining peace."

Not Zen 165: Tribes

Goatfish by Albert Kok, Wikimedia Commons

Above the rock shoals at the bottom of a reef slope, three schools of fish met.  On most days that they met, individuals among them fought.  They brawled amongst themselves and between species.  The battles intensified as mating seasons approached.  Conflicts simmered for weeks and then flared up again.  Grudges set in or continued for generations.

On most evenings, each school went its separate way.  The groupers swam to the seagrass beds to hunt for smaller fish.  The goatfish split up and descended to the sandy substrates.  They combed the bottom for snails, worms, and molluscs.  The snappers dove to a cool, dark reef that lay on a slope below the higher one.  They ate the shrimp, squids, crabs, and kelp.

After a night of eating, the fish met again in the heat of the day.  All of them coveted the valleys of the reef slope.  All of them took shelter in the clefts between corals when large predators swam by.

"Watch out for the groupers," said one goatfish to another as the schools of fish passed each other.

"There are only a few," replied her friend.  "None of them are large enough to hunt us."

"Look at those teeth.  They're violent."

The elder goatfish turned his eye to the outnumbered groupers.  They looked tough, yes, but defensive.  They were not swimming toward anyone with aggression. They were keeping their distance.

"They're fine."

Since the two of them had drifted to the edge of their school, they swam in a wide arc.  The path took them near a mixed school, which consisted of goatfish and snappers together.  The bluestripe snappers were numerous and therefore intimidating to medium-sized predators.  Goatfish were able to change the shading of their stripes from yellow to blue, so they liked to merge their schools with the snappers.  That let them camouflage themselves but the snappers didn't always like it.

Abruptly, the elder goatfish turned inward to their school, away from the snappers.  His companion thought about remaining where she was on the outskirts but she felt something was wrong.  She veered inward a little, enough to stay close to her friend.

"Why did you turn us away?" she asked him.  "Are you biased against the snappers?  Then why not against the groupers as well?"

"Several of the snappers were dangerous.  Couldn't you see that they were about to start fighting?"  He flipped his body to face the great swarm.  They could both see the conflict in progress.  Two fish picked on a smaller one at the edge of the group.  "Worse for us, we have not adopted the colors of the snappers."

The scramble continued as the mixed school of snappers and goatfish grew closer to the school of goatfish.  The snapper who was on the losing side had been driven out.  Unlike the goatfish, a snapper did not feel safe on its own.  That one needed to find a way back in.

The elder goatfish took pity.  He turned toward the swarm of snappers.

As he closed in, two snappers charged to meet him.  Whether they really meant to attack him or whether they intended to finish their battle with one of their own, in a moment they had no other target.  The beaten snapper darted behind the goatfish.  Only the elder fish remained, calm and relentless.  His caudal fin stroked the waters evenly with no hesitation.

One of the snappers charged him.  He did not dodge, which forced the attacker to veer to one side or else risk collision with a fish of equal strength and size.  The second snapper charged a moment after.  This one was smaller but it was quick and aggressive.  The goatfish barely had time to turn his head so that the blow struck him on the gill cover, not on his ribcage or a fin.

He stared at the snapper.  It was not a gaze of aggression.  The snapper backed up to launch another attack.  But it hesitated, confused.  It was prepared for a sparring match.  It wasn't ready for fearlessness and calm.

"Our mistake, friend," said the other aggressive snapper, the one who had charged first but veered off.

"Thank you, friend," said the goatfish.

All four of them rejoined their schools.  The snappers darted quickly into their places.  The elder goatfish took his time.  His companion slowed to let him catch up to her.  They swam side by side for a while near the outside of their school.

"Why didn't you fight back?" she asked him.  "I don't understand what happened.  When you didn't strike at them, why did the others stop attacking?"

"It does not always work that way," he drawled.

"That doesn't answer my question."

He kept up his pace.  "Young one, do you think I am a goatfish?"

"Yes."  But she paused to check for the barbs protruding from his chin.  For a moment, he had seemed different.

"I don't feel that way."  The movement of his caudal fin stayed strong and regular.  "I belong to the race of peace keepers."

"Who are they?"  She thought it sounded like a military order.

"We range all over the world.  Those who don't know us think we belong to different schools and tribes.  But we are the greatest tribe of all, the largest majority."

"That's not a tribe, then."  It took her a long time to come to the conclusion.  "Anyone can join."

"Yes.  Anyone does.  Eventually, I believe we will win over everyone."

Not Even Not Zen 7: Poem - Secret Society

Secret Society

In we walk, to the to the shade and stale air,
leather boots, jacket, and black helmet for me,
red overalls for him, sitting up on my shoulder
in a jaunty way.
He throws himself forward, says “Bump!”
and pulls my hair for balance.

Only last year, when I came into this mall,
the shop owners kept an eye on me.
Boys leaned to one side; mothers raised eyebrows;
rent-a-cops scowled.  Girls gave me odd glances,
making up their minds.  
Now, none of that matters.

Even with the same clothes and grease,
the mothers smile.  They seem so knowing
when my boy takes my helmet and hugs it
or takes the fruit pie out of my hand and says “Share?”
The rent-a-cops laugh when they walk by
and the little man hides behind my leg.

There is a secret society of baby owners,
a series of nods, winks, and grins others do not know.
I see it in a teen, a girl half my age
with a newborn, just a few weeks old.
My stare and smile reach her as the child struggles,
lifts its head, blue eyes open, strong baby,
and she beams back, somehow noticing
my gaze, my stupid mouth open
from eighty feet away across a crowded hall
because she is part of the society, too.

Mothers with strollers glance,
old women with carriages, too,
fathers with toddlers, grandfathers with grown children,
their children’s children, all gawk at my son
and he giggles, my passport to this shriven world.
He gives them the secret hand sign that admits us
through all the society’s doormen.
There, in the center of the mall, I catch myself for the first time
scrutinizing the faces of the other young creatures.
No one acts like I’m a kidnapper.

A black mother in denim catches me  
studying her child and chuckles.
The Indian woman in the play area notices
and smiles despite two daughters pulling on her sleeves.
Desperate women in tight jeans and tired eyes smile.
Redneck pickup drivers in flannel shirts smile.
Only the old men in suits do not
and even them, sometimes,
when my boy gives them a secret sign
that I do not yet know.

What is it about these animals, our children,
that diminishes us, crumbles our suspicious exteriors,
our hunched shoulders, keys jutting from ready fists?
They are clumsy monkeys but they make us laugh.
They are proof of our membership in life’s hidden cause,
our big eyed, chubby fingered, running, stumbling,
drooling, shrieking, gurgling, half bald,
buddha-bellied, badly dressed
unwitting soldiers for peace.

Not Zen 164: Skills

wikimedia commons

Skill

"Another passing score," he said. He poked his head through the open door of the cafe. He was pretty sure that his friend at a side table couldn't hear him, so he waved. A moment later, he gave the thumb's up sign.

His friend and mentor motioned for him to come over.

As he crossed the floor, he took a deep breath. Taking the certification exam had tensed him. The smell of coffee attracted his attention. Other scents in the background felt even better. He felt ready to recover from the emotional crash of finishing the test.

He pulled up a chair. Flowery traces from steeping teapots wafted over his face. His friend's two companions nodded at him over their teacups. They were his friend's adopted daughter and daughter's schoolmate. His daughter had dressed in a white outfit with pink trim. Her school friend wore yellow with pink.

"Are you having a good breakfast?" he asked them.

"I take it you passed?" his friend said. That answered his question about being heard from the front door. He hadn't been. The two girls nodded in response to his goodwill inquiry about food and he smiled and nodded in return. He didn't really expect to talk with them.

"Of course." It had been a close score, this time. He sniffed. The cafe had baked sweet pastries and sourdough breads. The anticipation of food made his fingers tingle.

"Good for you." His friend dug into the pastry on his plate.

The older fellow had already raised a set of three children. His wife had passed away and he'd been forced to continue his parenting job alone for a while. The last of those children had left home. Instead of taking a break from caring for others, he'd remarried and started raising a second family.

It all seemed a bit hectic to the younger man. He liked talking with the old fellow, though. He knew his stuff.

"Now I have four certifications," he said. He rubbed his hands together. "Most people in our profession have only one."

"Some don't even have that."

"I know." He shook his head. That seemed so irresponsible. With his right arm, he gestured for the waiter.

"Congratulations. You've gotten two new certifications in only three weeks. What will you do with them?"

"Get better jobs. Get more money."

"Huh." His friend gave him a disappointed look. "You're doing pretty well. I've shown you how to do a thorough job. And you're great. You've studied for more. Wonderful. You deserve better pay. But why such a focus? You don't have children to support. Your parents don't depend on you. What will you do with the extra money?"

"I'll hire tutors, study more, and get more certifications." He raised his water glass to his own words. He hadn't thought about it until he answered. Keeping on with the process made sense.

"It goes on forever?" His friend put down the fork. "You never develop, say, a skill for loving kindness?"

"That's not a skill."

"Really? Maybe you're already good at it. I wouldn't know. Have you performed acts of kindness recently?"

"It's not a skill, so that's not the point."

Something in their tones of voice made the girls look up. They'd been coloring with crayons and drinking their tea. Now he had their attention. He didn't want it, really.

"Did you help someone with groceries?" his friend continued. "Help a friend move?"

He shook his head no. The girls smiled.

"Have you volunteered to watch someone's children so that they could go to work?"

"Oh, so that must be what you're doing now." Suddenly the second girl's presence made sense. It wasn't just a play date. This was baby-sitting duty. His friend was on the job. Some neighbor or work friend had recruited him. The girls frowned.

"Nah. But sometimes I donate my job skills." When the older fellow gestured to the waiter, the waiter noticed. He bowed his head and gave an acknowledging grin. "You know, I give some time to non-profits around town. You could do that."

"I suppose I could." Lazily, he allowed for the possibility. A moment later, he panicked. He sat up straight as he realized that his mentor could be planning to assign him to a charity. He wasn't sure if he was ready for that. Yes, he owed his friend. But did he really want to end up benefiting a cause he didn't like just to pay the debt?

To his left, the two girls traded whispers. The dark haired one that his friend had adopted resumed her drawing and coloring. He resumed ignoring them.

"What good will all of your skills do?" insisted his friend.

"They'll pay the bills." He shrugged. He supposed the act of being a mentor revealed something about the type of person his friend was. For himself, though, it was enough to devote energy to becoming the best. It felt similar to the way some clergy focused on saintliness or some politicians focused on power. To him, excellence was plenty. It was more than enough.

His friend kept talking even as the waiter strode over to their table.

"Real acts of kindness take some practice. You can't buy your way out of them. Even donating money to a charity takes care. Some are fakes. Some do harm. Some are simply better than others."

The waiter asked if the girls needed more tea and they said, 'Yes please.' They seemed delighted to have been noticed. When the man asked if there was anything more, he reacted with a smile to learn that another order of food was needed. He took out his pad and pen.

Things could be different, he reflected. Even as he gave the waiter his order for a sandwich, he wondered why the waiter hadn't studied more in school. More work to learn a difficult skill would have enabled any restaurant worker to do something better. There would be no more need for fake optimism. Or maybe that was the man's real outlook. It was very convincing. Nevertheless, more skills could get him a better job.

After the waiter turned away, the girls finished a drawing. They turned it around so the men at the table could see. When that wasn't enough, they held it up. It was a wobbly rendition of a diploma. The word KINDNESS had been printed in the middle. There was a horrible imitation of calligraphy at the bottom in black crayon, possibly their signatures.

"Ta da!" they said together.

"If there were only a certificate for it," said his friend's daughter with suspicious sweetness. "We were sure you would study."

Not Koan 163: Happy Families

She watched her grandmother sit down on the park bench next to the baby carriage and thought about how she'd never expected, when she was younger, that she'd have four generations of her family together.

"Who's that kid with your son?" her father asked.

He jerked his thumb to indicate the tanned boy with a muddy shirt. The boy was building a mound of mulch next to her son. He stood half a head taller and about a year older. By his side, her son tried to scoop up mulch with a bucket. He dropped the bucket. The contents spilled. But the taller boy knelt and scooped his arm to gather it up again for her son.

"That one gets neglected." She shook her head. Her son seemed to like playing with him. This particular playmate was cute, too, with light brown eyes and curly hair. He seemed a bit wild with children his age but gentle with younger ones. "I've never seen his parents. He hikes back and forth from a row house."

"That's not neglected," her grandmother opined from the bench next to them. "I let your father walk everywhere he wanted when he was little. You too, when you visited."

"Things are different now, grandma." She loved her grandmother, the first woman in the family to get a college degree. She had been an education pioneer. But the passage of the decades made her views seem archaic sometimes.

The three of them, mother, grandfather, and great-grandmother had walked her oldest boy to the neighborhood park. It had been a good morning for it, overcast but not humid. The birds turned out in force to sing to one another from the tree boughs. But after a few minutes, the clouds drifted. The sun beat down harder. The birds quieted. Children started to wipe the sweat from their brows.

The family had barely sat down. Her boy had just started playing. She wanted to leave because of the weather but she knew that she couldn't.

"Well, of course times are different," the older woman folded her arms as she watched the curly-headed boy dump fistfulls of sand on the pile. Her great-grandson flung clumps of grass. Both children laughed. The older woman smiled at them. "What makes you think this child is neglected?"

"Nowadays most parents come out to the park. That's all."

"Don't other people have anything better to do than follow kids around?"

Feeling protective of them all, she decided that she would let her grandmother's remark stand without comment. She could have pointed out how all three of them had come with her boy and her baby, a year-old daughter she'd brought in the stroller. But the job had required only one, probably her. Maybe that depended on whether the baby stayed asleep or not.

"Parents nowadays spend more time together than you and granddad did. It's more equal."

"That's good." Her grandmother kept her arms folded. She'd fought for the equality but she didn't seem to feel it was enough. She acted as if she were superior.

"Couples split things evenly. My husband and I still split the check when we go out on a date."

"Still? Damn." Her father slapped his knees with both hands. The two boys shot him a look, alarmed, but when they saw he wasn't looking at them, they resumed their work on the mulch. "Are you still counting them out to the penny, too?"

"What if we are?" She put a hand to her forehead.

"Honey, that's ridiculous." He threw up his arms. "It's like you don't trust each other. And you've been married for over a decade."

"It keeps us happy." Let him have his tirade, she thought. Outwardly, she shrugged. She was sure that her father had never liked that part of equality even though he'd always pretended. "You should try it, dad. I know that you and step-mom argue about money."

"Sometimes." That quieted him.

"You earn twice what she does. And you both have expensive tastes, so you end up paying pay for everything. She takes you for granted."

"Yeah, yeah." He scratched his head. While he paused to find something nice to say, the boys started to take turns kicking their pile. Pieces flew. Her father hardly noticed. "She carries her weight in other ways. She probably feels taken for granted in the chores."

"Are you happy, dad?"

"Happy enough." He titled his head to one side. "Happier than I thought I'd be, actually, after your mom."

"Everyone condemns everyone else's compromises, I notice," she said. She was tired of getting criticized for the way her family worked. "But some wives, like me, hate doing the laundry or shopping and some husband think they're okay. See? And some husbands don't enjoy fixing the plumbing. But some wives do."

"Like you."

"Like me." She nodded.

"I think that's wonderful," said her grandmother. She still hadn't unfolded her arms.

"The main thing is to divide up the work so everyone feels respected because that's what makes us happy."

Her father waved his finger. "That doesn't mean splitting everything down the middle."

"No, but dad, down the middle is fine for me. I earn half of the money. When we divide up a check, it feels good."

She and her grandmother sat in silence. Next to them, her father stood with hands in his pockets, jingling his change and his keys. For a long time, he stared at a squirrel that had scurried behind a group of playground kids to look for dropped food. It paused to eye the adults, especially her father. Maybe it thought the change in her father's pockets sounded like nuts. But it returned to its foraging.

Her father gazed down the sidewalk to the path would take them back home. She felt sympathy for his impatience. Although the tree roots had cracked the concrete slabs from underneath and the surface felt uneven to the baby stroller, she wanted to get back on it, too. The park had seemed like a decent enough idea to her when the morning was cool. But it hadn't seemed interesting to her father even then. Now that it was hot, he would start to sweat in his long-sleeved shirt and office slacks.

He'd invited himself because her grandmother wanted to come. He'd felt obligated.

After a minute or so, the baby woke. The cry began with an uncomfortable squirming. A moment later came the angry sound. After that, chubby fists raised from the carriage bed.

She rose to check her infant daughter's forehead. It was damp.

"I think she's too hot," she said. Her grandmother raised an eyebrow but didn't respond.

The baby kept fussing. She pushed the carriage back and forth to try to calm her daughter with the rocking motion. Meanwhile, her gaze swept the playground for her son. He and the neglected boy, who she conceded might have reasonble parents somewhere, had gang-pressed another boy into playing some sort of game with them on the slide. It involved tagging each other hard at the end of the ramp and then squealing like fiends.

"Are you really happy, dear?" Her grandmother unfolded her arms from her chest at last. She sat up straighter. "Tolstoy wrote, 'All happy families are alike but unhappy families are each unhappy in their own way.'"

"That's just wrong."

"It wasn't just Tolstoy who thought it," replied her grandmother defensively. "Everyone quotes him."

"Too bad. Because everyone can see that there's a variety of good families." She stopped rocking the carriage. It wasn't working. She was pretty sure of what she needed do. "There are as many happy compromises as there are happy couples. The same goes for the relationships between parents and children. All of the compromises are different but they work."

"For happy families."

"Yes." As she reached into the carriage for her daughter, she tilted her head to one side to concede the detail. "Maybe the process doesn't work for the unhappy ones. Bad compromises are the cause of misery."

"Well, I made compromises with your grandfather," her grandmother said. "I didn't want to. I had to, you know."

"Tolstoy was a good observer in some ways." She wasn't sure if she wanted to hear more about her grandfather or not. Tolstoy seemed like a safer subject. Her fingers snuggled under her daughter's armpits. She lifted the child and unbuttoned the onsesie to let the breeze reach her skin. "But he couldn't have observed many happy families. Even the assumption that some are happy and some aren't is wrong. All families are happy some of the time and all are unhappy sometimes, too. No family is only one thing."

Her daughter paused to take a breath. Then she cried louder.

"That's certainly not how children are." Her grandmother had to raise her voice. "They don't stay in one mood for five minutes."

"So?"

"Look at us, we're arguing. And you said we were a happy family."

"That doesn't mean we're not." This wasn't an argument, not compared to most discussions in her grandmother's house. "You like arguing. You should just admit that Tolstoy was wrong."

"I admit nothing. Except that I'm tired of you two walking me around everywhere." She swayed in her bench seat as if she were about to stand. But she thought better of it. "I wanted to come to the park. That was me. I was willing to take my great-grandson. Then you two had to tag along."

"I thought you wanted company," her father said. He stopped rattling his keys. His hands came out of his pockets. "Sometimes you fall, ma. And when you do, it's hard for you to get back up."

"I'm still tired of having you everywhere I go."

"You need someone with you," she said. Her words came out at the time time as her father spoke but he said almost the same thing.

"I'll have company," her grandmother retorted. She gestured to the playground.

"Him?" She glanced at her preoccupied son. He was receiving swats from two other boys as his feet hit the landing at the bottom of the slide. All three of them laughed, open-mouthed. "He's six."

"That's old enough to run a few steps to get an adult to help me to my feet if that's necessary. Anyway, you're the one going on about happy families. You're tired and cranky. Your father is cranky. My great grand-daughter is tired and cranky."

"I'm not cranky," both she and her father tried to say. Her grandmother spoke over them.

"My great-grandson and I aren't. We're happy." Her hands made fists. She tapped the park bench with them. "Understand? I can tell you're trying to think of a reason to leave. But we want to stay."

"You just want your way."

"And you just want yours." Her gaze fell on the crying infant.

"Fine." She shrugged. In her arms, her daughter took another deep breath. And she didn't resume her crying. "Grandma, doesn't this prove my point? All of the family compromises are different. Happy families aren't all the same."

"Tolstoy was an idiot." The older woman sighed. "There's an endless variety of happiness. I never let on to your grandfather but some of the compromises that I arranged with him made me happy. Like having his children."