Not Zen 159: Plot Revealed

"Have you noticed how he keeps shifting?" she asked her companions. The four onager females, like other types of donkeys, kept themselves to a wide territory. All of them had shared their patch of semi-desert scrublands with a male for most of a year. The older two had shared the same territory for years longer.

"He's not eating the palmetto bush," the eldest remarked. "He keeps looking up at us."

"Is he watching you?"

"No, you." She brayed at the youngest and fattest of the bunch.

The eldest, the lead mare, turned away from the lichens she'd been eating off the ground around the bramble patch. With a sigh, she headed back onto the grassy walkway that led to the stream. They had been following the same path for most of the morning. 

Although the stream had dried out over the winter, its center channel retained pockets of water and ice under the hard, pebbly ground. Even better, the male had dug a watering hole that reached beneath the stream bed. Every few days, they marched over to it. That hole always provided them with adequate water. Other animals used it, too, and those animals gave way to the onagers when it was their turn to visit. Even the large cats knew who had provided the water.

"The ice is melting," observed the youngest. "I suppose it must be getting close to mating season. Is anyone starting to feel it?"

"Not me," said her friend.

The older two snorted. Although they seemed to find the idea funny, they admitted it would explain the jack's distracted behavior. But none of them felt their estrous approaching. And the male kept lagging behind.

"I don't know why he keeps staring at you." The shorter jennet onager turned around to look at the male. He lingered next to the palmetto bush with a leaf in his mouth.

"Maybe he smells another female somewhere and she's early into her estrous." The large, youngest onager glanced away from the scene. Her mind awoke to the possibilities. "He could think it's me."

"She'd be a month ahead of schedule, then," said one of the older companions up front. "And we'd smell her as well as he would if she were anywhere close."

The herd leader changed course to inspect a hoof-high staggerbush. She nuzzled the ground around it in a search for lichens. Her nose located a shoot of new grass. Her tongue swept out. She nibbled and swallowed.

"If it's not that, it must be another male," the youngest guessed.

"I haven't heard another male bray for two days, not since our jack drove off the last one." The leader picked up her head. She swished her tail and marched onward. Her closest companion followed. "You're thinking too hard about this."

The younger two held back. One of them stole a glance at the male. He'd wandered away from the bush, apparently in a half-hearted attempt to catch up. Clenched between his teeth lay the same leaf as before. His stare transformed from a vacant one into one that focused on them.

"He's still not eating," said the youngest.

"He's looking at you," her friend whispered. "Maybe he's not right in the head."

"Did he take a kick from the other male?" She remembered the two jacks facing off. They'd reared high on their hind legs with their front hooves lashing out. They'd kept distance between them, though. It had been mostly a show of strength. 

"No, I didn't see that," said her friend.

"Me neither, I suppose." She struggled to make them come into contact in her memory but couldn't. "But that doesn't mean he's thinking right."

"He seems normal otherwise." They watched his slow, relentless approach. "There's got to be something else on his mind."

The male's focus on them started to make the youngest onager nervous. That, combined with his lack of eating, prompted her to scoot forward. Her friend followed. The older two had left them behind. The younger ones broke into a trot to make up the distance. Mature company might be welcome. The elders seemed cranky, though. Maybe they didn't want anyone to catch up.

"They've told him something about me, something bad." Abruptly, the scenario made sense to her. She brayed to her friend. "That must be it. That's why he keeps looking at me. He's angry."

"Why would they do that?"

"They're jealous of my health. They're plotting to turn him against me."

"Well, I haven't heard about it."

"You're just saying that." Sometimes her friend seemed too dense to believe. "You could be part of it. How do I know you're not?"

"How do you know anything? Maybe you're not thinking right."

Her eyes narrowed. She regarded her former ally with suspicion. "Everything I say is logical."

"Logical, maybe." The other onager huffed. She raised her snout as if she were offended. "But it doesn't fit the facts as I know them."

"It fits with all the facts I know." She couldn't decide if her friend was stupid or part of the plot.

"Not all of them." The onager lifted her nose again.

The distance between them grew larger. They passed on either side of thorn bush. Neither of them swerved back toward the other.

"They're plotting to kick me out of the territory. That's it." She scowled at the pair of females ahead of them. At a suspicious thought, she spun to glare at the male, who was still far behind. She resisted the urge to bray in his direction and confront him. "It's all a plot between the older jennets and the jack. They're going to push me off on that horrible, runty male who visits. His territory is on the border. He marches right up to our watering hole."

"Your theories are getting wilder and wilder." The other halted. She gave companion a sideways glance.

The larger female came to a halt a few paces later. She considered the chances of the other three keeping a plot a secret.

"Get out!" She charged her former friend, teeth showing. She butted and nipped. The other onager started to run. "Get away!"

She kept driving at the other female until she ran off.

Then the youngest onager was on her own. She considered whether or not it was time to turn from the grassy path. True, it led to the stream bed. She needed water. Her chest and throat felt tight. The wet smell of the pebbly stream bed wafted to her in the breeze. But perhaps the plot against her was vile enough to justify it. She could find a patch of ice to eat elsewhere. She could dig up a lichen or a fern in the underbrush. But she couldn't fend off the other onagers all at once if she let herself get surrounded.

Perhaps the conspiracy was deadlier than she thought. Instead of leaving her to the strange male in a foreign territory, they might abandon her entirely. They could mean for her to become a meal for the wolves. She imagined the wolf pack she'd seen once as its members formed a circle around her. They would pull her down from all sides.

She paused, lost in thought, her breathing rapid.

"Hey," said a voice behind her. 

She swung her head. It was the roan-and-white male. He'd caught up. Naturally, he'd approached her, she noted with suspicion, rather than continuing past her to the others.

"So what's all the braying, laughter, and biting about?" he said.

He doesn't know, she thought. Or he's pretending. If this is a plot to get rid of me, of course he'd pretend. He's probably part of it.

In her anger and impatience, she turned her back on him. She wasn't sure if she should leave the path to go her own direction but she did know that she couldn't trust herself to speak. In her anger, she didn't know what she would say.

The male bit her on the tail. It didn't hurt much but it startled her. She leaped forward.

"What was that for?" she cried. She spun around. "What did they tell you?"

"What did who tell me?" The look on his face was, of all things, one of boredom. He spit something from his mouth.

"The others."

"No one has talked to me all morning. You had a burr on your tail. I bit it off," replied the jack. He snorted. "I got tired of seeing it."

Not Zen 158: Debating

The academic expert ripped off her headset. She marched past the moderator of the debate without speaking to her.

A pair of her friends met her at the wings of the stage. One was the chemistry professor who had helped her prepare. He wore a white, buttoned shirt and a blazer. His lips formed a grim line behind his beard. He kept his hands clasped behind his back. The other was her former college roommate, now a lab manager. She'd dressed in a blue pantsuit, not something she often did since she was more comfortable in a lab coat and jeans. Both had come to watch her perform. She knew she'd let them down.

Her former roommate threw her arms around her. They both sniffled. She didn't like the sensation of holding back tears, so she extracted herself from the embrace. 

"My boyfriend is across the street at the coffee shop." Her friend tried to smile. 

A few minutes later as they stepped into the shop, her shoulders heaved with a sigh. The room felt comfortable. The debate stage had been too cold even in her jacket. The lights had shone too brightly. Her words had echoed against the hardwood floors and along tiled hallways beyond. That had made her feel distant and almost lonely.

"This is better," she said. "I'll buy drinks."

"Oh, no, don't. I'm doing it."

Her friend's boyfriend - he had a nice smile, a lean body, but she couldn't remember the fellow's name - hopped up from his grey, laminate-topped table. He gestured to the seats. He held out a chair for her. A moment later, he joined his woman in line to buy coffee.

That left her alone with the chemistry professor. She drummed her fingers and looked around.

"Jeez, what are they doing here?" she said. "They've got a political show on the screen."

The professor followed her gaze. They could hear the debaters over the noise of the other coffee shop patrons but not well.

"It looks planned along the same lines that yours was," he said. 

Her debate had started out as a chance to publicize her environmental proposals, she thought. That's how the moderator had put it. The rules had been straightforward. She'd known she would have two opponents but she'd also have an ally. It should have been an even match.

To her surprise, the man from the environmental organization came out against her position. Or he'd seemed too, anyway. He'd spoken softly. She'd had a hard time hearing him. On top of that, he'd reacted to questions slowly, which made her talk over him a lot. That had probably made everything worse.

"Two to a side," she conceded. "An attempt to be fair."

"I meant that they seem like professionals. That's pretty much what you faced."

"Professionals?" She slapped the table. "They don't even understand the question they were asked."

"Oh, I think they do. They're deliberately misrepresenting the other side in order to argue a point they can win. That was almost the first thing your opponents did with you. It's why I don't listen to debates."

"You listened to mine."

"Only because it was you."

She looked down at her hands. It would be better to have a coffee cup in them. Her fingers trembled.

In the overwhelming wave of emotion over her performance in the debate, it was hard to notice more delicate sentiments but she knew that she was starting to like this guy. He was another professor, very much on par with her, and he exuded a feeling of relaxation. Even in his sitting posture, he seemed tall and calm. There was no pressure to be romantic with him. He'd made no moves on her. She knew he'd be nice to the point of helping her prepare for other events whether or not she returned his affections.

Her cheeks warmed. She resisted the urge to touch her face. Instead, her gaze rose from her intertwined fingers to the political show.

"Listen, now they're talking up the craziest choice there is." Her voice was louder than she'd intended.

"It's another tactic. I hate it." His eyes went to the screen, then to her, then down to the tabletop as he spoke. "Your opponents loved this one, didn't they? They worked hard to create a false dichotomy. I was surprised you didn't challenge them."

"That's because there is a dichotomy." This was a topic she felt comfortable addressing.

"Not necessarily." His tone remained thoughtful. "There aren't only two options, not in anything. We don't have to choose between safe drinking or factories closing. Factories can mitigate their pollution. They do it all the time. The price is a few percentage points difference to the consumer."

"Mitigate isn't the same as stop."

"It's not perfect, environmentally, but it's progress." He leaned back in his seat. "I think that's what your ally wanted to say. He didn't get much chance to speak. The other side avoided asking him questions, another tactic. They wanted to debate you."

"Because I said that they should drink their own water and die?"

"Because they knew you'd frame the argument as a choice between them polluting or shutting down the factories. That's the debate they wanted."

"I'm perfectly right about that. Even economically, the right thing to do is shut down the old factories and build new ones. I didn't have an opportunity to explain why."

"That's because your were up against professional arguers. All they do is debate. They don't care that you're right. One of your opponents talked over your rebuttal. That's what she does. Whenever you made a good point, she argued as if you'd said something different. Again, it's what she does."

"The moderator should have helped. She should have pointed that out."

"The moderator tried. Well, I think she did. But your opponents treated her the same way as they treated you." A sad smile graced his lips. "Did you consider who they are? That older woman is the head of a corporate law firm. The middle-aged man is the company lawyer who contracted the firm. That means they're both lawyers for the company. It's their job to save their employer money. That's their concern."

"They don't live around here, that's for sure." She would have liked to do research on her opponents but the moderator hadn't announced them until today. "They don't give a damn about the pollution."

"For that matter, I doubt they care about the company in any meaningful sense. It's their job." He opened his hands in a gesture of concession.

"They've got a rude way of doing immoral jobs." She took a deep breath. Her skin felt better, almost normal. "So they're professionals. What am I suppose to do? Turn down the next offer to debate them?"

"I don't know." He shook his head. He didn't seem to be holding back his opinions, which meant he really didn't have advice. "Debates are misleading."

"No, it's not the format that's bad." Her shoulders slumped. "It's me. I need to elevate my skills."

"You were better than you think." He gave her such a kind smile that, for a moment, she believe him. "The problem is, acting as if there are two sides to a problem is such an old method that Socrates formalized it. We have better ways of working out issues now. We know more about how to be effective. But we're not taking advantage of what we know."

She didn't want to admit she wasn't sure about the methods he meant. She suspected they were part of the fairness seminar they'd both taken last year. She hadn't paid much attention.

"These kind of debates will keep going," she pointed out. "Maybe the best thing I can do is improve my game."

"Yeah." He hesitated. Then he nodded, as if to himself. "You're right. You can become an expert at debating. Until now, you've worked more at being right than on dispute tactics. You're like a geometer who can see that the butcher is inefficient. You can explain it. But if you plan to walk into the butcher shop to out-carve the butcher, you need to train up first."

He put out his arm. It was odd. It wasn't a romantic conversation. He didn't seem to be offering anything more than reassurance. But she grabbed his hand before he could have second thoughts and revoked the gesture. She gripped him with trembling fingers. She could feel the calmness of his body, the strength of his forearm.

A motion at the pick-up counter caught her eye. She let go.

"What's taking so long with the coffee?" she wondered. She didn't see the other two where she expected them.

"They're just now getting to order." He barely glanced over. Apparently, he'd kept track.

"Thanks for listening," she said.

"I enjoy it. You're really nice to talk with."

"But am I debating you? I'm still charged up from the stage. Am I arguing with you about how to argue?"

"I hope not. We shouldn't score points. The best we can do is to speak constructively. Let's not poison great conversations with tactics. A debate ends with one side winning. A conversation can go someplace different."

"Someplace unexpected." She nodded. Her hands rose to cover her smile.

Not Zen 157: Next Mountain

credit Fir0002/Flagstaffotos via Wikimedia

The nanny goat crouched next to her youngest son as he put a hoof onto a lichen-covered rock.

"You can do it," she said.

"Bigger kids did," he bleated.

"That's right." The kids from last year, now immature adults, had run ahead without thinking. An earlier son of hers had been among them.

The entire band of goats had decided to leave their nursery pastures early. Not long after they'd arrived at the grounds, they lost a pregnant nanny to a mountain lion. After the births, the lion had come back. She'd hunted the edges of the nursery fields. Eventually she'd taken a week-old kid. And a few days after the mountain lion, the herd leaders had spotted a pair of coyotes.

One of the coyotes had attacked. The beast would have taken a child if not for the band's defense. When it picked up a baby goat in its mouth, the coyote had been forced to slow down. The nanny and her sisters had butted the coyote to force him to drop her child. They'd butted again. And again. They'd tried to surround the beast. A buck had charged in. He would have delivered a death blow, probably, but the coyote had bolted through the crowd at the sight of the buck's approach.

That night, she'd wondered if her child would survive the coyote attack. Her sisters and cousins had wondered if the beaten coyote had lived.

In the morning, the oldest buck and senior nanny saw three coyotes together, not just two. That answered the question about coyote survival.

"It's time," the old buck had announced.

The nanny couldn't disagree. She knew the group needed to migrate to the mountain peaks. But her child had been wounded. He needed to recover. The band's decision mean that he wouldn't have time. At best, he could heal while they walked. If he didn't, the group would leave him behind. They would leave her, too, if she stayed with her son. She felt tempted to remain. But it would likely mean her death.

"Now!" her boy huffed and churned his hooves. His back right leg, which still bore the blood marks from his bite, pushed as strongly as she could hope. In a burst of action, he clambered over the rock.

"You have conquered it!" she shouted. "I am so proud."

She hopped up the escarpment to nuzzle her son. As she did, her gaze passed over his head. Beyond her youngest she saw the billie to which she'd given birth last year. He seemed to be returning from the group of immature males. He strode forward with his leisurely, powerful gait - very nearly an adult. She could tell that when he finished growing, he would be among the toughest of bucks.

"I climbed over the same rock," he said. His horns announced his in-between status as more than a kid but less than sexually mature. With a sardonic tilt of his jaw, he asked, "Why did you not praise me?"

"It was not the same rock," said his mother. Her affection for him faltered for a moment. He was no longer a baby.

"How can you say that?"

"Last month, you scaled a cliff face." She gazed downslope to the one she meant. Her billie followed her gaze. "All of the nannies praised your strength and skill. You heard them. You danced to show off. Two days ago, you climbed a tree. You were proud to eat from the high branches."

"It was tasty."

"Today, you walked over a rock. If it were not for the struggle of your younger sibling, you wouldn't have noticed it. So no, it was not the same rock to you."

Her older son bowed his head.

"Your time will come again," she allowed. "Perhaps when you climb your next mountain, the nannies will sing your praises."

The following morning, the mightiest bucks and nannies led the way upslope. The wounded kid and a few other, slow youngsters were left to straggle behind. Between the leaders and the stragglers, there ranged the immature males and females. They formed groups that lasted for a while, split apart, and re-formed with different individuals in them.

The ground grew steeper and tougher. Grasses replaced the ferns and sedges. Mosses replaced fuzzy lichens although there would be other edible lichens near the top. Loose twigs and leaves that had formed ground cover lower down, near the lake, disappeared. The oaks, maples, and dogwoods that produced those leaves were gone. Beyond the grasses rose a forest of aspens and pines. In higher elevations, they would meet spruces and firs.

Her kid chewed on an aspen leaf.

"Is it good?" she said.

"Different," he mumbled.

"I hope you learn to like it." It would be the most plentiful leaf her kid found in the summer.

As the hillside grew steeper, the younger goats fell farther behind. The band stretched out farther than the nanny liked. She felt she had no choice but to drop back to watch for predators. It was a risk. A predator could take her, too. But she had a good vantage to watch her child climb. He seemed to be limping and sore but basically healthy. If he could keep up now, he would be fine at the top.

All that morning, she listened for noises. She sniffed the cool, arid breezes. Only once did she catch the scent of a carnivore, a wolverine. It was distant. The rest of her time she spent encouraging the goats ahead of her.

Early in the afternoon, the nanny was surprised to look up and notice that a goat had strolled downhill to meet her son. It was her billie from last year. She quickened her pace to catch up. The kid and the billie had stopped on a steep rise.

"I climbed here when I was your age," she heard her billie tell her younger son. "This is not your path, where great leaps are taken. See? It's all rock here, not soil."

"It's hard," said her kid.

"Right. To climb this, adults take strides greater than the length of your body. Your best path goes around to the left. Come here." While she watched from below, he led his younger brother into a patch of pine saplings. It was the sort of place that predators liked to hide, a path a child wouldn't normally take. But with the billie leading he way, her kid calmly walked through the scrub bushes. The two reappeared on the trail above the patch of sheer rockfall.

The nanny sprinted up the rocks to meet them.

"You did it!" she huffed.

"He did," said her older son. "He is sore today but I can tell he's going to be strong."

"And you ..." She nuzzled her billie, beard to beard for a moment. She whispered, "You are strong, too. Already you've climbed the next mountain."

He grunted. "I was wrong when I spoke to the little one, earlier. This is not quite the mountain I climbed before."

Not Zen 156: Tradition

The toughest male swam ahead of the group. His eye slits opened wide. He glanced around to locate other, more senior cuttlefish. Seeing none, he addressed the loosely knit group behind him.

"As I said before, this is Turning Day. We're finished with sparse life on the long coast. We have undergone a tiresome journey ..."

"That school of snapper fish!"

" ... but we made it. Most of us did, anyhow." Like other cuttlefish, he used color and motion to express himself. For his regret, he kept his color a speckled blue. That color also expressed his disdain if anyone knew to look. His fins and arms fluttered to emphasize regret. "Snapper fish are usually not a threat except to the extremely careless. Today, we turn into a different current. We are leaving the desert."

"Leaving the crabs?" This was the female who swam closest to him.

"I'm tired of crabs," said a small male, three back in line.

"Can we eat something else? I'm tired, too."

"There's more to eat where we're headed," he told them all. "This is the current that brings us to the rocks of the south coast. There are mountains of rubble there, corals, ferns, and weeds of all sorts. On the sea floor there are anemones and sea stars. Around us will be puffer fish, angel fish, and other animals, some of them dangerous."

He flicked his mantle fins and rose. Alone, he turned from the stretch of white sands toward a line of grey grit and pebbles. The current above the sands lifted him. A moment later, it lifted the female close behind as she followed. One after another, the current made itself felt to each member of the group. Several young cuttlefish puffed their bodies to rise higher. 

For a while, they drifted and maneuvered with lazy flips of their fins and arms. Soon the grey sand gave way to other features. The cuttlefish looked down on a shelf of rocks below, all speckled. Those rocks looked unlike anything in the brown-white desert that the group had left. Although they were unliving, they had a texture that none of the recently-hatched had seen before in their lives. They changed their colors and fluttered their tentacles in appreciation.

The pack leader noticed a difference among the rocks a little too late. A hidden predator arose. Its arms spread wide. It closed with the center of the group.

The group scattered. The toughest male did not.

"No, dad!" He flung himself forward. His color changed to hostile red. His arms thickened. "Cut it out. Every Turning Day, someone imitates a rock and scares the youngest ones."

"That's the tradition." His father relaxed his colors to speckled purple and blue.

"You complained last time. But this season you're an instigator." Instinctively, he calmed his colors, too. He didn't intend to fight. This was the traditional trick.

"A month ago, I saw an octopus fool everyone and take a child from us." His father glanced to the females on either side of him. "I want to teach the newly hatched here to look more carefully at their surroundings. The south coast is wonderful, yes, but it's dangerous. We're not the only ones who can change shape and color."

"What kind of tradition is this, anyway, fooling everyone?" the male sighed. He flipped his fins and his tentacles to orient himself to the current. He glided. "I've seen your cousin pretend to be female so he could hunt in a wider territory."

"Yes, well, he's not a tough fellow." His father decided to follow. His color relaxed into a pale blue. "You may try it, too, if you're wounded and hungry."

"And if we fool young ones today, why not every day?" The older generation wasn't logical. That was the problem.

"We should." His father's humor turned him yellow-green around his mantle fins. "Did you hear them laugh?"

"That was from relief," he retorted. "They realized you weren't an octopus, that's all."

"Maybe." His father's leftmost tentacle floundered for a moment. He'd lost the tip in a fight. Possibly the next mating season would be his last. His color faded along with his humor. "But I like to think they'll come to understand. You protest against the tradition this time. But during the next event or the next, you may see the importance."

"It's a stupid tradition."

For a while, they swam in relative quiet. Although they had entered the southern current, the sea floor below hadn't grown very interesting. They could feel no tail motions of large fish. Below them, a pair of sea stars inched along. Such tough bodies were poor fare to sustain large predators.

"Traditions mean what people want them to mean," his father said after a while. "Some of these young folks are too accepting of appearances. So I say, this is a tradition of awareness. We need to cultivate their skepticism."

"Or it's an excuse for meanness."

His father turned purple. Then his arms and tentacles heaved with a sigh. The edges of his fins faded.

"You need to make the tradition serve your purpose," said the older fish. "It's there for your family, your friends, and your community. You shouldn't be mean with it of course. You shouldn't serve the tradition unless you decide to use it to serve others."

"Well, I don't serve you. Or anyone else. I've no use for it."

"If you say so." His father's color relaxed to be as blue as his surroundings. "But occasions like this let us reach out to others with kindness and love. And laughter. And surprise."

"Definitely surprise." The male found it hard to keep the ironic tone from his speech.

"And that surprise is a gift of awareness, which is a gift of life, whether people know it or not, whether they understand the gift or not." His father gazed off into the distant sea in sort of a rapture. "It's something we should do at every excuse."

The sea floor below acquired its first set of boulders. The male studied the mound of sandstones and conglomerates. Moss grew on the edges of each rock. A small group of animals must have eaten patches of them bare. He didn't see signs of the animals. He wondered where they'd gone.

They passed over a gouramis fish. It was guarding its marginal territory. One of the females in the group sank lower as it considered hunting the silvery gouramis but its body was obviously capable of speed. She decided to wait for something easier.
 
Stubby sea cucumbers started to become visible in the sea floor. They weren't much to look at but the young cuttlefish slowed as they studied the plants. Next came another rock mound made from chunks of obsidian. Ferns waved between the rocks. The male eyed them closely.

Suddenly, three shapes burst from the mound. Their dark bodies had been masked by the black stones. The force of their push gave them away, a pulse that was felt by everyone near. The sea grasses around the rocks pushed back as the three shot upward.

The male turned toward them. His father, next to him, reacted to the pulse with a burst of his own. He fled. The older cuttlefish soared upward and backward into the cuttlefish line. He'd nearly hid himself behind two females before he realized what had happened. The three attackers were young cuttlefish males. Their color had begun to fade as soon as they'd launched. They had tried to turn red but they hadn't been able to manage real aggression. They started to flip in the water, their fin edges white and yellow with humor.

The old cuttlefish vibrated with a laugh in return. He exerted himself and hurried to catch his son. As he passed the younger males, he gave one a gentle push.

"Did you put the young ones up to this?" he said when he reached his son. "I thought you were opposed."

"We had you going, didn't we?" The male felt his color soften. His father had taken the trick in the right spirit.

"They really hid well." His father flicked his mantle fins. His eyes narrowed in delight. "Really well."

Not Even Not Zen 4: Conspiracies

I'm reflecting on conversations I've had about conspiracies.  I may write a story on the subject but to approach the task I have to get my thoughts in order.

Types of conspiracies, real and imagined:

1. First, there are professional ones: government clandestine operations, surveillance, organized crime, and international business arrangements.  These are conspiracies in the strict sense but, except for organized crime, they are regarded as benign or at least normal because they are acknowledged.  Except for the organized crime, they are completely official.

An example: any government intelligence organization, especially as viewed from another nation.

2. There are semi-professional conspiracies, such as those that occur in loose knit business arrangements, crimes coordinated by less-than-cohesive groups, and businesses that engage in possibly illegal activities and so don't want them questioned.  These are not always regarded as conspiracies except when it comes to their attempts to evade the law. After all, cooperation is not the same as conspiracy and does not rely on remaining secret.

An example: in the Enron case, financial and executive officers were accused of conspiracy to commit fraud although, without a company bankruptcy, their actions would have evaded notice or been regarded as normal business practice.

3. There are popular non-conspiracies labelled as conspiracies.  Many of these are impossible because they require deception on a scale that even modern governments can't achieve.  Believing in these involves a naivete about the world and failure of insight into how large organizations work.  Noticing how often large organizations can't maintain the secrecy of professional conspiracies should provide a clue to how tough they are.  That's why professionals compartmentalize knowledge.  A conspiracy of five individuals is difficult.  One with a few hundred is bound to fail.  One that requires the participation of millions can't even begin.

Examples are: faked genocides or other crimes that happened in public and are well documented.

People with emotional problems take the impossible conspiracies seriously so they're important in that respect.  Some conspiracists also point out good pieces of evidence in their favor or find important lacks of evidence in official accounts, which is always interesting.

4. Revisionist history is a conspiracy of sorts.  It doesn't pose a threat in the usual sense but the revisions amount to cover-ups committed to avoid placing blame or to keep threats hidden.  Governments have always been good at this within their own borders.

An example: In Chile, the Pinochet government covered up war atrocities by ascribing them to the opposition. Later, members of the government also conspired to hide money for Augusto Pinochet.

5. There are conspiracies hiding behind popular non-conspiracies.  In some cases, members of professional organizations feel duty-bound to spread misinformation.  It can be seen as part of the job.

An example: top-secret government flight programs have been happy to hide behind the concept of alien flying saucers in the sky.  One can easily imagine that members of the armed forces felt duty-bound to do so.

Not Zen 155: Traumatic Stress

by Ketso Gordhan via Wikimedia Commons

"No, the world is too terrible for me. I can't bear it." His feet wouldn't obey him. He couldn't rise.

 
"You've gone too long without water." The voice of the lead elephant went right through him, straight to his bones. "Take this basket grass. Eat it." 
 
The large male swayed close. A shock of thick grass strands hung in his trunk. A string of it lay at the corner of his mouth. The bull had eaten his share. He tossed the bundle that he'd carried from the stream onto the dry ground. The white, bulbous ends smelled fresh from the water in the roots.
 
"It's too much," protested the smaller male, Sweet Bark. 
 
The lead bull paced forward. Whether he meant to or not, he loomed. A breeze blew between them. It carried the moist scent of the basket grass.
 
"I will pull you up if I must," said the large one, Sandstone. He had been pressed into his role due to the death of the one they'd all thought of as the Great Bull. Sandstone was strong and determined, not a force that could be turned aside, and he was in his musth.
 
During musth, many males turned to rage. They murdered younger males, hunted children, or hurt females who tried to interfere. One had recently killed a rhinocerous by laying into its side as the beast had tried to pass by the herd. He'd gored it and stomped it to death. Their leader, at least, had more control. Sandstone's surge of hormones had turned him into a force of authority that not even the other males in musth dared to challenge.
 
With a glance to his leader, Sweet Bark picked up a reed and stuffed it in his mouth.
 
A moment later, he picked another. The white ends crunched with exquisite, tangy water. They flooded his mouth, his nose, all of his senses. He ate until the lead bull stirred. Sandstone trumpeted.
 
"Come," said the bull. "Help me with the others who have given up."
 
"There's no point," said Sweet Bark. But his feet moved under him. They had heard the authority in the bull. They obeyed.
 
"We'll take them more grasses," Sandstone decided with a calm decision. "After that, we'll lead them to the stream, shallow as it is."
 
"Water." Sweet Bark admitted to himself that it sounded good. He lifted his trunk high to the wind. He could smell the mud not more than a quarter mile off. "Can I drink?"
 
"Of course." The leader dragged his trunk along the ground and flipped up a few of the remaining grass strands. "But we go to Tail Biter on the way."
 
Sweet Bark caught the tossed grass.
 
"Not her, please," he said. "The slaughter of the herds has driven her insane."
 
"Nevertheless. Once she was great." Sandstone shook his head. His mighty ears flapped against his thick neck. "She was grandmother to a legion. I will not abandon her."
 
They paraded to the farthest northeast corner of the herd. Then they adjusted course and marched farther, into the barren flats beyond. The bushes around them disappeared. The greenery beneath their feet became stubble and, in a few paces, vanished into the hard-packed earth. In the middle of the inhospitable stretch of land lay an elderly female. She rested on her side, possibly dead.
 
"Hello, grandmother," called Sandstone as they approached.  "You are too distant for my liking. What is it that you do here?"
 
"I am listening." With an effort she pulled her limbs under her as if to rise. She did not lift her ear from the ground. "The northern herd is under attack."
 
"Again." It was not a question. All of the elephants knew about the slaughters. Entire herds had been lost.
 
"Two males died." At this, she lifted her head. "The one with the huge trumpet was one. The other was small and young. One of his sons, I think."
 
"Can you rise?" Standstone stepped close enough to cast a shadow over her forelimbs. 
 
"I'm trying. Maybe soon."
 
"I'll help if I must. We will meet with another herd tomorrow or maybe the next day." His trunk stretched out to lock with hers. "They are ahead of our path to the east."
 
"I know." Her trunk rolled as if she were trying to shoo him away. But she was their matriarch no longer and she had no physical power. "Are you not concerned with those being shot?"
 
"They are far away."
 
"One thousand, nine hundred, twenty four have died." She buried her face in the dirt for a moment. "I have counted each one that I've seen or heard."
 
"I hadn't known that there were that many elephants in the world," said Sweet Bark. The herd leader and old Tail Biter turned to him. Tail Biter gave him a eyelids-lowered look of disdain.
 
"There are thousands more if you can believe what the other grandmothers say," she told them. "Or there were those many, once. Perhaps other herds live no more. There have been so many killed. It is the end of elephants. I try to remember them. But with so much death so quickly, I recall only about a third. Some acquaintances were only ever a distant rumble in the ground to me, or a gap in a herd, or a tale from another."
 
To Sweet Bark, this seem insane. With death all around them, with the murder of her old mate last year and her strongest son only months ago, how could she try to remember so many who had gone? What was the point of trying to count them?
 
"Grandmother, you are starving," said Sandstone. He locked trunks with her again. This time, his gesture was not to be shaken off. He leaned backward and pulled.
 
"Am I?" Tail Biter rose to her feet under the force of assistance. "Have I forgotten to eat again?"
 
"Too likely." The leader snorted. "Come."
 
She followed Sandstone. At first, her gait seemed unsteady. The younger elephants waited on her. In time, she picked up her pace. She cast gazes of approval on their leader. However, when she gazed at Sweet Bark, she had a different expression.
 
"There are not so many males in musth this season," she said as they approached the stream. "The killings have made them too sad. Or they have gone without water, like this one."
 
Sweet Bark bristled. Both things were true, however. The killings seemed too great for his soul. He hadn't felt like eating or drinking. Lack of water had ended his musth as soon as it began.
 
He bowed his head. In another step, his right front foot would enter the muddy bank of the stream. He stopped. His body had no desire. He waited. And he dreamed of elephants long gone. They had run with him. They had fallen, his friends. All of them were fallen and gone.
 
He wasn't sure how long he stood there.
 
His mind must have stopped. When he gazed up, it was into the face of his old friend, Sandstone. The bull was speaking. Sweet Bark couldn't make out the words. He felt someone pushing him from behind. He turned and saw that it was the female, Tail Biter. She had grown feeble. Even in her irritation, she didn't bite him.
 
"Sorry," he said. 
 
"A few steps more," said Sandstone.
 
His feet carried him down a gentle slope into the rivulet. There, he sat. It was minutes before he stirred and then, only to drink the water in front of him. After a while, he looked around for the others. There were a few elephants downstream. He didn't see the old female, though, or his leader. He rose.
 
Tail Biter, too, had stopped at the edge of the muddy bank. Sandstone was whispering to her. He ran his trunk over her flanks.
 
Sweet Bark turned. He lifted himself from the water and lumbered towards them. Along the way, he veered left to pull up a great knot of basket grass. He held it aloft so that Tail Biter could see. When he got close, he pushed it gently into her mouth.
 
She chewed on the reeds. Her eyes closed. When they opened again, her look of sadness had passed, replaced by surprise. As she kept chewing, she strode forward. She bumped into Sweet Bark and looked up at him with a gratitude that he'd never seen from her before. It was a thank-you that seemed almost playful. For a moment, the weight of the world lifted. His shoulders rose high.
 
"Well done, Sweet Bark," said Sandstone next to them.
 
"Yes." The old female gave Sweet Bark another flirtatious shove. Then she headed toward the water. "See you there."
 
"Have you had enough, yourself? You look better." The great bull shook himself. His eyes drifted from the elephants who played in the water and mud downstream to those who lay tired or despondent behind, to the west. "Will you help with old Broke Tusk next?"
 
"Take a drink for yourself," he replied. "I'll go to Broke Tusk on my own."
 
"You will?" Sandstone turned toward the water as if he wanted to sit down in it and join the younger females and children. But he didn't move in that direction. He leaned toward his duty, the stragglers. "What are you thinking, friend?"
 
Sweet Bark felt the power of the old female's look, her sadness and then her kindness. The pressure on his heart had eased. He noticed the water and the scent of the mud. The savanna around them breathed, a living thing larger than an elephant herd. He felt the breeze, the sway of the distant trees, the underbrush, and the animals. A jackal crept along the edge of the trees. The beauty of everything struck him.
 
"I am thinking, still, that the world is a terrible place," he said. "But with many good souls in it."
 
His friend leaned into him. They touched for a moment, shoulder to shoulder. Sweet Bark listened to the other's breath and to the sound of a bird call in the distant bushes. His feet turned to the west. And he marched onward.

Not Zen 154: Not Important

Wikimedia, Maryam Fazal

Not Important

His father seemed to be driving them home. When the light turned green, he hooked a left instead of a right. The difference was a reminder.

"Aw," he said. "Do we have to see Stan?"

"It's a privilege to see him." His father's tone was patient but with an edge. He must have anticipated Kenyon's reaction. "He's old now but, you know, when he was young, he was a sports star."

"So what?" Kenyon folded his arms and slumped back in the seat. "Sports don't matter. Sheesh, dad, they didn't matter even back when he was doing it."

"Well, we're going to go see him." His father shook his head. "You should really be nicer to Stan. He was a decent guy to kids, his family, everyone. This was back when tough guys like him usually weren't nice. And he used to be my neighbor."

"You've said that a million times."

"Fine. We're seeing Stan anyway." The next turn was another left.

A few minutes later, they strolled up to the front step. The old man met them at the door. His white, collared shirt looked new. He must have expected Kenyon's father to drop by. For a former sports star, he seemed awfully short, basically just another bald-headed, wrinkled fellow in the weekly parade of geriatric men who passed by on the street. His head barely came up to Kenyon's dad's chin. His stomach hung over his belt. He walked with a limp when he didn't use his crutch.

"Come in," he said with a wave of his right arm. He didn't look too steady.

"How are you doing?"

"Fine, fine." Stan closed the door. He kept a grip on the handle as he turned to the hallway behind. When he let go, he huffed and forced his way past them. He limped into the kitchen. "Everything's lit up. My son couldn't stay for checkers. But I've got the board all set. Have time for a game?"

"Absolutely." His father's dark eyes twinkled in the hall light. He loved it when Stan invited him to play.

The two men took seats on either side of the kitchen table, which was one of those old pieces of furniture that looked like it came from a diner. It had aluminum trim and an off-white formica veneer. The chairs matched it with aluminum legs and vinyl cushions. The men didn't offer Kenyon a seat. They ignored him.

Kenyon glanced around in the hope of finding something of interest, anything. Maybe Stan's grandchildren left toys or comic books. There wasn't anything good that he noticed, though. Even the refrigerator looked clean, just one crayon drawing of a green monster hung with four steel bead magnets. With nothing else to do, he flopped into a hard, aluminum-backed chair. He held his head in his hands as the game began, much to Stan's amusement. The old fellow chuckled at him.

After the first few moves, he lifted his head and said to Stan, "Checkers is old stuff."

"Everything's old stuff, kid," the man replied. "You just don't know it."

"You were complaining about sports on the way here, Kenyon." His father put his hand on a red checker and contemplated where he should put it. "Sports and games are older than civilization. They're not going away."

"Your kid doesn't like sports?" The gravely voice rose a notch. Stan responded with a single black jump over a red checker.

"Off and on."

"Well, sports are different now." Stan's shoulders rounded low as he sighed. "Pickup games are fun for kids. Games that adults run for them, not so much."

His father took a turn to cover up a possible double jump.

"When we were young, Stan, sports stars like you lived in the city." He took his finger off as he ended the move. "They hung out in my neighborhood. That's a sports difference, too. Kids don't meet players."

"Yeah." A finger plunked down on a piece. The black response blocked the red advance. "Your move."

"If you hadn't lived here, I wouldn't have played most sports or games like this." It took Kenyon's father a moment to formulate his plan. He rubbed his hands together then moved a piece to create a diagonal alley for his next try. "I remember you and your friends with your checkers and backgammon in the park. Crap, I'd never seen a backgammon board before."

"You got good at it pretty fast for a kid." It was the voice of approval.

The two played in silence for while. Kenyon's dad fell down by two checkers. He'd started off too slow. Stan had grabbed the better position. Now that he'd gotten the lead, he could afford to trade pieces.

After a while, out of curiosity, Kenyon asked, "Do you still root for your team, Stan?"

"Can't help it." The old ballplayer gave a sheepish smile. "It feels like they're my team even though they're mostly a bunch of strangers who don't know me from nothin.'"

"That's what they think of everybody." Kenyon thought of the sports stars at his school. They were cruel to him sometimes. "They think other people are nothing."

"Some of them are like that, yeah."

"Why do you root for them when you don't know them?" He moved to the edge of his seat, hands on either side of his legs. "You just said that they don't know you."

"Part of it is the uniform. They claim to represent the city. I feel like it's my damn city. I put work into it." He nodded to himself and grunted. "That part of running a team is a bit cynical."

"The players and owners may feel cynical," his father said. "But the fans care. That's why they get angry when a player behaves badly and it appears in the news. It reflects on their city. That's why they cheer when someone acts brave or stubborn on the field. Because they judge the character of the players in that moment and they like the spirit that they see."

"Your father is a romantic. I've heard this before."

"You probably know about the scandal." His father leaned forward. "Last week, I mean."

"Yeah, yeah." Stan frowned at the pieces. Something about the formation wasn't what he'd intended.

"Fans can root for someone who made a mistake. If someone grew up with violence in their family and overcame it or if someone drove drunk when they were young and straightened out, they probably understand if a player does the same. After the first mistake, though, they're watching pretty closely. Whether you come back straight or not is a sign of your character, too."

Stan made his decision. His hand darted out to the move. Then he leaned back.

"The fans don't watch closely enough," he said. "Some of those guys are crap. They don't deserve forgiveness."

"Maybe. But the point is that sports isn't irrational no matter what my son says. Playing is good for you. Rooting for the team is an extension of rooting for your community, whether it's your old school or your city or whatever."

"You could be rooting for your hospital, dad." Kenyon wished his dad liked their doctor more. The office had lots of nice people in it but his dad never visited even when Kenyon's mom asked him to make an appointment. "You know, nurses and stuff. You could care about things that matter."

"My son thinks sports don't matter."

"They don't. That's why I love them," Stan said with a laugh. "I was a hospital orderly for a lot of years, kid, after I had to stop playing. I saw how it was. The doctors mostly lose. And it matters. It's sad. But when you're talking sports, no one dies. No matter how bad you lose, no one stops you from going home to your family."

"Not like in war or in a surgery," his father added. He slid a red piece forward.

"Sports doesn't solve problems but it doesn't create them. The games don't matter, just like you say. The most carefree moments of my life came while I was playing. You're in the moment. You forget everything but the game. You forget yourself." His hand shot out. He jumped two red pieces with a black one. "Hah! King me."

Not Zen 153: Degrading

"Step up, please," said the driver.  Eight passengers shuffled toward the open door as it swung open.

The mere act of taking the bus made her feel like her life had fallen apart.  Her car had broken down, she couldn't afford to repair it, and she couldn't justify asking her husband to replace it - not when the bus route ran by her house.  Her husband's job paid more than hers.  It was twice as far away.  Yet he took the bus himself.  He hadn't bought a car.  She wasn't going to ask him to give her a convenience that he didn't give to himself.

She still felt angry about having to take public transportation.  The people smelled.  They dressed in layers that made them waddle like penguins in the cold.  They carried backpacks and umbrellas.  On the way home, many of them carried groceries or other packages. 

Then there were times like today.  A middle-aged fellow, slightly short and a bit heavy, put his foot on the first step of the bus entrance and paused.  He reached for the hand rail but missed it.  His arms started to flail.  For an instant, she was mad enough to kick him.  He was slowing everyone down.  The man in front had to turn and put his hand on the fellow with the problem.  He steadied the man and pulled him up.

As she stepped up the ramp into the bus, she heard the man in front remark to the one behind, "You're twitching, man."

"Yes."  His tone sounded wary.  Probably he'd been heard similar comments before.

"So what's up with that?  Are you sick?"

"I guess so.  But you can't catch it.  My body is degrading." He had a deep, steady voice despite his trembling arms. He named the disease that he'd been diagnosed with.

She couldn't tell if the illness were an excuse or not.  All of her ride home, she sat far away from the man so she didn't have to look at him.  She put her arms around her knees.

At the dinner table that evening, she asked her husband about the sickness by name.  When he asked why she wanted to know, she told the story of her ride.

"Wow, that guy is screwed," said her husband.  "He's going to lose muscle control and die."

"He's already losing muscle control. Obviously."

"The process will take years.  Try to be understanding.  He'll probably spend half of that time riding the bus.  He'll get a lot worse before he has to stop."

The next day, she met the man waiting for his ride home.  He climbed onto the bus with a waver to his step but he didn't slip and didn't grab at the rail.  She didn't see him the next day.  Then came the weekend.  She noticed him during the following week and the week after, too.  Her irritation with him came and went along with her sense of his disability.  Sometimes he seemed normal, even energetic.  There was no apparent reason he should slow down everyone else.  At other times, he weaved up the stairs like a drunk and she felt that he shouldn't take public transportation.

The regular bus driver never asked questions but he seemed to understand.  He yelled at everyone else to hurry.  He never said anything to the trembling man.  Once, the driver stuck out a hand when the passenger's legs wobbled.  He grabbed the fellow by his shirt sleeve for a moment.  He nodded.  The trembling fellow nodded back.  That moment passed, the driver let go, and the passenger moved down the aisle.

Summer came and went as she saved money to buy a car.  Her bus rides had started to seem normal.  She didn't feel as rushed to make the car decision.  There were weeks when she didn't see the diseased passenger at all.  In those times, she wondered if he were on vacation or if he had given up on his job.  In autumn, she met him at the bus stop.  He leaned on a brown cane with golden handle. 

His legs shook but his left arm held a firm grip on the cane.  He climbed the steps of the bus.  The driver smiled at him and nodded.

The next Monday, he seemed struck by tremors as he tried to board.  She'd learned to board first on most days but this time she'd let him step in front.  As he started to flail, she regretted it.  His arm swung back.  He hit her with the knob of his cane.

Just as she shouted in pain, he slipped backwards off of the first step.  She reached our and grabbed him, certain that they were going to tumble to the pavement.  But he was lighter than she thought.  His hand found the rail.  She put one foot backwards but managed not to step on the person behind her.  She steadied herself.  So did he.

"Thanks," he whispered.  With that, he removed her arm from his waist and boarded.  She stepped up behind him.

The bus driver smiled at her, something he hadn't done before.

When she sat across from the disabled man, she thought about how thin he'd become.  His jacket was loose.  She hadn't noticed that earlier.  His muscles had felt shrunken and weak.

He stared at her.

"Sorry I hit you," he said.  He still had his deep, steady voice.  His gaze drifted down for a moment then back up to her.  His eyes seemed bright.

"It's all right."  She touched her forehead.  There was a welt starting to rise but she didn't feel upset.

"I don't think we've talked before.  I had the sense that you were one of those avoiding me."

"Maybe."  She looked at her hands, folded in her lap, and decided to hide behind another truth.  "But it's not like I talk with anyone else on the bus either."

"I might be over-sensitive about it.  I thought that sometimes you were impatient and unhappy with me.  And now you're being nice."

"Sometimes I'm impatient."  She shrugged.  Apparently, her feelings had shown more than she meant them to.  "I don't like it when other riders are slow.  But I know you've got a reason."

"Does the cane make it better?"  He held it a bit higher for her inspection.  The golden sheen of the handle seemed cheery.  "I've noticed in just the few days that I've had it, people seem more understanding."

"It's a reminder."  She nodded to herself.  "When I saw the cane this morning, it told me that you have to move slowly."

"There are a lot of other people who are slow.  They have bad knees or bad feet.  Or they've gotten too heavy over the years.  Or they're just sick that day.  They aren't being lazy."

She hadn't thought of that.  Really, she hadn't paid much attention.  In the pause in their conversation, she folded her arms across her body.  She leaned back and wondered what she could say.  Maybe the conversation was done. 

"I was in a hurry all the time, too," he confessed.  He gestured to his legs.  "Before this, I mean.  I wish I'd been nicer to the folks who had disabilities that I couldn't see."

"There can't be that many of them.  Can there?"

"I'm not sure.  Over the course of time, it's everybody.  We all lose control of our bodies and die.  I'm closer to that than you are, sure.  But I'm not the only one who deserves kindness."

She thought about her grandmother, who she'd been promising to visit for months.  No, it had been years now.  Had she written a note, a card?  She hadn't, not even a holiday card. 

"You've got a lot to look forward to, probably decades and decades of good stuff."

"Not everyone does.  Not you," she blurted.  She put a hand to her lips.  She'd been thinking about her grandmother.  The idea that similar limits applied to him had come to her suddenly.

"Probably not."  He bowed his head.

"How do you deal with it?" she wondered.  "Do you accept what's happening?"

"I can barely deal with the kindness I don't deserve."  He closed his eyes for a moment.  "My failing body, no, I try to put it out of my mind a lot of the time.  But it's happening to everyone at one speed or another.  It doesn't matter if we accept it."

Not Zen 152: Taxing

Taxing

"All rise," said the bailiff. 

The businessman at the defendant's table had bragged for years about not paying his taxes. He'd strolled around his offices, coffee cup in hand, and informed his clients and employees of it. His wife had been his bookkeeper before they were married. She'd hired a fine accountant. Between them, they kept his various businesses solvent, took advantage of the tax codes, got him breaks and incentives, and generally let him do as he pleased to grow his businesses.

At the close of his fiscal year, he'd thrown a lavish party. He'd given a short speech to his staff and their spouses. After the speech, he'd stepped off the podium and commented about how much his business saved on taxes.

To his surprise, one of the women in attendance who overheard him turned out to be a tax collector. She related the story to her co-workers. They told their supervisor. A week later, the businessman got a summons to tax court.

The summons demanded that he produce records to justify his tax payments, which he knew were too low.

"You don't understand," he explained to his wife, who had taken the news calmly. He waved the summons in front of her face. "We could lose everything."

"If we we got everything by cheating," she replied. "Then we deserve to lose it."

"You really don't understand." He shook his head.

He tried to explain to his accountant but the fellow insisted on sending the requested files.

"There's no other way," the accountant explained. "We've got time to explain ourselves.  We'll get a hearing."

The day of the hearing came too soon. He didn't feel ready even though he'd lost sleep as he prepared. He'd dropped weight. He'd neglected sales in his businesses because he felt too distracted to follow up leads. On the dreaded morning, he dressed in his best charcoal suit. He tried to tell himself it would help. His wife said she approved of his haircut. He told her she looked wonderful, which she did to him, at least, in her burgundy outfit. He didn't bother to ask what it cost. It hardly mattered. Together, they met their tax attorney in front of the courthouse.

Even though this was tax court, not a criminal court, a policeman checked the three at the front door. After conversing with him, they followed the building's map to their courtroom, where they were met by a bailiff. Although the bailiff wore a suit, he kept a badge pinned to it that marked him as an officer of the law.

"How does that work?" asked the businessman. "Aren't you a lawyer working for the judge?"

"While on duty, I have arrest authority," said the bailiff. "People who don't pay taxes are thieves.  Schools, roads, police, and all of the other aspects of government that you benefit from depend on each person doing their part. If the court finds that you've cheated, you can go to jail.  If so, I'll take you."

"That means you guys, too," he turned to his wife and his accountant.

His accountant gave him a tense smile. His wife grabbed him by the shoulder, pulled him closer, and hissed that he needed to behave.

When the judge entered, the bailiff instructed everyone to rise. After a few seconds, he motioned for them to sit again. The businessman sprung to his feet immediately after.

"I want to protest being called here," he said. "We are citizens of high standing."

"Sit down," snapped the judge.

He sat.

"You may have misunderstood the nature of this session," the judge continued in a flat voice. "The court allows some cases at the option of the taxpayer in order to protest tax rulings against them. This is not such a case. There is no ruling. This is an investigative proceeding. The tax office issued a lien against you and all of your businesses for tax deficiency. Your records have been reviewed by the office to determine the amount of deficiency."

He turned to the prosecution table.

"I've read your case, prosecutor. The amount you've listed here is unusually small," he said. "Do you have anything more to add?"

"We were surprised by what we found, your honor." The prosecutor stood but he shrugged in apology.  "We would ordinarily not bring such a case."

"Still, you have a finding of deficiency." The judge turned to the accountant. "And you are the tax preparer?"

"Yes, your honor." The bailiff nodded for him to rise. He stood.

"Do you have an explanation for the deficiency?"

"I do. As you'll see in my written response, there is no deficiency. In addition, my client donated funds to particular causes and to the general government collection."

The judge rapped his gavel. "The preparer's role is clear.  I find the records in order. I've reviewed them in their entirety. They're commendable. In fact, these business entities deliberately overpaid. Several donations of company money to the government are also noted. Would you care to explain the difference between this behavior and the bragging of the defendant about cheating?"

"My client is a very competitive man and wants to feel he has an advantage, your honor." The accountant held himself with his hands behind his back. "But in every quarter, his partner has me pay the taxes in full for each company. At the end of every year, she pays extra. That is her preference."

"You are the partner, madam." The judge turned to the wife. "What do you have to say?"

She looked to the bailiff for permission, then rose.

"I've always felt that we've very much benefited from our government," she said with a nod. "We have to pay for it. I feel that we're luckier than other families so I pay a bit more."

"Your husband is co-owner of all of your businesses." The judge looked down at the records in front of him. "This court has the power to assign him to community service for misrepresenting his tax situation. But I understand from your written statement that your husband does substantial community service and has done it on a quarterly basis for at least eighteen years."

"That is correct."

"Noted." He folded his hands in front of him on the bench. "In the interests of the court's time, I feel that it's best if the court doesn't hear your husband speak. I'll accept his community service as a given. You are free to go."

The bailiff motioned for them to all stand. They rose and bowed. The businessman staggered. He found that his limbs had gone cold.  But as he moved a little more, he felt the warmth return.

His hands were trembling as the three of them left the room.

"You were the one who wanted me to do charity services," he whispered as the door closed behind them.  He put his hand on his wife's shoulder. "You said it was to make up for what we didn't pay in taxes."

"Yes," said this wife. She gave him a warm smile but with cool, knowing eyes. "That's precisely what it was for."

Not Zen 151: Following and Leading

The old fellow sat down and said, "I need your advice."

He'd worn a suit today, she noticed. He almost never wore nice clothes to work. The last time he'd put on a blazer had been for a site inspection. He put his hands on her desk and leaned forward as he awaited a response. She saw that he'd trimmed his fingernails.

For years, he'd been her worst technician. When she came to the company, she'd been told to run an evaluation on his work. He'd failed it. The company mandated a second chance for employees in the engineer category and, during the follow-up process, he'd improved to an "acceptable" rating. That meant she couldn't fire him. But his improvement only lasted while he was undergoing evaluation. As soon as the process ended, he'd reverted to his sub-standard ways.

He'd performed at a low level for years, his efforts just enough to keep from getting fired. Once, she'd slated his position for a layoff. His termination had existed on paper. But someone had retired to save him.

When she started in her management job, she'd assumed he hated having a woman as his boss. As she got to know him better, she came to understand that he simply resented work.

"Is this about your hobby?" she asked.

With a sheepish grin, he nodded.

A few years ago, he'd hit bottom. His wife had left him. It looked like he might simply quit his job. Instead, he took more of an interest. He started learning again.

"Remote control technology," she prompted.

"Flight. That's my favorite." He looked down as his pot belly. "It's the reality of my life. I'm out of shape. I'm not rich. Remote control is the only way that someone like me gets to fly."

She tilted her head forward in acknowledgement. It was a realistic assessment.

"Now they're trying to stop us."

"I hear you've visited the state legislature," she said. "You've gotten politically active in your spare time."

He shook his head. "I didn't mean to be. At first, the hobby was something to do. Then I found that I liked flying. And it was kind of fun to accomplish breakthroughs in design and control of planes. Other people were better. But I came a long ways fast. Members of my remote flight group asked me to help them out."

"You're the president of a statewide chapter."

"Yeah. Leading them is hard. It's different than I thought. Working with the group made me realize why you do things the way you do here. I'm sorry that I was such a pain before. I thought you didn't like me personally."

"You don't have to apologize." She waved her hand. It surprised her to feel a rush of happiness. Maybe she had felt she was owed the apology and hadn't admitted it to herself before.

"Anyway, I signed up for more trainings. As soon as I saw the need to manage, the class rules started making sense."

"You're a good team player now." In fact, it was his best attribute. Before, it had been his worst.

"I'd never managed anyone besides myself. I hadn't done such a great job of that, either. But as the hobby was getting fun, we started getting pressure to stop. And what the police were saying about us didn't make sense. Their reasons were wrong. Everyone wanted me to do something about it. They wanted me to organize a team effort."

"So you became their leader."

"Not really. That's not me. But someone has to do this stuff. And of course I've been learning about leadership from you. You're a natural."

She touched her collarbone. He hadn't been hostile to her for years but he'd never said anything nice about her work, either.

"You know," she reflected. "Leadership isn't what I thought. I came from a career in the military. Real life is different. I've watched you. I've learned from seeing you change. As you became a better leader outside the office, you became a better follower and improved team player here."

"I'm sorry I didn't learn this stuff sooner." His gaze sunk. "I guess it was fifteen years of doing a crappy job."

"Leading and following don't work the way I was taught." She put out her hand to pause his continued apology. "I was raised to believe in a mystic ideal of leadership, as if some people had charisma and others didn't. But I witnessed you taking charge of things around you. Obviously, people become leaders when they're needed. It doesn't take an accident of birth. You can rise to it."

"Managing people helped with my understanding of how to be managed.  And how to manage myself." His cheeks grew flush. "Too bad I didn't learn earlier. But I know I can't do everything on my own. I've had to draft legislation recently. One of the state senators asked for a list of rules that made sense."

"You need me to help write them?" She had always been a decent communicator. And he had always been bad about documentation. The prospect of drafting part of a law, though, intimidated her.

"Oh no, I've done the writing." He rubbed his eyes. The effort must have involved some late nights. "Before I hand it to the senator's aide, I'd appreciate your input. You deal with this kind of stuff a lot. I know the rules that I've written make sense to a flight hobbyist. I don't know how they'll seem to everyone else. Are they clear? I'm not sure."

"It's not work related." She took a deep breath. "I'll need to look at it over lunch."

"Right. Well, you don't have to ..."

She raised her hand.

"No, I'm happy to do it. I know how to edit rules and regulations. And I'm glad for the opportunity to help. It's your turn to lead. Now I can learn what you've learned."