Four teachers sat in their meeting room with stacks of preparatory work on the tables around them. Each had created a week's worth of lessons, including tools for their students to use for in-class sessions. Making the tools out of paper and laminates had taken them days.
A fifth teacher arrived late. She burst in and swung a heavy bag onto her chair. She shrugged off her coat, turned, and hung it on a wall hook. Then she surveyed the work that the others had done. With a smile, she grabbed the youngest teacher by the elbow.
"I didn't get mine finished this weekend," she said. "And my students are already behind, you know. Can I borrow your lessons again?"
"I guess so." With her free arm, she waved toward her stacks.
"Fine. When you run off copies, make an extra ninety for me." The late teacher let go of her. "You're a real lifesaver. I gotta go to my classroom now. But I'll be right back."
"But your students won't have their tools." She pointed to the ones that she had spent hours laminating.
Her colleague frowned. "You didn't make any extras? No? Well, I'll do without. I've really got to get to the classroom. Really."
She spun and left before her co-worker could think of a way to split the home-made tools.
As the young woman leaned over her stack of student tools to consider how they could be shared, she became aware that the room had grown quiet. She looked behind her to see that the other three teachers were scowling. Obviously she'd done something wrong. But she didn't know what.
"This is why everyone's angry with you both," the senior one said.
"Why are you mad at me?" She put a hand to her chest.
"Because your teaching partner is supposed to do her own work."
"I know." She searched their faces. She still didn't understand why they were upset. "But she doesn't. And then her students suffer. I can't stand that."
"They'll suffer, regardless." The faces of the older teachers softened at the mention of the students. "It's hard to see beyond the immediate moment to the greater pattern but you really need to do that now. You can't keep going on like this. You can't cover for a bad teacher."
"But her children ..."
"Come on, suppose you were working with a doctor. You'd find it tempting to cover up the habits of a bad doctor so that his patients wouldn't suffer. Wouldn't you?"
"Of course."
"But if you don't make the doctor understand what he's doing wrong, those patients will die when you turn your back. So don't cover up for the doctor. Don't keep a bad doctor in business for twenty years, still hurting patients every time you're not around."
"I ... I guess I see what you mean. But every time I don't cover for her, she tells me that her students are behind schedule. And they really are."
"She threatens you that way because it works. If you wonder why everyone else hates the example you set, it's that. You encourage your teaching partner to be selfish. Instead of negotiating with her, instead of demanding more effort from her, you let her continue as she is, hurting her students."
"I'm trying to help her."
"You're not. You aren't being kind to her or her classes. You're being meek. And your meekness is hurting the school." The senior teacher sighed. "I know that you're not a forceful person. But you'll have to be resolute. You have to insist that your work partners treat you fairly. That's the way you'll teach them to treat others fairly, too."
Stories on life, death, enlightenment, zen buddhism, religion, philosophy, stoicism, meditation, daoism, kindness but not meekness, and samsara.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Not Zen 116: Not So Great
The clerk of a Quaker church was widely regarded as a holy woman. She carried out many good deeds in her community. Her neighbors sought her spiritual advice. Local politicians saw this and coveted her support. She gained influence and, because of this, even more people sought her advice.
One morning, a young woman from her church approached her after the service. Together, the two walked from the meeting room down a path that led to a nearby park.
"I'm not doing well in my life right now," the young woman admitted when they were alone. "I've made a lot of mistakes. You aren't making any. What's your secret?"
"Secrets are beyond me," said the clerk. "Every day, I meditate on my life. Then I meditate to clear my mind. And after I finish my meditations, I ask myself, 'Am I a good person yet?' and the answer is always no, I'm not."
"But you're a saint!" The younger one shook her head in disbelief. "You're perfect!"
"No. You just don't know me well enough to see all of my mistakes. And before you go to someone else and say the same thing to them, let me tell you: they're making mistakes, too. We all are."
One morning, a young woman from her church approached her after the service. Together, the two walked from the meeting room down a path that led to a nearby park.
"I'm not doing well in my life right now," the young woman admitted when they were alone. "I've made a lot of mistakes. You aren't making any. What's your secret?"
"Secrets are beyond me," said the clerk. "Every day, I meditate on my life. Then I meditate to clear my mind. And after I finish my meditations, I ask myself, 'Am I a good person yet?' and the answer is always no, I'm not."
"But you're a saint!" The younger one shook her head in disbelief. "You're perfect!"
"No. You just don't know me well enough to see all of my mistakes. And before you go to someone else and say the same thing to them, let me tell you: they're making mistakes, too. We all are."
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Not Zen 115: Right Livelihood
Beavers laid claim to every waterway. All of the rivers, all of the creeks, all of the streams, brooks, and rivulets of any size were dammed. In some places, the dams created lakes, marshes, or ponds full of life. In other areas, they made water barrens devoid of all but grasses and large, hardy species.
Through the generations, the geographic center of the beaver clans hollowed out. Beavers ate the maple, alder, willow, and birch trees until there were no more. Even sedges and lilies had scant time to grow before they were discovered and devoured. Older beaver lodges rotted and collapsed. Clans rebuilt them from the same, half-rotted materials, taking wood from multiple dwellings to form a single new one. Every fresh sapling seemed precious. Except for a few months in springtime, only ancient trees stood in their area. Those trees took great efforts to fell. Broken branches from them, found on the forest floors, became treasures.
Beavers began to fight among themselves, not over survival but over wealth. They longed for the luxurious plants of generations past.
So it was one summer evening that a young female headed out from her mother's home. She swam to the shore and headed into the forest to search for fallen branches. It didn't take long before she sensed that she was being followed.
Although she couldn't see her pursuers, she could smell them when the wind blew uphill under the canopy of firs. They were at least at least two members from the upstream beaver clan. They had cut off her return to her lodge.
She found a birch stump from one of the last of the young trees she'd cut down. Sometimes it tried to grow back and it provided her with food. Today it had a single, diamond-shaped leaf. She munched it while waiting for her followers to arrive. But they never ventured uphill. After a while, she stopped smelling them. It was safe to move on.
She trudged down another slope, back toward the shore. Although she heard an animal in the pine needles, she didn't smell predators. And she still hadn't found any fallen branches.
Because she had nothing better to do, she located a pine tree the she had previously gnawed. It was too large to fell in a single day. If fact, she'd been working on it, on and off, for a week and she'd gotten halfway through.
Pine tasted bitter. It was not her favorite. But this tree grew next to the water. When she took it down, she could cut off branches and carry them to her home.
She went to work and discovered that the sour sap had dried. That made the wood easier to chew or at least more palatable.
As she gnawed, she remembered better jobs than this. Only a few hundred yards north, there had been a stand of poplar trees. A clan long gone had tended to them and to some willows, too. But the upstream lodge had taken over the poplars and raised scent mounds to mark their territory. Then they had felled every tree. This year, they hadn't bothered with scent mounds. They'd left nothing to protect. The dead grove was no longer worth anyone's bother.
The young beaver worked past dusk, longer than she'd meant to. Her progress on the dying wood encouraged her. She paused to listen for predators. She knew there were no wolves nearby. They made noises she could hear even over her chore. And the stink of a bear would have been impossible to miss. She worked her way deep into the trunk. As the tree began to creak, she risked her life for the final cuts. The trunk began to tilt. She scurried to safety.
As soon as the tree fell along the shore, she caught the scent of others beavers again. She heard two of them slide into the water. They were coming downstream to her, members of the hostile clan.
"We'll take this, cousin." Another beaver, a large male stepped out of the underbrush along the bank. How long had he been watching her work?
"Are you a band of thieves, now?" she said. Her first instinct had been to slap her tail against the ground and flee into the water. But she recognized these scents. She shouldn't need to escape them. She only wanted the branches she'd worked so hard to put in reach.
"You've got no right to protest," he replied. "We're bigger. We have more to feed. We take what we can. Those are our orders."
"I recognize you," she said. "Last winter you asked my parents to hide you from a wolverine. You were in my home. We saved you. And now you're stealing from us."
He fell silent. One of the other beavers clambered ashore.
"What are you waiting for? Let's get cutting," he said.
"You steal all of the time." She bristled with anger. "You steal the coppice. You killed the willows. You ate up the water lilies. You take all of everything that's rich so there's no more, not for us, not even for you."
"It's what our leaders want," said the newcomer.
"You exploit everyone and everything. You're thugs and fools."
"Another clan resisted us, cousin, with more than words," he told her. "They fought. Are you too young to remember them? Our leaders had us destroy their homes. We laid them open to the bears."
"And when my clan is gone, too, what will you do? When you've taken our homes and pushed us out to die, then what? You'll have no one to steal from. This has become your livelihood. You spend your time plundering resources needed by all and thieving from others' hard work."
"Our orders come from our grandfathers. You act like we're to blame. But we're not. There's nothing we can do. Our elders demand more and more, even if there's no more to be had."
"Orders or not, this is not a right way for you to live. I mean for you, personally. You do evil things and accept rewards for your deeds. And you can't pass that off onto anyone else."
Through the generations, the geographic center of the beaver clans hollowed out. Beavers ate the maple, alder, willow, and birch trees until there were no more. Even sedges and lilies had scant time to grow before they were discovered and devoured. Older beaver lodges rotted and collapsed. Clans rebuilt them from the same, half-rotted materials, taking wood from multiple dwellings to form a single new one. Every fresh sapling seemed precious. Except for a few months in springtime, only ancient trees stood in their area. Those trees took great efforts to fell. Broken branches from them, found on the forest floors, became treasures.
Beavers began to fight among themselves, not over survival but over wealth. They longed for the luxurious plants of generations past.
So it was one summer evening that a young female headed out from her mother's home. She swam to the shore and headed into the forest to search for fallen branches. It didn't take long before she sensed that she was being followed.
Although she couldn't see her pursuers, she could smell them when the wind blew uphill under the canopy of firs. They were at least at least two members from the upstream beaver clan. They had cut off her return to her lodge.
She found a birch stump from one of the last of the young trees she'd cut down. Sometimes it tried to grow back and it provided her with food. Today it had a single, diamond-shaped leaf. She munched it while waiting for her followers to arrive. But they never ventured uphill. After a while, she stopped smelling them. It was safe to move on.
She trudged down another slope, back toward the shore. Although she heard an animal in the pine needles, she didn't smell predators. And she still hadn't found any fallen branches.
Because she had nothing better to do, she located a pine tree the she had previously gnawed. It was too large to fell in a single day. If fact, she'd been working on it, on and off, for a week and she'd gotten halfway through.
Pine tasted bitter. It was not her favorite. But this tree grew next to the water. When she took it down, she could cut off branches and carry them to her home.
She went to work and discovered that the sour sap had dried. That made the wood easier to chew or at least more palatable.
As she gnawed, she remembered better jobs than this. Only a few hundred yards north, there had been a stand of poplar trees. A clan long gone had tended to them and to some willows, too. But the upstream lodge had taken over the poplars and raised scent mounds to mark their territory. Then they had felled every tree. This year, they hadn't bothered with scent mounds. They'd left nothing to protect. The dead grove was no longer worth anyone's bother.
The young beaver worked past dusk, longer than she'd meant to. Her progress on the dying wood encouraged her. She paused to listen for predators. She knew there were no wolves nearby. They made noises she could hear even over her chore. And the stink of a bear would have been impossible to miss. She worked her way deep into the trunk. As the tree began to creak, she risked her life for the final cuts. The trunk began to tilt. She scurried to safety.
As soon as the tree fell along the shore, she caught the scent of others beavers again. She heard two of them slide into the water. They were coming downstream to her, members of the hostile clan.
"We'll take this, cousin." Another beaver, a large male stepped out of the underbrush along the bank. How long had he been watching her work?
"Are you a band of thieves, now?" she said. Her first instinct had been to slap her tail against the ground and flee into the water. But she recognized these scents. She shouldn't need to escape them. She only wanted the branches she'd worked so hard to put in reach.
"You've got no right to protest," he replied. "We're bigger. We have more to feed. We take what we can. Those are our orders."
"I recognize you," she said. "Last winter you asked my parents to hide you from a wolverine. You were in my home. We saved you. And now you're stealing from us."
He fell silent. One of the other beavers clambered ashore.
"What are you waiting for? Let's get cutting," he said.
"You steal all of the time." She bristled with anger. "You steal the coppice. You killed the willows. You ate up the water lilies. You take all of everything that's rich so there's no more, not for us, not even for you."
"It's what our leaders want," said the newcomer.
"You exploit everyone and everything. You're thugs and fools."
"Another clan resisted us, cousin, with more than words," he told her. "They fought. Are you too young to remember them? Our leaders had us destroy their homes. We laid them open to the bears."
"And when my clan is gone, too, what will you do? When you've taken our homes and pushed us out to die, then what? You'll have no one to steal from. This has become your livelihood. You spend your time plundering resources needed by all and thieving from others' hard work."
"Our orders come from our grandfathers. You act like we're to blame. But we're not. There's nothing we can do. Our elders demand more and more, even if there's no more to be had."
"Orders or not, this is not a right way for you to live. I mean for you, personally. You do evil things and accept rewards for your deeds. And you can't pass that off onto anyone else."
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Not Zen 114: Property
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| wikimedia commons, Chiyaruchi |
"That was our place for picnics," the chief said, pointing. "It was a forest. It had hills and meadows. People could farm there if they wished. On the south slope was a spring that our ancestors turned into a well. Now it is destroyed."
"The loggers cut down all of the trees, I see." His guest nodded.
"They stripped everything of value." The tribal leader jabbed his finger at it. "They destroyed the rookery. Now there are no more shorebirds They poisoned the well with the bodies of dead log men. No one can drink. They let all of the island's soil wash into the river. They made the place into a bare rock with a few stumps."
"How did they decide they could do this?" The visitor removed his hat for a moment, rubbed his balding head, and put the hat back on.
"I want you to tell me that."
"All I said was that the island had to belong to someone. If you declared it as no one's property, others would feel free to use it." He looked at his feet as he spoke.
"We made it property, as you instructed. It was common property before, according to our customs. But you said that bad things happen to common property so we made it the sole property of one man, my nephew. And it was registered with you."
"I don't understand."
"Your men got him drunk and paid him money for the island."
"So your nephew sold it?" The guest smiled with relief. An instant later, he tried to hide his emotion. He gave a solemn frown. "Then the men he sold it to can do what they want."
"That is a child's view of property. I thought your people were more sophisticated than that."
"We are very sophisticated," said the guest.
"A child is self-centered. He thinks, I will do what I please, destroy things that belong to my family, and not consider the consequences. A grown man or woman knows better. Adults consider the consequences for others."
"I think I see what you mean." He sighed at the greedy destruction of the island.
"Declaring that something is your property does not give you the right to destroy it for generations on end. Every adult knows this. You have friends, relatives, and neighbors to consider. If your concept of property lets grown men act like greedy children, then your culture's concept of property is flawed. It will lead to deaths. My nephew is ashamed. Already, he has killed one of the log men. He was wounded and has gone into hiding but next, they will kill him."
"That's wrong. But our society lives by a system of property protection. We can't simply do away with the idea."
"Then you must fix it. No one can be allowed to destroy resources that everyone needs. Every society but yours seems to know this. If your idea of property allows owners to create deserts out of gardens, it is time for that idea to grow up. It must become as sophisticated as the earth."
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Not Even Not Zen 3: About Essays and Stories
For the most part, these 'Not Even' entries will be essays but they won't be limited to that form. Aside from the original story each week, it may sometimes be fun to include a real-life story, a poem, or a traditional story re-told along with an essay or an explanation.
Occasionally, I write stories or poems that seem worth sharing but they don't have a place in Not Zen. The entry below is one of those. I heard it or read it long ago, then told it again at the office. (It's an office sort of story.) Of course, I told it again at a party, at a different office, and on a few other occasions. I searched online for it but I could never find a version of the story that matched the one I told. So here's my version, possibly changed quite a bit over the years from the original.
Not Even 3: The King's Counselors (A Traditional Tale)
Long ago, there lived a huge lion, a king of beasts who ruled his land with courage and ferocity. Even the pack leaders of other predators bowed down to him. The migratory herd leaders stood in awe. So the lion became an emperor. He had many counselors and many wives. He ruled for so many years that only elephants could remember when he had not ruled them. But at the late end of his maturity, he contracted halitosis. His breath smelled so bad that his wives revolted against him.
"Leave us until you're better," said his chief mate. "We can't stand it any longer."
The king was angry. Lions can't rule without the consent of their wives. He understood how serious his problem had become. He called his counselors together. Three came quickly: the sheep, the wolf, and and fox.
"Tell me truthfully," he roared at them. "Does my breath stink?"
"Wow," said the sheep, knocked back by the odor. "Yes, sire. It's awful. I've never smelled anything like it."
"Liar!" screamed the lion. He fell upon the sheep and tore him to bits.
"What about you?" he said when he was done. He turned to the wolf. "Do you think my breath is bad?"
"Oh no, sire," said the wolf, who could hardly keep his eyes off the bloody remains of the sheep. He bowed his head and simpered. "Perhaps your mate's nose isn't working right. Your breath smells fresh like daisies."
"Coward!" screamed the lion. He fell upon the wolf and tore him to shreds as easily as he did the sheep. Then he turned to the fox.
"Well?" he said to the wisest of his counselors. "Do you think my breath stinks?"
The fox had been waiting for the question. He'd given his answer some thought.
"To tell the truth, sire," replied the fox patiently. "I have a terrible cold and I can't smell a thing."
Occasionally, I write stories or poems that seem worth sharing but they don't have a place in Not Zen. The entry below is one of those. I heard it or read it long ago, then told it again at the office. (It's an office sort of story.) Of course, I told it again at a party, at a different office, and on a few other occasions. I searched online for it but I could never find a version of the story that matched the one I told. So here's my version, possibly changed quite a bit over the years from the original.
Not Even 3: The King's Counselors (A Traditional Tale)
Long ago, there lived a huge lion, a king of beasts who ruled his land with courage and ferocity. Even the pack leaders of other predators bowed down to him. The migratory herd leaders stood in awe. So the lion became an emperor. He had many counselors and many wives. He ruled for so many years that only elephants could remember when he had not ruled them. But at the late end of his maturity, he contracted halitosis. His breath smelled so bad that his wives revolted against him.
"Leave us until you're better," said his chief mate. "We can't stand it any longer."
The king was angry. Lions can't rule without the consent of their wives. He understood how serious his problem had become. He called his counselors together. Three came quickly: the sheep, the wolf, and and fox.
"Tell me truthfully," he roared at them. "Does my breath stink?"
"Wow," said the sheep, knocked back by the odor. "Yes, sire. It's awful. I've never smelled anything like it."
"Liar!" screamed the lion. He fell upon the sheep and tore him to bits.
"What about you?" he said when he was done. He turned to the wolf. "Do you think my breath is bad?"
"Oh no, sire," said the wolf, who could hardly keep his eyes off the bloody remains of the sheep. He bowed his head and simpered. "Perhaps your mate's nose isn't working right. Your breath smells fresh like daisies."
"Coward!" screamed the lion. He fell upon the wolf and tore him to shreds as easily as he did the sheep. Then he turned to the fox.
"Well?" he said to the wisest of his counselors. "Do you think my breath stinks?"
The fox had been waiting for the question. He'd given his answer some thought.
"To tell the truth, sire," replied the fox patiently. "I have a terrible cold and I can't smell a thing."
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Not Zen 113: Feeling Better
They waited in the lobby of the doctor's office, three children in the midst of another dozen. Around them, pictures of farm animals decorated the beige walls. Yellow-shaded lamps and bright, fluorescent lights cast a cheerful glow. The youngest child, a toddler, grabbed a toy truck from the floor and hit his sister in the knee with it. In retaliation, she kicked him in the stomach. He fell. They both cried.
Their mother shouted for them to stop. She grabbed the toys and threw them into the office toy basket. Their older brother sighed and put down his book.
Just then, a door opened between the office hall and the lobby. A doctor leaned out.
"Can I see you alone for a moment?" he asked the mother.
She nodded. After ordering her children not to move, she marched out. The older brother waited for the door to close. He turned to his sister.
"The doctor doesn't want to give you medicine, I think," he said.
His sister forgot about her knee. She nodded.
"But mommy wants it for me," she said. "So she'll get it. She wants me to stop feeling sad."
"You're sad a lot."
"Uh-huh."
They watched their younger brother stop crying and start looking around for something more to do. A physician's assistant glanced up to observe the three of them from her seat at the front desk. After a few seconds, she returned to her work. The older boy leaned over the arm of his sister's chair.
"I know a way to feel better," he whispered.
Her eyelids narrowed a little. "No you don't."
"It works for me." He settled back in his seat.
"What?"
"Do something nice."
"I don't want to help someone, dummy. I want someone to help me."
He shook his head as he tried to think of how to explain. Then their eyes turned to the youngest child. He had located the toy basket. Now he was turning it over and dumping out the toys.
"You want a grown-up to help you feel better?" he asked with a wary eye on the toddler.
"Yes."
"I don't know that that works. Anyway, the doctor said no medicine."
A few feet from them, the youngest child sifted through the toys on the floor. He pushed aside a pile of wooden blocks. A soft, plastic truck seemed to meet his approval. He grabbed it. But when he tapped it against the floor, it made no noise. He dropped it. A moment later, among other plastic cars and trucks, he found the big one.
He slammed it against the floor. It made a solid sound. Then he ran up to his sister.
As he swung it, his older brother took the truck out of his hand. The toddler yelped, startled, and burst into tears.
"There's no one who needs help except an annoying little brother," the girl said as she watched the toddler cry. "And he's a brat."
"It works even with annoying brats."
He got down on the floor. After a moment's consideration, he handed the toddler the heavy toy truck. His brother stopped crying. His sister joined them on the floor.
The girl built a tower out of blocks. Then she knocked it down. Her little brother smiled at that. Then she built a bridge out of the blocks.
"Go ahead," she said.
Her younger brother hesitated. When no one moved to stop him, he set his truck down on the floor. He drove it almost to the bridge, backed up, and swerved into the side to knock it down. Blocks tumbled. He squealed so loud with delight that his sister laughed, too.
Still smiling, she picked up a block to build the bridge again.
Their mother shouted for them to stop. She grabbed the toys and threw them into the office toy basket. Their older brother sighed and put down his book.
Just then, a door opened between the office hall and the lobby. A doctor leaned out.
"Can I see you alone for a moment?" he asked the mother.
She nodded. After ordering her children not to move, she marched out. The older brother waited for the door to close. He turned to his sister.
"The doctor doesn't want to give you medicine, I think," he said.
His sister forgot about her knee. She nodded.
"But mommy wants it for me," she said. "So she'll get it. She wants me to stop feeling sad."
"You're sad a lot."
"Uh-huh."
They watched their younger brother stop crying and start looking around for something more to do. A physician's assistant glanced up to observe the three of them from her seat at the front desk. After a few seconds, she returned to her work. The older boy leaned over the arm of his sister's chair.
"I know a way to feel better," he whispered.
Her eyelids narrowed a little. "No you don't."
"It works for me." He settled back in his seat.
"What?"
"Do something nice."
"I don't want to help someone, dummy. I want someone to help me."
He shook his head as he tried to think of how to explain. Then their eyes turned to the youngest child. He had located the toy basket. Now he was turning it over and dumping out the toys.
"You want a grown-up to help you feel better?" he asked with a wary eye on the toddler.
"Yes."
"I don't know that that works. Anyway, the doctor said no medicine."
A few feet from them, the youngest child sifted through the toys on the floor. He pushed aside a pile of wooden blocks. A soft, plastic truck seemed to meet his approval. He grabbed it. But when he tapped it against the floor, it made no noise. He dropped it. A moment later, among other plastic cars and trucks, he found the big one.
He slammed it against the floor. It made a solid sound. Then he ran up to his sister.
As he swung it, his older brother took the truck out of his hand. The toddler yelped, startled, and burst into tears.
"There's no one who needs help except an annoying little brother," the girl said as she watched the toddler cry. "And he's a brat."
"It works even with annoying brats."
He got down on the floor. After a moment's consideration, he handed the toddler the heavy toy truck. His brother stopped crying. His sister joined them on the floor.
The girl built a tower out of blocks. Then she knocked it down. Her little brother smiled at that. Then she built a bridge out of the blocks.
"Go ahead," she said.
Her younger brother hesitated. When no one moved to stop him, he set his truck down on the floor. He drove it almost to the bridge, backed up, and swerved into the side to knock it down. Blocks tumbled. He squealed so loud with delight that his sister laughed, too.
Still smiling, she picked up a block to build the bridge again.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Not Zen 112: Parental Neglect
She planned her litter by tending to her nest. Like other alligators, she created divots filled with warm, rotting leaves and sawgrass on one side. She let that arc of her den heat up in the sun. For the other half, she created shade with fresh bladderwort and lily fronds. Those eggs would remain cool and would become her girls.
She tended to her nest for more than two months before the eggs hatched. In that time, she lost a few of the to-be girls to a raccoon. She lost at least three possible boys to a male alligator. The intruder didn't escape a beating - she found him and bit him hard on his snout - but the damage was done.
In the end, she got two male hatchlings and three females from the nest. When they were ready, she opened her mouth and let them climb in. Only the smallest male had any trouble and even he clambered aboard and clung to a tooth. Then with her mighty jaws that had once cracked the skull of a horse, she lifted up her children and walked them toward the water. They leaned out, eyes popped wide, gawking at the wide world they'd never seen.
One of her grown daughters met her near the edge.
"Something's wrong," her daughter said. "Can't you smell it?"
She paused. Her nostrils took in the strange scent from the sea.
Years ago, she had come to this tidal marsh when it was deserted. There were no other alligators, not even a mate. She had dug her home into a riverbank, waited, and hoped. In time, a young male came from upstream, then another.
She had populated the marsh. It had taken many years of work but the area had grown wide and lush under her control, regrown from the eggs of her body, her children's generation, and lately, a generation of grandchildren.
The air smelled foul today. He eldest daughter was right. It stunk of death. She lay her open jaw down where she was and let her children crawl out.
They didn't want to come. Their instincts told them to expect water. This area held only scrub, pebbles, and grass. But when she opened and lowered the roof of her mouth a few times, they got the hint. The little male left right away. One of her daughters, the biggest and most assertive, waited resentfully until her mother's jaw tipped and she rolled out. She popped her head up and gazed back at her mother as if to ask what was wrong.
"The smell of dead water gets stronger with every breeze," she hissed. There was no denying it.
"What can we do?"
"Everyone needs to set aside food," she said. Her sense of dread grew. "A red tide is coming."
She had caught scent of a similar tidal incident long ago. She had seen it wipe out all of the life in the mouth of a river. But she had only borne witness to it from a distance. She had never lived through it.
She and her eldest daughter scrambled to send word. To her shock, some of her grown children were already sick. Maybe this red tide was different than the previous one. Alligators were getting a white crust on their noses. Whether they'd eaten fish dying in the red algae bloom or not, whether they lived by the coast or not, they were getting sick. Every time she swam back to her hatchlings, she tried to keep them from going into the water. But there was no help for it. That's where they belonged. They swam in the decay, amidst the bloated bodies of dead trout and dead catfish.
One by one, her youngest children caught the sickness. Their skins crusted, hard and pale. They grew feverish. They could find no clean water to drink. They had no strength to go search for better water. And they died.
She swam to other nests to help her daughters. But their children, too, were passing away. Half-grown alligators flopped up on sandbars and panted, too sick to move. Full grown males and females fled if they were able.
She watched a male attempt to eat a dead bullfrog but give up. The frogs had been among the first to go. Its body was spoiled beyond what even an adult could stand.
For days, she swam through the red tide. She forgot to warm herself in the morning. She forgot to cool herself in the middle of the day. She gave herself a fever. All she could think to do was to help her grown children battle the tide of death.
When she saw a half-grown alligator lying comatose on the bank of the marsh, she swam over to it and tried to rouse it. But she got no response. Its skin, like those of her children, had gone pale. She nudged it a few times. Then she collapsed.
When she awoke, it was morning. The light had changed. The breeze smelled clear. She felt the presence of a large alligator near her. She turned her head, which was difficult to do, and saw an old, bull male. She knew him from long ago, another early settler of the marsh. Beyond him was another, smaller male, one of her sons. Now that she thought about it, he was also the bull's son.
"I figured you would make it," said the old bull.
"Momma," said her son. "I thought you were dead. You kept helping and helping everybody. You swam everywhere for days. And then you disappeared. And I found you. I thought you were dead."
"Your son is a lot like you," murmured the bull.
"I see." She tried to imagine what it had been like to find her body. It wasn't hard. She'd found many young ones dead and many older ones sick.
"I did the best I could, momma," said her son.
"All your children did," said the bull. "In all the adults of your line, only you fell ill. And when you did, all of our youth perished. It was you who had been holding them together, saving the half-grown."
"I failed."
"You failed only from self-neglect. If you had only taken a moment to care for yourself, only eaten a bit of the fresh food you had scavenged for others, only gone for fresh water once, only rested as you allowed others to rest, many young children would still be here."
"I was afraid to fail them."
"You didn't have to be afraid." The bull sighed. On his other flank, so did her son. "Because you did fail them. And they love you anyway."
She tended to her nest for more than two months before the eggs hatched. In that time, she lost a few of the to-be girls to a raccoon. She lost at least three possible boys to a male alligator. The intruder didn't escape a beating - she found him and bit him hard on his snout - but the damage was done.
In the end, she got two male hatchlings and three females from the nest. When they were ready, she opened her mouth and let them climb in. Only the smallest male had any trouble and even he clambered aboard and clung to a tooth. Then with her mighty jaws that had once cracked the skull of a horse, she lifted up her children and walked them toward the water. They leaned out, eyes popped wide, gawking at the wide world they'd never seen.
One of her grown daughters met her near the edge.
"Something's wrong," her daughter said. "Can't you smell it?"
She paused. Her nostrils took in the strange scent from the sea.
Years ago, she had come to this tidal marsh when it was deserted. There were no other alligators, not even a mate. She had dug her home into a riverbank, waited, and hoped. In time, a young male came from upstream, then another.
She had populated the marsh. It had taken many years of work but the area had grown wide and lush under her control, regrown from the eggs of her body, her children's generation, and lately, a generation of grandchildren.
The air smelled foul today. He eldest daughter was right. It stunk of death. She lay her open jaw down where she was and let her children crawl out.
They didn't want to come. Their instincts told them to expect water. This area held only scrub, pebbles, and grass. But when she opened and lowered the roof of her mouth a few times, they got the hint. The little male left right away. One of her daughters, the biggest and most assertive, waited resentfully until her mother's jaw tipped and she rolled out. She popped her head up and gazed back at her mother as if to ask what was wrong.
"The smell of dead water gets stronger with every breeze," she hissed. There was no denying it.
"What can we do?"
"Everyone needs to set aside food," she said. Her sense of dread grew. "A red tide is coming."
She had caught scent of a similar tidal incident long ago. She had seen it wipe out all of the life in the mouth of a river. But she had only borne witness to it from a distance. She had never lived through it.
She and her eldest daughter scrambled to send word. To her shock, some of her grown children were already sick. Maybe this red tide was different than the previous one. Alligators were getting a white crust on their noses. Whether they'd eaten fish dying in the red algae bloom or not, whether they lived by the coast or not, they were getting sick. Every time she swam back to her hatchlings, she tried to keep them from going into the water. But there was no help for it. That's where they belonged. They swam in the decay, amidst the bloated bodies of dead trout and dead catfish.
One by one, her youngest children caught the sickness. Their skins crusted, hard and pale. They grew feverish. They could find no clean water to drink. They had no strength to go search for better water. And they died.
She swam to other nests to help her daughters. But their children, too, were passing away. Half-grown alligators flopped up on sandbars and panted, too sick to move. Full grown males and females fled if they were able.
She watched a male attempt to eat a dead bullfrog but give up. The frogs had been among the first to go. Its body was spoiled beyond what even an adult could stand.
For days, she swam through the red tide. She forgot to warm herself in the morning. She forgot to cool herself in the middle of the day. She gave herself a fever. All she could think to do was to help her grown children battle the tide of death.
When she saw a half-grown alligator lying comatose on the bank of the marsh, she swam over to it and tried to rouse it. But she got no response. Its skin, like those of her children, had gone pale. She nudged it a few times. Then she collapsed.
When she awoke, it was morning. The light had changed. The breeze smelled clear. She felt the presence of a large alligator near her. She turned her head, which was difficult to do, and saw an old, bull male. She knew him from long ago, another early settler of the marsh. Beyond him was another, smaller male, one of her sons. Now that she thought about it, he was also the bull's son.
"I figured you would make it," said the old bull.
"Momma," said her son. "I thought you were dead. You kept helping and helping everybody. You swam everywhere for days. And then you disappeared. And I found you. I thought you were dead."
"Your son is a lot like you," murmured the bull.
"I see." She tried to imagine what it had been like to find her body. It wasn't hard. She'd found many young ones dead and many older ones sick.
"I did the best I could, momma," said her son.
"All your children did," said the bull. "In all the adults of your line, only you fell ill. And when you did, all of our youth perished. It was you who had been holding them together, saving the half-grown."
"I failed."
"You failed only from self-neglect. If you had only taken a moment to care for yourself, only eaten a bit of the fresh food you had scavenged for others, only gone for fresh water once, only rested as you allowed others to rest, many young children would still be here."
"I was afraid to fail them."
"You didn't have to be afraid." The bull sighed. On his other flank, so did her son. "Because you did fail them. And they love you anyway."
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Not Zen 111: The Forgotten Garden
A girl slept to the sound of raindrops on her roof. She woke to silence in the morning. In her stocking feet, she crept to her window. She saw a clear sky outside, cool and blue. As her gaze lowered, she noticed the green bushes at the edge of the lawn and in front of them, budding flowers, pink and yellow.
"Grandma, can I go out?" she called.
She listened for an answer. Other than the songs of the birds in the nearby trees, she heard nothing. She waited a moment, then dressed herself. She could smell moistness in the air. The day felt like it would turn warm, so she chose light clothes and sandals.
A few minutes later, she strolled onto her grandmother's screened-in porch. The painted grey concrete floor of the porch was wet with dew. Her sandals smeared it. She played in it for a moment, drawing patterns. Around the corners of the room, near the screens and wall, lay pieces of a furniture set with waterproof covers in a pattern of green and yellow leaves. The pieces included end tables, chairs, and a long sofa. Underneath one of the end tables, there hid two bags of gardening tools. The girl marched to the table, crouched down, and pulled out a bag. She liked to play with the hand rakes and imagine their claws digging trails in the dirt.
She scraped the rakes and trowels along the concrete floor until her grandmother appeared.
"There you are," the woman said from the door between the house and porch. "Do you want breakfast?"
"Maybe juice." She held up the three-clawed rake. "Grandma, why don't you garden more?"
"There's no point. I never liked it." Her grandmother folded her arms and leaned against the door frame.
"Yes you did."
"No." She shook her head.
"Grandma, you did it all the time! And you were so good." The girl got off of her knees. She marched to the tools she'd left scattered on the floor. She gathered four or five of them in her arms but stopped when she picked up a pair of shears. She used the shears to point to where the garden had once stood. It was now a raised bed of dirt covered by a tarp. "You had tomatoes and radishes and onions and peas and cucumbers and everything. And all around the house you had tulips and lilies and crinkly flowers... and, um, violets ..."
"The violets are weeds. That wasn't really me." Her grandmother stopped leaning against the door frame. She walked to the porch screen nearest to her old garden. Her left hand touched the screen. "None of it was me, really. It was your grandfather's doing, right down to the weeds he let grow in the lawn. He loved to garden."
"But ..." Her face scrunched tight in frustration. "I saw you doing it."
"I loved doing things with him." Her grandmother pulled her hands close to her chest. "I would have done anything he wanted just to be by his side. Anything. He loved to make things grow. I was proud of the way he tended to the plants and animals. Working next to him gave me a great feeling."
"Does working beside someone feel nice?" Her friends didn't like to work or make things. "Why?"
"I don't know. That's a good question." Her grandmother stood and stared at her forgotten garden for a long time before she answered. "I suppose it's just the way people are. We're social creatures, even the ones of us who feel solitary. We might prefer to work in silence but still, there's something special about solving problems side by side. It needs no words. But it connects us to our humanity. Without it, we're not completely in touch with ourselves."
The girl watched her grandmother's gaze return to the covered garden bed.
"Do you miss digging in the dirt, grandma?"
"I miss my partner," her grandmother whispered.
The girl put her tools into the garden bucket. From them, she choose the hand trowel with the red handle, her favorite.
"Grandma, am I good? Do you like me?" She walked up next to her grandmother's hips. Her grandmother, in surprise, looked down and blinked.
"What a question!" Her hands swooped under her granddaughter's armpits. She lifted. With a grunt of effort and a look of surprise, she held the girl close. "You're an angel. Of course I love you."
The girl waved her trowel. "Will you garden with me?"
"Grandma, can I go out?" she called.
She listened for an answer. Other than the songs of the birds in the nearby trees, she heard nothing. She waited a moment, then dressed herself. She could smell moistness in the air. The day felt like it would turn warm, so she chose light clothes and sandals.
A few minutes later, she strolled onto her grandmother's screened-in porch. The painted grey concrete floor of the porch was wet with dew. Her sandals smeared it. She played in it for a moment, drawing patterns. Around the corners of the room, near the screens and wall, lay pieces of a furniture set with waterproof covers in a pattern of green and yellow leaves. The pieces included end tables, chairs, and a long sofa. Underneath one of the end tables, there hid two bags of gardening tools. The girl marched to the table, crouched down, and pulled out a bag. She liked to play with the hand rakes and imagine their claws digging trails in the dirt.
She scraped the rakes and trowels along the concrete floor until her grandmother appeared.
"There you are," the woman said from the door between the house and porch. "Do you want breakfast?"
"Maybe juice." She held up the three-clawed rake. "Grandma, why don't you garden more?"
"There's no point. I never liked it." Her grandmother folded her arms and leaned against the door frame.
"Yes you did."
"No." She shook her head.
"Grandma, you did it all the time! And you were so good." The girl got off of her knees. She marched to the tools she'd left scattered on the floor. She gathered four or five of them in her arms but stopped when she picked up a pair of shears. She used the shears to point to where the garden had once stood. It was now a raised bed of dirt covered by a tarp. "You had tomatoes and radishes and onions and peas and cucumbers and everything. And all around the house you had tulips and lilies and crinkly flowers... and, um, violets ..."
"The violets are weeds. That wasn't really me." Her grandmother stopped leaning against the door frame. She walked to the porch screen nearest to her old garden. Her left hand touched the screen. "None of it was me, really. It was your grandfather's doing, right down to the weeds he let grow in the lawn. He loved to garden."
"But ..." Her face scrunched tight in frustration. "I saw you doing it."
"I loved doing things with him." Her grandmother pulled her hands close to her chest. "I would have done anything he wanted just to be by his side. Anything. He loved to make things grow. I was proud of the way he tended to the plants and animals. Working next to him gave me a great feeling."
"Does working beside someone feel nice?" Her friends didn't like to work or make things. "Why?"
"I don't know. That's a good question." Her grandmother stood and stared at her forgotten garden for a long time before she answered. "I suppose it's just the way people are. We're social creatures, even the ones of us who feel solitary. We might prefer to work in silence but still, there's something special about solving problems side by side. It needs no words. But it connects us to our humanity. Without it, we're not completely in touch with ourselves."
The girl watched her grandmother's gaze return to the covered garden bed.
"Do you miss digging in the dirt, grandma?"
"I miss my partner," her grandmother whispered.
The girl put her tools into the garden bucket. From them, she choose the hand trowel with the red handle, her favorite.
"Grandma, am I good? Do you like me?" She walked up next to her grandmother's hips. Her grandmother, in surprise, looked down and blinked.
"What a question!" Her hands swooped under her granddaughter's armpits. She lifted. With a grunt of effort and a look of surprise, she held the girl close. "You're an angel. Of course I love you."
The girl waved her trowel. "Will you garden with me?"
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Not Zen 110: Boldness
 |
| Office, by Ministerie Zaken, Wikimedia |
They sat in a light-grey office amidst many other offices. The chairs were expensive, textured, and ergonomic. The office occupied a corner of the building. Natural light shone into it through the windows. The editor of the company newsletter opened her notebook as she took her seat. She rested her hands in her lap while she waited for the vice-president to shut his door. He didn't. He strolled to his desk.
It was her job to interview her recently-hired executive. She'd brought a list of her usual questions about business experience.
"What is it that makes you successful?" She read the top question from the first page of her notebook.
"Love," he replied. He hardly looked up from his desk to answer.
"No, I mean in business." Her hand fluttered. "As a leader."
"Love," he repeated. He looked at her directly. "Without love for other people, I would never have been bold enough or forceful enough to achieve anything."
"That's, um ..." She tried to be tactful. "That's not what people are expecting. What about courage? Your last company was a factory. You stayed when the other executives fled. You turned the place around after it had been robbed ... I won't use that word in print but it was robbed, essentially, by the former leadership. It took courage to stay."
"It was courage that came from love. The folks staying on were the ones who made the company successful. They weren't the ones who nearly wrecked it. I knew where my loyalties should lie."
"That's what I mean. Courage." She scribbled notes furiously.
”If you like. The answer is still love, really," he insisted. "Without love for my wife, I would never have gone out to look for a new job. Without the love to support my children, I wouldn't have changed careers to the factory, demanded raises, or applied for leadership positions. I never wanted any of those things before. It was only when I had others in mind that I went out to change the world a little."
The editor said, "I don't think that's how it works in the minds of our other executives."
"Maybe they don't talk about it that way," he conceded.
"I'm pretty sure I'm not allowed to write in our newsletter that love drives good business. What would the other leaders think?"
"Every business is about people. If the other directors aren't happy that I care for others, I want to know."
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Not Zen 109: Ordinary Achievement
A grandmother sat on her front porch drinking iced tea with her grandson. The sun hung low in the sky. The air had settled, still and hot. Flies buzzed in the shade of the porch. The family housecat slept in the corner. Every now and then, its ears twitched at a fly.
The grandson put his glass down. He gathered his arms around his knees.
"You say there's a natural flow of events and I should look for it." He nodded as he spoke. "But I've got to do more. I have to act. Everyone does. You say 'so act naturally.' But don't you see that's crazy?"
She titled her head.
"Lots of bad things are 'natural,'" he continued. "Sickness is natural. Ignorance is natural. I want to work towards sainthood, enlightenment, salvation. Something special. I want to achieve something. Those things aren't natural. They're paths to being the best I can be."
"Striving is ..." She started to say 'natural,' her grandson could tell. She paused to lick her lips.
"Do you understand what I'm talking about?" he continued. "I mean, you're the most at peace of anyone I know. And the nicest. You're almost a saint."
"You should have known your grandfather. There was a saint."
"Listen to yourself. Do you remember what it was like to have to try to be good, to really wrestle with bad temptations, or is it all just natural to you now?"
"This is a good moment," she said quietly.
"It's always a good moment to you."
She picked up the cane that lay next to her chair. With it, she pointed to a branch in the tree in front of them. There, in the crook of the branch, rested a nest built by bluefinches. A hatchling poked its head above the lip of it. The chick raised its beak to beg for food from its absent parents. It fluttered its wings.
"Does a bluefinch understand how to fly?" she asked. "If it could speak, would it talk of the struggle to understand the methods? Or does it merely achieve?"
"Flight is normal for birds," the boy answered without hesitation. "When they get to a certain age, all of them can do it."
"Enlightenment more natural for people than you think. Everyone can achieve it."
"How?"
"You're on your own for that part, like a bluefinch when it learns to fly. I'm sorry. Just because I've achieved something doesn't mean I understand it. And even if I understood, I couldn't give you the power to fly."
The grandson put his glass down. He gathered his arms around his knees.
"You say there's a natural flow of events and I should look for it." He nodded as he spoke. "But I've got to do more. I have to act. Everyone does. You say 'so act naturally.' But don't you see that's crazy?"
She titled her head.
"Lots of bad things are 'natural,'" he continued. "Sickness is natural. Ignorance is natural. I want to work towards sainthood, enlightenment, salvation. Something special. I want to achieve something. Those things aren't natural. They're paths to being the best I can be."
"Striving is ..." She started to say 'natural,' her grandson could tell. She paused to lick her lips.
"Do you understand what I'm talking about?" he continued. "I mean, you're the most at peace of anyone I know. And the nicest. You're almost a saint."
"You should have known your grandfather. There was a saint."
"Listen to yourself. Do you remember what it was like to have to try to be good, to really wrestle with bad temptations, or is it all just natural to you now?"
"This is a good moment," she said quietly.
"It's always a good moment to you."
She picked up the cane that lay next to her chair. With it, she pointed to a branch in the tree in front of them. There, in the crook of the branch, rested a nest built by bluefinches. A hatchling poked its head above the lip of it. The chick raised its beak to beg for food from its absent parents. It fluttered its wings.
"Does a bluefinch understand how to fly?" she asked. "If it could speak, would it talk of the struggle to understand the methods? Or does it merely achieve?"
"Flight is normal for birds," the boy answered without hesitation. "When they get to a certain age, all of them can do it."
"Enlightenment more natural for people than you think. Everyone can achieve it."
"How?"
"You're on your own for that part, like a bluefinch when it learns to fly. I'm sorry. Just because I've achieved something doesn't mean I understand it. And even if I understood, I couldn't give you the power to fly."
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