Not Zen 73: Time Management

Early one morning, three runners set out along a road. The sun lay on the horizon as they left. Birds rustled in the boughs of trees. The air was cool. All three dressed for the heat. They set a brisk pace.

The leader trotted to the front of the group. He steadied his rate to let his sister catch up. They ran side by side for a mile or so. Her husband loped along behind. The patter of their shoes on the pavement fell to a steady rhythm.

"Did I tell you?" he huffed. "I'm on a roll at work."

"You hadn't said," his sister replied. "But I could tell."

"How?"

"You have a pattern," called his brother-in-law from a few yards away. "You leave your kids with your wife more often, like today. You get tied up with your job more. Your wife complains about seeing you less. Eventually, you don't do anything else but work, eat, and exercise."

"That's efficient," he asserted.

"And when you exercise with us, you talk about your job. It goes on for weeks. Then you burn out. You can't sustain the pace."

"You have no idea." Irritated with his running partners, he increased his speed. "I haven't reached my peak yet."

He distanced himself from his companions. For a long while, he bounded along in silence. Beneath his shoes the pavement turned to concrete, the concrete to grass, the grass to dirt. The clay soil path widened as it ran alongside a stream. In time, his emotions flagged. His speed faltered. His breath grew labored as he reconsidered his pace. The muscles in his left leg stiffened.

His sister blew past him. She jostled his shoulder as she went by. But she never said a word. He watched her back as she put extra distance between them. After a half a minute, he heard his brother-in-law's soft footsteps growing close.

It occurred to him that his sister wouldn't listen to what he had to say. He wanted to explain himself. He spoke over his shoulder to his brother-in-law.

"I'm getting so much done at work. It's nice. I'm really going all out on a project."

"That's the worst," his brother-in-law told him.

"Why?"

"It means you're trying to do more than anyone can really do."

"But I can do it."

"Not really. It's a problem of the human condition, I suppose. Animals don't make the mistake of planning more tasks than there's time for. They don't imagine solutions that don't exist or that time can be compressed or expanded at need."

"I don't think that's what I'm doing."

"Bright people have no problems conceiving of things getting done more quickly than possible."

"Well, maybe a little of that," he allowed.

As they rounded the mid-point of their training circuit, his sister slowed down to let them catch up. They swung back along the trail they'd just run. The three of them strode nearly side by side. He decided to continue the conversation as if she hadn't joined.

"But all I need to do is maintain my peak performance," he said.

"Peak performance is just that," replied his brother-in-law. "It's the pinnacle of what you achieve. Humans don't sustain a peak. Even machines don't sustain peak performances."

"Just because you can run a marathon in two hours doesn't mean you can run four every workday," his sister snapped.

Not Zen 72: Considerate Songbird

A student complained to her guru that he talked too much. She noticed that whenever he spoke, everyone fell silent, even the other teachers nearby. They all stopped to listen to her guru.

“You’re the best teacher,” she said. “But you’re intimidating to others.”

The guru remained seated on his mat. He had excellent students but he judged this one to be among his best. She’d learned a tremendous amount in a short time. He knew that he might not see many more students as adept as she. He rubbed his beard.

“Let’s say that there was a songbird who sang so beautifully that all of the other birds in the forest fell silent,” he said. “But he was a considerate songbird. He wanted others to sing. He wanted his wife to sing, too, and she didn’t like being silenced more than any other bird. So the songbird felt ashamed of his fine voice.”

“I’m not your wife,” his student said. She folded her arms.

“I don’t think birds have students. Anyway, this songbird decided to silence himself. He remained quiet so others could speak. Of course, his neighbors grew accustomed to this very quickly. They sang loudly at him, sometimes wrongly, but he did not complain. His voice grew out of shape. His voice had been important to his life and he noticed the loss of it. In the next mating season, he did not sing. His wife left him. Even then, he didn’t sing a note of complaint.”

“You think your students would leave you?”

“Why would they stay if I didn’t teach?” He closed his eyes. “For years, the bird remained silent.  He felt wise, loving, and content, so he reasoned that he had no real cause to speak. But towards the end of his life, he looked out on the forest floor and, struck by its perfection, sang a short song.”

“And did all the other birds shut up?”

“No. His voice was barely a whisper. They hardly took notice.”

“I don’t like this comparison.” The student stepped back to find a chair. “A songbird is just a bird. It sings to live. It can’t worry about other birds. They’re no more virtuous than it is.”

“I’m a teacher,” he replied. “I have a message for those who want to hear me. That is my life.”

Not Zen 71: Sense of Importance

A man traveled late at night in the rain with his wife by his side. He thought about enlightenment and how hard it seemed to be to achieve. He needed to do everything he could to keep up his study of it. This trip he was on with his wife seemed to be one of many things in his way, a chore to be done.

He couldn't find a balance between his meditation practice and his everyday life. He was making lists in his head of all the things he needed to do. It all seemed very difficult, important, and stressful.

In the dark, his wife laughed. The noise interrupted his thoughts.

"What?" he said, irritated.

"Did you ever lie down at the top of a hill and roll to the bottom?" she said.

It took him a moment to remember. "Yes.  As a child."

"Well, that's what I was just thinking about."

"Oh." He stared in wonder at her for a moment. He thought about the grass around him on a hill he'd climbed as a child. He forgot about his lists. He watched the road ahead and the rain.

Not Zen 70: Creatures of Habit

An elderly monk sat on the banks of a stream, as he did every day in the summer. Each morning, he put out a begging bowl to collect money and food while he preached his thoughts on the Dao. Each evening, he threw away his food trash from the begging bowl into the stream and returned to his monastery.

On one particular afternoon, he received several visitors. Some wanted his advice. Some wanted to share his shade next to the stream. The next to last visitor was a wealthy young woman who came to donate money to the temple.

“That's wonderful,” the monk told her as he accepted her cash. “The summer has been dry and our harvest is poor. This will allow us to buy food for the winter.”

The woman bowed courteously and said she was glad to help. The monk tipped out the remains of his food into the water. Then he put the donation into his begging bowl.

As the master contemplated the gift, he received his last visitor of the day, a former monk. This man had given up the monastic life to become a businessman. He never donated to the temple. He never visited the dormitories. He simply dropped in on his former friend at the spot next to the water. It had become one of his habits.

At the end of each afternoon with the master, the businessman threw his food trash into the water and returned to his home in much the same way as the master emptied his begging bowl and returned to his monastery.

“You have gotten lazy,” said the monk.

“It's true.” The businessman nodded. He ate a pinch of fried dough that he'd bought for both of them. “I've gotten dependent on material wealth. I wear fine clothes. I eat meat and sweet desserts. I drink wine. All of this makes me fat.”

“You talked about this last week,” the monk observed. “Why don't you just break those bad habits of yours?”

“It's not so easily done.  I like all of those things.”

“Bah!” The monk threw up his arms. “You must control your habits or they will control you. You must see the patterns of your life. Understand them, let them guide you, and steer them or step out of those patterns when appropriate. That is what an enlightened man does. He is not a slave to habits.”

“Are you not under the power of any such habits?” asked the businessman doubtfully. “Not one?”

“I control myself completely, as all men of good spirit must do. It would be shameful to let any habit become the master of me.”

The monk rose, bowl in hand. He was irritated with his old friend and wanted to leave. The businessman, taking the cue, also stood. He dumped the crumbs of his fried dough into the stream.

The master, as was his habit, emptied his bowl. The donation to the temple fell into the water.

Not Zen 69: Enough Detail

A young and successful businessman grew more wealthy year after year.  But eventually his small business hit a downturn.  He tried hiring and firing in the staff positions he suspected of causing him trouble.  He brought in a consultant for advice but he didn't agree with the results.  Finally, he went his his religious leader, a Quaker clerk, for advice.

His clerk happened to be a patron of his business.  That meant the Quaker leader was in a good position to understand the problems.  She had no financial interest either, so she could be counted on to remain impartial.

“Why have you come to me?” the clerk asked as they were introduced that morning.  She motioned for her parishioner to join her in sitting in wooden chairs, both on the same side of the clerk's desk.

The businessman took a seat.  He made himself comfortable and considered his words before he spoke.

“I'm worried about my best manager, Emily,” he said.

“That's a surprise.”  The clerk nodded for the speaker to continue.  She picked up a teapot that had been sitting on a warmer on the desk.  “I've heard nothing but good about Emily.”

“Well, I'm worried about my other manager, too.”

“Really?”  The clerk poured a cup of tea.  “I have only good reports of him as well.”

“But they talk.  They may say bad things about what I've been doing.”

“Are you ready for my advice?”  The clerk set down her tea untouched.

“I haven't told you my problem yet.”

“You have told me that you're worried to have good, sweet people work for you because they may say bad things.  That tells me enough to give you advice.”

Not Zen 68: Crazy Aware

A psychiatrist and her patient rose from their chairs in her office.  They strolled out of the second floor suite and treaded down a flight of steps. Outside, they found bustling sidewalks and traffic-filled streets.  They skirted throngs of pedestrians and a convoy of bicyclists. The glare of the sun cast confusing shadows.  Around them, people moved from place to place.  There were sounds of metal on metal, of children yelling, of shoes on the sidewalks. The patient talked about his observations.

"I thought I was going to hate this," he admitted.  "But I like how everyone's keeping their distance.  They're ignoring us."

"Just to confirm, you were initially anxious about seeing the crowds?" his doctor asked.

"Of course.  I was only hiding it."

"You think so?  Well, we're all limited.  Not everyone can see themselves in the mirror."

"Not everyone is afraid of crowds the way I am."

"I meant something different," she said.  She led them toward an outdoor cafe.  Smells of food drifted on the breeze.  Customers huddled together in groups as they ate.  "Everyone knows a little bit of your feeling.  But mostly, other people have different problems.  I see a lot of problems in my line of work."

"Do other people hide their disabilities too?"

"They try.  Their problems aren't hidden for anyone who looks.  No one really conceals mental issues."

"I can hide mine.  I do it every day."

"You might think so but no, you don't.  How can I explain?"  The psychiatrist sighed.  She took them around the sidewalk to the other side of the crowds.  Her patient stepped out in the street at first.  It took him in a few seconds to build up the nerve to follow her.  "You wouldn't be under this illusion if you were missing a finger.  You would know that people must notice.  It might take them a minute or two but it would be inevitable.  With emotional problems, it's the same."

"You think my fears are as noticeable as a missing finger?"

"If you and a friend sat down for lunch, in time your friend would forget the missing finger." She pointed to a group of diners.  They spoke animatedly with their upper bodies and ignored everyone else. "But mental problems become more obvious over time, not less.  They're in every choice you make, every word you utter, every glance, every gesture."

"That's awful."

"It's natural.  Your actions are shaped in every instant by your perception of the world, same as they are for everyone else.  That's why I think you'll improve."

"You think you can train me to lose my fears because everyone else is messed up?"

"I think you can succeed because you allow for the possibility that your perceptions are wrong. You check them and make corrections. That puts you ahead of people who are fooled by their senses all the time but never question what they perceive."

Not Zen 67: Reversal of Movement

"You wear suits now?" exclaimed the visitor.

John unbuttoned his jacket and hung it over his office chair.  He nodded.  With his left hand, he picked up a stack of papers.

His hair had turned gray during his years of work for charities.  Then he'd started his own cause.  He'd built a mid-sized enterprise that served health care to the poor.  Where once he had greeted every visitor in faded, torn clothes, he now solicited donations in a suit.  Where once his office had been open to the street, now its door lay wide to a reception area.

"Yes, I wear nice clothes," he said.  He didn't stop his work to chat with the visitor.  He read the final paragraph of the top document and signed it.

"And you have a bed in your office?"  His visitor pointed to the cot in the corner.

"Yes."  He signed another form.  "My back thinks that it's old and fragile.  It doesn't like me to sleep on chairs or on the floor."

"You sleep at the office?"

"I've always slept in my offices.  But I've never had a bed before last year."

"You nap during the day?"

"No."  The administrator looked up.  "I know you give money here and you seem shocked.  But I make fold-out beds available to all my staff.  It encourages them to stay."

"I see."  The visitor looked around uncomfortably at the rich surroundings.  "The place has grown a lot since I was here last."

"Yes.  I can tell you approved of poverty better."  The administrator sighed and sat down behind his desk.  "I did, too.  I thought that depriving myself of material goods would improve my spirit.  Thanks to people like you, I found myself surrounded by plenty.  I sought to give joy to others.  Soon I found myself happy."

"Ah," said the visitor.  He walked to the open doorway.  He saw a doctor pass by, then another.  "Now I understand.  You have invoked the rule of reversal of movement.  To achieve something, you first explore its opposite."

"I doubt it. "  John turned back to his papers.  “I didn't know about anything called that.  It doesn't sound like it should work.”

"I've doubted the principle, too.  But your life exemplifies it.  Don't you explore a lot of sickness here?"

"More than I'd imagined possible."

"Same principle.  By exploring sickness, you achieve health."

Not Zen 66: Home Temple

A young man became engaged to an older woman. Everyone in their village thought it would be an excellent match. But on the eve of the marriage, he called off the ceremony. Without consulting anyone, not even his closest friends, he left his home and traveled to the nearest monastery.

His fiance knew that this was something he'd considered. She had, too. In fact, she had taken him on a tour of the local holy sites. She had an easy time tracking him. However, when she went to visit her lover, the monks would not allow her in.

She climbed the hill next to the compound and spotted her man meditating in the eastern courtyard. She hiked to the east wall. With the help of a pear tree, she scaled the wall and, unhurt by the drop on the other side, she strode to confront her lover.

His head was shaved and he wore a saffron robe. He seemed unsurprised by her presence. But he did not call for the other monks. She sat and adopted a pose of meditation similar to his.

"Are you at peace?" she asked after a while.

"I think I am coming to inner peace, yes," he replied.

"Did we have happiness at home? I thought we did, both of us."

"We did. Very much. But what is worldly happiness compared to eternal happiness?"

"It's nothing, of course. And what about love?"

"What about it? What is love compared to enlightenment?"

"They're teaching you nothing," she said sternly. "I taught you more. What is enlightenment without love that flows naturally from it? Aren't they joined? Shouldn't you know?"

The young man had no reply. The next day, he asked his teacher this question about love from enlightenment. He was not satisfied with the answer. A day later, he asked again and perceived a similar evasion. So he returned to his home town. He made apologies to his friends. Then he married the woman who had shown him the way to and from the temple.

Not Zen 65: Passage

A woman lost her infant to fever. Her mother had died not long before. The prospect of raising the daughter had sustained her through the loss of her mother. But there was nothing to sustain her through the loss of her child. The second death, so soon after the first, put her into depression.

The woman found it grew harder over the weeks for her to function normally. She performed her family duties without energy. She stopped cleaning. Her neighbors and friends criticized her behavior but she couldn't make herself care. She wasn't able to confide with her husband about her troubles because she felt she had failed him just as she'd failed her dead mother.

She considered suicide. Her husband was a good man, she thought, and could find another wife.

Before she took action, she went to her friend, a roshi who had studied meditation for many years. Her friend listened to her troubles with sympathy.

"I don't know how to deal with this loss," the young woman concluded. "You have studied detachment. Maybe you can help me."

"You cannot solve this problem by detaching yourself from it," answered the roshi.

"What? That's the opposite of what you should say. Even I know Buddhism better than that."

"Maybe you should tell me how it goes."

"You're supposed to say that my worldly desires will bring me sorrow."

"Oh, they will. They have."

"And that I should learn to let go of my worldly desires."

"You're correct."

"Then that's the way I should rid myself of this pain."

"No. You cannot deny the loss of your loved ones. You cannot deny what you feel. To attempt that is contrary to the Way. Never deny your expectations, hopes, or loves."

"But they bring me great sorrow!"

"You cannot avoid sorrow. You must live through it. And eventually you may move past it."

"That will take too long!  It could take my whole life."

The roshi nodded.  She insisted, "Nevertheless."

Not Zen 64: The Best Way

A young man traveling alone stopped at a temple to ask for directions. An attendant there gave him the information he needed. Before the traveler turned to leave, he asked, “And what's the best way?”

The attendant understood that this was a different question. He tapped the floor. When the traveler did not seem to understand, he said, “This way is best.”

The traveler left unhappy, having interpreted the answer as conceit for the temple. As he walked, he grew more and more impatient with the tapping of the hallway floor. He met a woman walking up the long hill road toward the temple and asked her the same question.

"Can you show me the best way?"

The woman smiled and tapped the ground with her foot. Then she continued on her way. The traveler felt this, under the circumstances, was a bit better.

Farther on, he happened to meet an elderly man who was apparently coming back from town.

"Can you show me the best path?" he said.

This man happened to work in the temple. He had lived in the area for a long time, tending to the monks and to the people of the town. He recognized that the traveler had been to the temple and had probably asked others the same question.

"Continue on this road," he said.

The young man was not satisfied.

"Continue on this road into town," said the old fellow. He gestured to the road behind him. "Turn left and walk another block. There you will find a bank. Stand in front of the bank and meditate. The answer will come."

Curious, the traveler did as he was told. He walked into town and found the bank, an impressive building with rich ornaments and a false brick front. There he stood, studying the building until he grew tired. When he could stand no longer, he sat. A bank guard came out and accosted him.

"Hey you!" he said. “Get out of here.”

“And the best way is?”

“To get moving!”