Not Zen 91: Imitating Serenity

Two women grew up in the same neighborhood of the same town, one a year older than the other. After they finished school, they each went into the business of nursing to the sick and elderly. Both had reputations for kindness. The younger of the two women, shorter and stronger, grew nervous over the years. Her sleep grew restless. Her health had been excellent when she was young but, finally, one day on the job she passed out from exhaustion.

The next morning, she lay in bed recovering. She improved as she talked with her first two visitors. However, the next person who came to her bed was the thin, older and more famous nurse. In a few minutes, the younger one began throwing up.

She didn't stop vomiting until her friend left. The other nurses noticed her symptoms. They conferred and decided to call for their boss.

“I hear that you're unhappy with your visitors,” said the senior nurse when she arrived.

“Who said that?”

“Never mind. Is it true?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. I'm just unhappy in general, I think.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea. I mean, just look at my friend who came earlier today. She does the same things I do. She's satisfied and at peace with herself.”

“I know her. And I know you. I see a great difference in the way you do things.”

“No, there's no difference.”

“You think there isn't because you compare yourself to her. You mirror what she does. You're careful that there's no gap between her achievements and yours, right down to the small, virtuous habits that make her so good.”

“Yes.”

“Can't you see that's the difference? She loves you but she doesn't measure herself by you. She doesn't act nice to others in order to compete with you. She does it because she feels that's it's right to be that way.”   

“I do that, too.”

“Sometimes, yes. But when you try to imitate your friend, it wears you out.”

“It shouldn't. She was always the sickly one when we were growing up. If anyone is getting tired, it should be her.”

“Really? Who is going to be better at being her? Who needs to work hard and who can just be herself?”

Not Zen 90: The Laughing Master

“Why do you laugh so much?” complained a disciple to his roshi. “Other devotees are much more strict than you.”

“I am not a master in a temple,” replied the teacher, “and that is one reason. Also, I am strict when there is a need, which is fairly often. When I do not have cause, I see no need to hide my joy. I learned this view from my teacher. When I was young, I felt he was far too carefree."

“You also had a master who laughed too much?”

“He laughed when it rained. He laughed when it snowed. He laughed when a cloud passed over the sun. He laughed when the sun reappeared. He laughed at butterflies. He laughed at his foolish students. Sometimes, I thought, his wanton mirth was simply too much. One person should not be so happy all the time. Such happiness could be a sign of foolishness instead of wisdom.”

“Exactly.” The disciple nodded. The other students of Zen, all seated around a table eating their lunch, did the same.

“I prepared a short speech on the subject, which I dared to give in the dining hall." The roshi smiled at the parallel since his group of students was seated. "But thankfully before I could give my speech, one of the other students, a fellow who had been ordered to bring our food, slipped. He was carrying four small tureens of soup. Each tureen had a lid. When he went down, the containers and lids flew up. The soup flew out. Of course, the pots and utensils came back to earth. They made a lot of noise. A spoon hit the poor student. Then a tureen landed on his head like a dunce cap. A lid clanged off the tureen while it was still on his head.”

The roshi’s students began to giggle at his story.

“Yes, it was very funny. I had never seen anything quite so funny looking. And then a second lid came down, too, and hit him on the head almost where the other one had hit. My fellow students burst into laughter. We fell almost in tears with laughter. Only one man did not laugh.”

“The student who fell?”

“My master did not laugh. He had not been standing close to the spill but he nonetheless arrived in time to catch the second lid before it hit the floor. He set it aside gently and checked to make sure that his student was not hurt. Truly, none of the rest of us wanted to see that fellow bruised or burned. He was a friend to us all. But his fall … to this day, the memory of it can make me smile. Then I think of my old master. He, who took joy in nearly everything, had simply taken action. Who can doubt that he was right?”

The students turned back to their places at the table and ate their lunches in silence.

Not Zen 89: Silent Lecture

An old man had been studying at his local temple for decades. For the last few years, he had remained silent. He spoke to no one, not even to the masters, and the head of the temple permitted his behavior even though the man was not a member of the clergy, only a visitor, and had taken no vow of silence. In time, no one thought it was unusual or rude.

The old man swept the floors in every room. He did it every evening, sometimes in the mornings or after large gatherings. He had another job outside of the temple and monastery.  Here he was a volunteer. He came and went as he pleased.

One day, a new student at the temple wandered into his dormitory. He watched the sweeper for an hour or so. Every so often, the new student looked to his fellow students to see if they were watching. They weren't.

The next day, the student came back to his room while the silent fellow was sorting the trash. He sat next to the old man and helped.

"That was a good lesson you gave yesterday," he said. "Why doesn't the head of the temple make all of students attend?"

This made the old man think for a while. He had not been silent in the rest of his life, only during his visits to the temple.

"There would be no point in that order," he replied. "I have been setting the same example for three years. You're the first one to remark on it besides the master."

"He provides a silent sermon through you."

“There are such sermons everywhere you look.”

“Even outside the temple?”

The old man returned to his task sorting the trash.

Not Zen 88: Soul Sight

She found her mother reading a book on their front porch. When she was in the kitchen, she spied the top of her mother's head through the glass door. She shouted and waved. Her mother didn't turn from her reading. She shouted again. Her mother closed her lips tight and leaned closer to the book.

The girl realized that she wasn't being polite. She skipped through the front door and onto the screened-in porch, where her mother could notice her when the time was right.

"Momma, can you see someone's soul?" she asked when she got tired of waiting.

With a sigh, her mother closed the book. She leaned forward in her chair.

"No one can see a soul," she said. "Souls are hidden inside. If they exist, they're always changing. They live from moment to moment, like sparks of electricity in our brains and hearts."

"So you can't see them?"

Her mother shook her head. "No."

The girl pointed to the family cat.

"Not even the cat can see them," her mother said. She let her hand drop low, near the floor. The cat trotted over to it and rubbed itself on the fingers. "Souls might be fluctuations of chemicals in cells and between cells. We can't see them inside people. Cats can't see them. No one has the right eyes to see the pictures they make. They might be beautiful. But we'll never know."

The girl turned and marched away. She wandered from one room to another until she spied her father in the back yard. He knelt in the dirt as he transplanted a sapling maple tree.

"Daddy, can you see someone's soul?" she asked as she burst out the back door.

"Sadly, yes."

"You can?"

"Of course. So can you." He stood and picked up his spade. He sank the metal blade into the pile of dirt next to the tree. Then he paused and glanced at his daughter. "In every smile and frown, in every action and in every hesitation, we see one another's souls."

Not Zen 87: Search Strategy

A master of a Daoist temple went to visit the nearby government office. From that large building in the center of the city, his temple received grant money for its projects in the community. On this day, the master's appointment was first and he arrived with time to spare. He walked into the lobby as light dawned. Immediately, he introduced himself to the other early arrivals and to the security guards. A junior officer brought tea for everyone. 

As the master chatted, he noticed a janitor who he knew from the temple a few years earlier.
 
“Is it student Jeffries?” he called. He waved as he strolled over to the man with a mop. “How nice to see you again.”

“Good morning, master.” The student bowed respectfully. He showed no sign of the impatience for which he had been famous when a member of the temple. 

“You left so suddenly.” The master sighed. “I worried you might have taken your life. You know, you struck me as a prideful student but a promising one. Many of the older monks were disappointed when you grew frustrated so quickly. May I ask you what you are doing now aside from cleaning these offices?”

“I looked for enlightened folks in your monastery. I found none, so I judged. Now I look for enlightened ones in this office building.” 

The master looked around at the trappings of wealth and power. There was a fountain in the lobby. There were marble stairs. The doors and fittings were glass and brass. Above them hung chandeliers of finest crystal. 

“You have cast a fishing line high into the treetops,” said the master with a slight bow. “But I can't complain because I do it, too. Who knows? Maybe you will find a fish.”

Not Zen 86: Under the Tree

On the back deck of a large, south-facing house, a student sat with her roshi. They drank sweet tea and discussed Stoicism, Buddhism, and other disciplines that lead, perhaps, to enlightenment. An hour into their conversation, a walnut fell from the tree above and hit the student on her shoulder.

She complained about the tree for minutes.

“That is your life exactly.” Her master sighed after her patience ran out. She moved her chair away from the tree.

“What do you mean by that?” asked the student.

“I mean, you are hurt by life because you are not paying attention. And then you come to complain to me.”

“Well, that is what life does. It hurts me.”

“So ... if you had looked up, would you have moved?”

“Of course.” At this, the student did look up. She rose with her chair and moved closer to the roshi.

“Good. Bring the tea pitcher, too.” She motioned to her student, who went to retrieve the covered jug. “Do you remember that yesterday you complained about a friend of yours at work who had all of the luck that you didn't?”

“Yes. She got promoted over me even though I'm as smart as she is, probably smarter.” The student brought the jug. She topped off her glass and took her seat.

“I think life is like this tree,” said the roshi. She gestured to the lower branches. “It rains things down on us from time to time. They might be nuts, leaves, twigs, or any of that sort of thing. Some people look down at their feet. They get hit and complain. Others look up to avoid the hardships. And still others hold out their hands.”

She held out her hands. The tea glass was in them. A bit of leaf dropped into her tea.

“Oops,” she said as she fished it out. “Well, it takes work, of course, to catch and crack a nut.  But I think it's a good analogy. If you are aware of it, a nut falling down is a good thing. If not, it might prove painful.”

“I don't think my friend at work studies towards enlightenment,” said the student. “She just got lucky.”

“Maybe. But it could be that she doesn't need to study much.” The roshi nodded to herself.  “Not everyone walks the same path. She may practice awareness in her own way and that is why she looked up at the right time. When life threw something at her, she was ready.”

Not Zen 85: Graduation

A guru often said, "Graduation comes when you have learned to teach yourself."

In spite of hearing that many times, one of her advanced students was surprised when the guru announced it was time for that student to leave. It happened after the student had delivered a presentation outside a coffee house. The subject had been a small point on the history of philosophy. Due the breeze that day, she had trouble making herself heard. When she sat down, she felt her talk had gone badly. Her guru disagreed.

"You teach yourself all the time now," said her guru over a stoneware cup and saucer. She paused to sip her tea. "You're past done. You've learned everything important that I know. You're going beyond. It's time you started your own school."

"I can't do that," the young woman responded.

A few months later the young woman found herself in a strange city, sitting in a small studio surrounded by a group of students assigned to her by her guru. She had a new pupil in her class as well, a young man lured in by his friendship with others. He asked more questions than anyone and he wondered aloud about the lack of furnishings in most of the school rooms. The space had come cheaply but not the furniture. Everyone had to sit on mats on the floors.

"I will write to my guru for advice," the new teacher said.

"You will?"

"She knows how to get donations for such things. I started this school, after all, when I got her agreement that I could write to her for guidance."

In her first month, she asked for suggestions on how to raise money, on what gifts she might expect from which patrons, and on the best ways to settle disputes between students. In the next few months, she requested her guru's recommendations on diet and on religious debates. Later, she wrote to obtain counsel on dealing with another teacher, a peer.

Often she wrote her requests to her master on cards the older woman had provided. One day, in her guru's studio, another such card arrived.

"From my newest teacher," the guru said as she saw the address. She sighed as she opened it because she knew it would be a request for advice.

The card was blank. She turned it over twice to make sure. Then, to the perplexity of the students around her, she laughed. She held her belly.

"Did something go wrong?" one student asked. "Why would she send you a blank note?"

"This is a comment," she replied, "Because graduation also means having the confidence to acknowledge one's mastery."

Not Zen 84: Emotional Reflexes

A boy brawled with his classmates. He argued with his teachers. He was the youngest boy in his home but he fought his bigger, stronger brothers. He teased his sisters. Eventually his parents sent him to military school. 

On graduation, he joined the army. He rose in the ranks and fought in wars. He was many times decorated for bravery. He found that in the field, in the midst of fighting, he felt at home. In the process, to his surprise, he discovered that he was loved as a commander. He hadn't felt much affection before. It made him proud. However, as he grew older and wiser he realized that, his troops liked him but his fellow officers did not. That meant his soldiers often got bad rations or bad equipment. 

For two decades he rose higher in the ranks. The more promotions he received, the more his manners seemed out of place to his peers. His superiors demoted him and returned him to battle. That suited him. He was again awarded for bravery. He received an elevation to field general. 

In a few months, he was rude to a governor and got demoted again. 

On the advice of another general, he went to see a roshi. This roshi practiced swordsmanship for sport so he and the general had something in common. They met and fenced on their first day together. The discussed tactics, met again, fenced for a few hours, and discovered that despite their different styles they were well matched. 

“This is fun,” said the general after one long session, “but I'm not as young as I once was. I need to rest. And you, young man, are supposed to help me with my manners.” 

“I am not an expert in manners,” said the roshi. “It's possible that I'm the wrong person to teach that sort of thing.”

“I've been referred to experts in manners before. I've failed them. My colleague recommended you for a reason. I don't understand him, I must say. I find you to be as rough as me.” 

“Yes, well, I'll try to help you in honor of our mutual friend. There are simple rules for dealing with other people. I understand some of them by process of observation. I see them as practical tasks. So I won't lecture you on the morality of politeness.” 

“Good. One expert told me that putting my feet on a chair is disrespectful,” the general snorted. 

“It may be,” said the roshi. “But instead of looking into the reasons for actions, as I would normally do, I'll try to teach you politeness as a conditioned reflex. In that way, it will seem more like martial prowess.”

“Are you comparing a 'thank you' to a parry with a sword?”

“No. But that thought might be in line with what I intend. After all, you are a good swordsman because you've developed an understanding of the simple rules of cut, thrust, and parry. You don't need to think. You react.” 

“When someone strikes, my reflexes take over.” 

“When I am finished with you, I want you to automatically respond correctly when a governor greets you.”

“I may not be an easy pupil, though I'll try. What's the way to generate a proper greeting reflex in myself? What are the rules?” 

The roshi put down his sword and demonstrated. He played the role of the governor. He played the role of the general. He switched roles and encouraged the general to practice. 

The general attended to his politeness reflexes for many weeks with the help of his roshi. 

Things began to happen in his life that had never happened before. His peers in the military started to invite him to social events. He was given an appointment to show his troops to politicians - ordinary for most generals but long denied in his case. The commander of the army, who had previously demoted the general back into the field, appointed him to an advisory post on the headquarters' staff. 

“Is it really this simple?” the general asked the roshi one day. “Did I have the wrong reflexes all this time?” 

“That may be the case,” the roshi allowed.

“It's a good thing I didn't learn these rules as a child,” said the general. “I would never have gotten into any fights at all. I would never have joined the army or become a general.”

The general tapped the roshi's sword with his own. The roshi laughed and nodded. 

“I'm shocked to discover how simple this is,” the general continued. “How has my life, all along, been so guided by these reflexes?” 

Not Zen 83: Familiarity

A burrowing parrot's sons were, like her, part of a colony of thousands of parrots. The grey-feathered birds made their homes in the hollows on the sides of the mountain. They'd lived there for longer than anyone could remember. The colony had gained strength. Their homes were full. Each year, the parrots dug their burrows a little deeper into the rock to make room for more parrots.

The two brothers had grown to maturity in good health. Their father had died long ago but they were strong enough to offer assistance to their mother before the hatching and brooding season. Their mother had not shown interest in finding another mate. So it had become a tradition for the sons to enlarge their mother's burrow. In time, they thought, she would take a mate or they would bring their families to move in with her.

One son had grown to be the alpha male for the colony. He led the largest groups in their migration flights. Many other birds gave way to him. They acceded even to his whims for food, nests, and drinking water. Now the only bird to whom he occasionally deferred was his mother.

He was tough and wise and had married the strongest of females. His children were many.

The other son had grown up to become an ordinary member of the colony. He was one of the weaker males, although considered wise. He had chosen a sickly mate out of love for her spirit. They had one child, now grown and out of their home.
 
"I feel horrible today," announced the alpha parrot as he landed on the edge of his mother's burrow.

"You look as strong as usual," his brother replied.

"My looks are deceiving. One of my friends tried to poison me."

His brother and his mother chirped at him. It was not unheard of for parrots to seek advantages over one another, especially near the top leadership positions of the colony. But it was alarming for them to hear of such things.

"What makes you say that?" his mother asked.

"He gave me a gift of seeds, as many do." The alpha male strode into his mother's burrow. The other two followed. "But the husks were poisonous."

"Pardon me," said his brother, "but couldn't you see that the husks were on?"

"Yes. I didn't care at the time. I thought I could gnaw off the husks. Isn't that what common parrots do?"

"We do indeed," said his brother. His mother nodded.

"That makes me feel stupid." The alpha parrot walked awkwardly. His stomach rumbled. He pecked once or twice at the back wall of the burrow. Even though he felt ill, his strength was greater than most. Flecks of stone fell from the wall. "I must have done a careless job of it."

"That's not like you," said his mother.

"I'm sure it can't be too bad." His brother joined him at the back where they had planned to expand the burrow. He also chipped away at the wall. "Perhaps you were sloppy. But you still couldn't have eaten many husks."

"I'm not accustomed to feeling ill."

"You'll get through it. You're the strongest, after all. You've been enormously successful."

"Not today. I hate to disappoint you, brother. Today, I'm sick and an idiot."

"I've admired how it hasn't kept you from doing great things.,” said his brother. "But I've always thought you were an idiot."

Not Zen 82: Missing Song

One Thursday night, a group of professional singers went to a tavern. They had just finished a practice session. After a few drinks, they proceeded to practice more by singing in harmony. The other patrons didn't mind.

The next week, the singers stopped over to the same place, drank a little, and sang a bit more. The Thursday night visit became a tradition. Sometimes the vocalists would drum in time to their songs. Sometimes the other patrons would pound on the tables, chairs, or the bar to provide accompaniment.

As the tradition grew, the performances grew rowdier and more elaborate. During well known songs, the tavern regulars would join in.

There came a point in the tradition at which patrons started coming to the bar to hear the singers. The notoriety of the performances spread through the town. Art patrons came and bought rounds of drinks. More critical folks arrived and sat in corners. Curious musicians and rival singers came to see what was happening . Often, the newcomers added to the impromptu music when it began. Even when one of the original singers grew ill and could no longer come to the tavern, his friends continued the tradition.

One night roughly two years after the tradition began, a local man invited his date to join him in the tavern. He had witnessed the gatherings several times before.

"I've been visiting on Thursdays off and on since last year," he said. "You're going to love it. The songs are rowdy but sung in elaborate harmony."

Around dinner time, three of the original singers arrived after their practice, as usual. But on this particular occasion, they'd just learned the news that their longtime friend, the one who had been sick, had died. After a drink or two, they raised their half-empty glasses and made the announcement to the rest of the patrons. There was a moment of silence.

One of the singers began to drum on his table. He cleared his throat. But when he tried to sing, nothing came out. His friends joined in the drumming. But they, too, did not sing. No words seemed to come to any of them.

Other people began to drum. The musicians and rival singers beat on their tables. The regular patrons stomped on the floor. The bartender pounded on the bar. Kitchen staff thumped on the walls. Everyone added to the sound. The entire tavern shook. Waiters had to race to catch cups and plates from falling off of shelves. It was an earthquake of rhythm. Folks who had been eating picked up their flatware, knives, and glasses to keep them from walking off their tables.

The drumming continued for longer than most people could have believed, half an hour, and ended only when the original singers raised their hands for quiet. They bowed and left.

"I'm sorry," the man said to his date once normality had been restored. "It's usually music. It's ... it's not this."

"Don't say another word," the woman replied.