In front of the chicken coop in a wide barnyard, a rooster preened for the hens. He strutted around the edge of his territory, which was hemmed by a low, picket fence. He fluttered to the tops of fence posts and displayed his brilliant plumage for them.
For the first weeks, the hens liked it. He was a pleasant fellow to look at. He had dark, umber feathers and shiny, forest green ones, and a great red wattle. He thought himself to be most impressive. When the hens grew tired of his constant antics and called him a show-off, he puffed his chest more and cawed to them louder.
In time, he took to cleaning himself every day. He would study his image in a puddle, spread his tailfeathers, and shake his wattle.
The farmwife saw him and laughed.
"What a dandy rooster we've got," she told her husband over dinner.
"As long as he keeps off rats and cats, he's fine," the farmer replied. "And as long as the hens keep laying eggs, of course."
As the seasons passed, the rooster grew more vain. In the spring, he festooned himself with flower petals. In the summer, he wore ferns in his tail. The lead hen, who had always kept her flock virtuous and safe from foxes and cats, felt obligated to speak. It was becoming difficult to live with someone so self-centered.
"When I was young, I thought our house rule against showing off was too strict," she said. "It seemed needlessly joyless. I never understood it until I saw you."
"You're just jealous," said the rooster. For his part, he envied other animals, including the lead hen. He hoped to supplant her as leader one day.
Late in the summer, as the rooster squawked on a stump, the hens noticed a rustle in the underbrush near the fence. Soon the rooster heard it, too. He hopped down from his perch and marched over to the noise. He hoped it was a rat since they were easy for him to scare.
A strange bird's head popped up above the hedge. A moment later, the body pushed through. A peacock revealed itself between the branches. It shook off a leaf.
The peacock may have been confused by seeing a bird displaying itself as if it were mating. He fanned his tail feathers. When the hens gathered closer, curious, he began to dance for them. He put on a competitive display for his audience despite seeing that they were not peafowl. The hens were impressed. They looked from the peacock to the rooster and back. They laughed.
"That's a show you can't match!" they said.
Through the fence, the rooster challenged the wayward peacock. But the wild bird was larger than any rooster and had no fear. He continued to flaunt his azure and emerald feathers. Incensed, the rooster flew to the top of the fence and hopped down on the other side. He chased the peacock which, despite its size, didn't want to fight. When cornered, deep in the woods between co-joined tree trunks, the peacock turned to its familiar ritual of intimidation. He treated the rooster like a rival and spread his feathers. He danced forward. His great neck loomed over the smaller bird.
The rooster sprang forward in fury. He tore at the peacock's throat. In a whirl of blood and claws, the rooster slashed open the peacock. For a while, the peacock ran among the trees, trying to escape, not quite sure what had happened. The rooster followed until his opponent collapsed, fainted, and finally died.
The rooster grabbed feathers as the spoils of his battle. He grew determined that he would wear them in his tail and under his wings. Thus, he would appear more magnificent than ever. He wandered for a day and a night, lost, but he did not abandon the burden of his trophies.
At last, he heard a hen call. Unfortunately for him, it was a peahen. He was still lost.
Feeling lonely, the rooster decided that he should impress other birds. He dressed himself as completely as he could in the feathers of his fallen opponent. Then he presented himself to the peahens.
When they first met him, they were not quite sure what he was supposed to be. Was he a tiny peacock? No. When they saw through his disguise, they shook their heads.
"A rooster in borrowed feathers is a rooster still," they told him.
He followed the trio of peahens for a week. Their answer did not change.
Meanwhile, the farmer went out and bought a younger, hardier rooster. This fellow did not look as nice. His plumage was plain, brown and white. But he was strong and his leg muscles bulged under his coat of feathers.
When the old, vain rooster found his way back to the barnyard, he was thirsty and half-starved. He had not found a puddle. He had not eaten anything except a few beetles. His appearance had declined with his health. He trailed the stolen peacock feathers behind him. They weighed down his tail. He carried others in his wings, tangled and hard to remove. He'd gotten stuck in bushes along the way because of them. With all of his peacock plumage, he was no longer able to fly to the top of the fence. He had to slip into the barnyard through a gap between the fence and gate.
When the old rooster approached the hen houses, other chickens ran away. They woke the younger male. The keen fellow hopped down from his perch and strode forward to meet the invader.
After a few steps, the younger one stopped and smiled. He saw through the disguise of heavy, cumbersome feathers and bluebeard blossoms, but he pretended not to know who it was.
"The last fellow killed a peacock, the hens say," he announced so everyone in the barnyard could hear him. He resumed the advance on his trembling, tired opponent. "Now is my chance to do the same."
Stories on life, death, enlightenment, zen buddhism, religion, philosophy, stoicism, meditation, daoism, kindness but not meekness, and samsara.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Not Zen 171: Results
A professor took her ethics class on a field trip across town. During the trip, she pointed out the porches at the front of old row houses. Her students wondered if they were similar to the stoa in ancient Greece where neighbors met to discuss philosophies.
"Yes," she said. "Front porches are a long-lasting idea."
"No one's using them."
"Well, we have air conditioning," said her teaching assistant. "Nowadays it's more comfortable inside."
"Things have changed," the professor agreed. "Different technologies have led us to different forms of discussion."
They talked about the past and how debates on morality once were long, methodical, and public. They argued about the old religious bans against ancient philosophies. Everyone agreed that spiritual matters needed to be discussed without recriminations. A few young men took the view that vows of poverty, like those taken by Cynics and a few Stoic philosophers, demonstrated commitment to spiritual endeavors. The professor took the contrary position that, if one felt a need to demonstrate detachment from material success in order to impress skeptics, the act became suspect. Detachment from worldly desires, to her, included a lack of desire to impress others.
When they arrived at the museum, the professor took her class on the standard tour. They stopped to examine ancient artifacts and exchange views on the cultures to which they belonged. Afterwards, they visited a famous church a block away.
Outside the church, the group of young men who had debated about vows of poverty declared that they would hike home.
"Is this wise?" asked the professor. "It will be a long, hot walk."
"It's good for us," said the most outspoken one. "Some hardship is normal. Anyway, some of us may prove resourceful and find better ways to return. We'll meet you at the college."
The professor sighed. "All right. If you're not waiting for me when I get back, I expect to see you in class tomorrow."
"Of course."
The young men started their march through the city in the peak of the afternoon. They grew overheated and impatient in a few minutes. They were not gregarious. None of them enjoyed the company of the others for long. They split into groups of two or three. Often, the groups drifted further apart. Students started to walk alone.
The outspoken one saw the situation and racked his mind to come up with a better way. He had slowed behind a pair of his friends. Each wore a light shirt with an open collar. They seemed content to stroll. They had mentioned, too, that they wanted to stop for dinner. They did not seem to be taking their temporary impoverishment seriously.
He turned a corner and picked up a leaf. A bum they'd passed on the first block of their journey had given him the idea. He pulled a comb out of his pocket. Between the leaf and comb, he could make a kazoo. That would improve upon the bum's attempt at busking, which had been merely to hum with a hand outstretched.
"Bus fare!" he shouted. He threw down a bandana and placed a quarter in it.
With the comb-and-leaf instrument, he played a tune. It was a ridiculous. The absurdity made him smile, which made passers-by grin. He danced and played the kazoo for another song, then another. An elderly woman threw down a dollar bill. A fellow in a business suit tossed down some change. In a few minutes, he had fare for the trip home.
As he picked up the money and bandana, another student watched.
The second young man had also left his group. He had no money and he'd thought he had no means to obtain any. He'd been contemplating how long the hike would take. Now he'd seen an answer to his predicament. As the first student departed, he took out his own comb.
He snatched up a scrap of paper from the curb. He threw down his hat.
He began playing even before he thought of a tune. Probably, he guessed, it didn't matter. He shuffled his feet and mimed gestures like a fool. After a minute, he felt exhausted. He started to sprinkle jokes between his musical attempts. He kept going.
His jokes seemed to make people turn away. He reached out harder. He played less on his comb. He shouted his next joke.
"You're scaring away customers!" called a shop manager behind him. She was an older woman, dark haired, who ran a laundry.
"Then just give me my bus fare." he retorted.
She folded her arms and shook her head. He turned away from her and resumed playing. He kept playing and dancing despite her protests. He reached out a hand to passers-by. The dodged around him. No one gave him money. In ten minutes, a policeman appeared on the scene.
"You're under arrest," the officer announced. "The charge is vagrancy. I've gotten two calls about you."
The officer cuffed the student on the spot. For a moment, the young man thought about resisting, maybe just running away, but he knew he didn't have the speed. Anyway, then he would get lost and he'd still need to hike across the city.
Early the next morning, the professor, her teaching assistant, and a pair of fellow students came to obtain the release of their jailed companion. The teaching assistant kept saying that she couldn't believe anyone could have such bad judgment.
"But he made the same decision that I did." From behind bars, the arrested student pointed to the other one, the fellow who had played the kazoo for his fare. "What makes my decision a bad one?"
"You could have done many things, including simply ask others for fare money." The professor shook her head sadly. "You could have explained your predicament. You could have offered to do work. You could have begged a ride. So many choices."
"You think I'm unwise because I'm unoriginal?"
"Originality is not the point." The professor nodded as the police officer handed her a release form. She signed. "You should have an idea of whether or not you can execute your decisions. This is not something that philosophy students like to hear - that in real life there is not just the decision but the deed. You must have the awareness to adjust if things go wrong. You must have the ability to reflect on yourself or you will not learn."
"My action was morally the same. It was."
"A moral decision is the beginning of wisdom. But you must go from moral decisions to moral actions."
"Yes," she said. "Front porches are a long-lasting idea."
"No one's using them."
"Well, we have air conditioning," said her teaching assistant. "Nowadays it's more comfortable inside."
"Things have changed," the professor agreed. "Different technologies have led us to different forms of discussion."
They talked about the past and how debates on morality once were long, methodical, and public. They argued about the old religious bans against ancient philosophies. Everyone agreed that spiritual matters needed to be discussed without recriminations. A few young men took the view that vows of poverty, like those taken by Cynics and a few Stoic philosophers, demonstrated commitment to spiritual endeavors. The professor took the contrary position that, if one felt a need to demonstrate detachment from material success in order to impress skeptics, the act became suspect. Detachment from worldly desires, to her, included a lack of desire to impress others.
When they arrived at the museum, the professor took her class on the standard tour. They stopped to examine ancient artifacts and exchange views on the cultures to which they belonged. Afterwards, they visited a famous church a block away.
Outside the church, the group of young men who had debated about vows of poverty declared that they would hike home.
"Is this wise?" asked the professor. "It will be a long, hot walk."
"It's good for us," said the most outspoken one. "Some hardship is normal. Anyway, some of us may prove resourceful and find better ways to return. We'll meet you at the college."
The professor sighed. "All right. If you're not waiting for me when I get back, I expect to see you in class tomorrow."
"Of course."
The young men started their march through the city in the peak of the afternoon. They grew overheated and impatient in a few minutes. They were not gregarious. None of them enjoyed the company of the others for long. They split into groups of two or three. Often, the groups drifted further apart. Students started to walk alone.
The outspoken one saw the situation and racked his mind to come up with a better way. He had slowed behind a pair of his friends. Each wore a light shirt with an open collar. They seemed content to stroll. They had mentioned, too, that they wanted to stop for dinner. They did not seem to be taking their temporary impoverishment seriously.
He turned a corner and picked up a leaf. A bum they'd passed on the first block of their journey had given him the idea. He pulled a comb out of his pocket. Between the leaf and comb, he could make a kazoo. That would improve upon the bum's attempt at busking, which had been merely to hum with a hand outstretched.
"Bus fare!" he shouted. He threw down a bandana and placed a quarter in it.
With the comb-and-leaf instrument, he played a tune. It was a ridiculous. The absurdity made him smile, which made passers-by grin. He danced and played the kazoo for another song, then another. An elderly woman threw down a dollar bill. A fellow in a business suit tossed down some change. In a few minutes, he had fare for the trip home.
As he picked up the money and bandana, another student watched.
The second young man had also left his group. He had no money and he'd thought he had no means to obtain any. He'd been contemplating how long the hike would take. Now he'd seen an answer to his predicament. As the first student departed, he took out his own comb.
He snatched up a scrap of paper from the curb. He threw down his hat.
He began playing even before he thought of a tune. Probably, he guessed, it didn't matter. He shuffled his feet and mimed gestures like a fool. After a minute, he felt exhausted. He started to sprinkle jokes between his musical attempts. He kept going.
His jokes seemed to make people turn away. He reached out harder. He played less on his comb. He shouted his next joke.
"You're scaring away customers!" called a shop manager behind him. She was an older woman, dark haired, who ran a laundry.
"Then just give me my bus fare." he retorted.
She folded her arms and shook her head. He turned away from her and resumed playing. He kept playing and dancing despite her protests. He reached out a hand to passers-by. The dodged around him. No one gave him money. In ten minutes, a policeman appeared on the scene.
"You're under arrest," the officer announced. "The charge is vagrancy. I've gotten two calls about you."
The officer cuffed the student on the spot. For a moment, the young man thought about resisting, maybe just running away, but he knew he didn't have the speed. Anyway, then he would get lost and he'd still need to hike across the city.
Early the next morning, the professor, her teaching assistant, and a pair of fellow students came to obtain the release of their jailed companion. The teaching assistant kept saying that she couldn't believe anyone could have such bad judgment.
"But he made the same decision that I did." From behind bars, the arrested student pointed to the other one, the fellow who had played the kazoo for his fare. "What makes my decision a bad one?"
"You could have done many things, including simply ask others for fare money." The professor shook her head sadly. "You could have explained your predicament. You could have offered to do work. You could have begged a ride. So many choices."
"You think I'm unwise because I'm unoriginal?"
"Originality is not the point." The professor nodded as the police officer handed her a release form. She signed. "You should have an idea of whether or not you can execute your decisions. This is not something that philosophy students like to hear - that in real life there is not just the decision but the deed. You must have the awareness to adjust if things go wrong. You must have the ability to reflect on yourself or you will not learn."
"My action was morally the same. It was."
"A moral decision is the beginning of wisdom. But you must go from moral decisions to moral actions."
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Not Zen 170: Different Grasses
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| Grasses by Natubico, Wikimedia Commons |
"Why have you stopped planting?" she asked. She strolled from the porch to the garden plot. Her father raised his hand spade and resumed digging.
"Feeling, noticing," he said. He turned up a fist-sized lump of dirt. "Just lost in thought, I suppose."
"Was it about planting the alfalfa and onion grass around the entire border of the garden?" She pushed her toe up against the edge of the turned ground. "You said they would keep away pests and then we'd eat them. Or were you thinking of something else?"
"Alfalfa grass can pick up the tastes and traits of other plants, especially other grasses."
"I've noticed."
"Plants aren't completely separate. Species aren't distinct."
"There can be a bit of blending. But not much, I think."
"When I was young, I studied myself intensely," he explained. "Like you, now. I corrected my flaws, corrected my concept of flaws, adjusted myself, and adjusted again. It was a continual process. I saw myself as a small part of a great world. The separation between my body and my mind dropped away. The separation between my body and the world dropped away."
"Kind of an achievement." She had known this from growing up with him but she enjoyed hearing hints of his youth.
He shook his head. "It was only the letting go of desires."
"You have moods but still you seem at peace nearly always. So it must have lasted."
"As I aged," he continued. "I came to realize that what I thought of as my 'self' had many aspects. My concept of the mind was limited. It always would be. My concept of the world was limited. It was a minimal insight in a sort of monkey-brain, framed by misleading perceptions. The idea of unity in the world became something else, a concession that even the best human actualizations are childish, almost innocent. Our best and worst concepts are part of nature. Our actualizations are like all things natural. They are a bit rough, a bit changing, a bit different than what they seem. My clinging to peace dropped away."
"It still fills you."
"That is natural, I think. My concepts of myself and of others dropped away. The idea of a self became useless. Sometimes I watch my limited perceptions. That is, part of me is sometimes still quite mindful. But sometimes not. There is a blending of those states."
"Why draw distinctions?” She rolled her eyes. “You are always so satisfied regardless. Why do you do anything at all?"
He laughed. His other hand found a second spade to his left. He held it out for her. She grabbed it by the handle.
"There is not really a me and there is not really an option of doing or not doing. Come on," he said as she put a knee on the ground next to him. "Let's plant the different grasses."
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Not Zen 169: Many Last Chances
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| from Wikimedia Commons by Adam Jones |
Her home wasn't fancy. She'd lived most of her life without art. Except for a few donations that lined a living room shelf, she still didn't have any. No one counted the framed drawings in multi-color crayon that she'd acquired over the years. Of those, roughly half had been made by her children, the rest by her grandchildren. They lined the back of a kitchen countertop. The two she liked best sat on either side of a photograph of her former husband.
On the morning of her birthday, she rose to prepare the kitchen for her guests. She rolled over and sat up. Her muscles felt weak but she was lighter than she used to be, so it evened out. Her feet met the floor. She shuffled to her dresser. With unsteady hands, she pulled out the middle drawer. After a moment of fumbling, she found her best blouse.
It took her longer than usual to get ready. The blouse was her problem. At the bottom, it had small buttons. At the top, it fastened with pegs and loops. She could feel that she hadn't gotten the buttons to work. After a while, she gave up, exhausted, and sat on the bed.
She sat long enough to catch her breath, then stood to try again. This time she could hardly feel the buttons, much less fit them into their buttonholes.
"Son!" she rose to shout.
Exasperated with herself, she sat back down. In a minute, her oldest child appeared at the bedroom door. Not long ago, she would have found it humiliating to need help to get dressed. Now she was merely glad that someone was here.
In the kitchen, she put her son to work for as long as she could. Unfortunately, they both needed to take breaks to sit, rest, and have tea. They didn't quite finish the preparations. Her son started playing host as soon as the guests arrived. The earliest were his wife, their kids, and their grandchild. The grandchild was a two-year-old girl who ran around the living room screaming for no reason other than she could.
Inside of an hour, the rest of the extended family had arrived, including other grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
"How suspicious," she said. Once more, she helped herself to the stool in the kitchen. Younger women had taken over the details anyway.
"What is?" asked her son.
"A lot of great-grandchildren seem to have shown up this time." She pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. "In fact, I think it's all of them."
"Good for them."
"Maybe." Her index finger pressed the glasses back onto her nose. She blinked and studied the young men and women laying out food on the dining table. "Good for this party you're throwing, you mean."
"What I mean is that the little ones don't see you much. You don't get around."
He'd made a similar comment yesterday when he arrived. Of course, he was the oldest and he'd already lost his younger brother. He was facing mandatory retirement soon, too. His company was forcing him out.
"You're worried that this is my last birthday, aren't you?" she said.
"Well, it could be," he allowed in a rather weak voice.
"I do feel like sort of an old beaver."
"Mom?" He looked at her as if he were wondering if her mind might not be working right. "I hope you're about to make a joke about dams or something."
"No. I mean, I feel like a wild animal that has to hunker down in the winter." Sometimes her mind wasn't quite right, she thought, but this time she knew what she meant. "I might not make it through next season."
They looked out over the kitchen, dining area, and most of the living room, all of them full of family and friends.
"I can see how you might feel that way." He nodded slowly. "But maybe you'll outlive me. I don't know. Maybe this is my last chance to see everyone but it's still not yours."
"But then I would be seeing them at your funeral."
"Probably." He smiled. He didn't seem at all upset by the idea.
"No thanks. I've had plenty of last chances." It took her a moment to compile a list in her head. Even so, she couldn't really grasp them all. There were too many and the ones at the top of her list were only examples. "I had my last chance with your father but I didn't understand it. I couldn't comprehend him dying. Before him, I had my last chance to hold your brother. Earlier I had my last talk with my mother. And with my father, of course, although he didn't want to say anything."
"Why not?"
"At the time, I was mad. Later, I understood that he was just in pain." She'd been a self-centered young woman, she thought, to have misunderstood. She'd assumed it was about her somehow. "Likely enough, the pain was all he could think about. But he still didn't want to talk about it."
"Couldn't a doctor have helped?"
"It wasn't done." She shook her head and looked on the counter for her drink. Unfortunately, she hadn't poured one for herself yet. "Anyway, I learned. I've had a lot of last chances at this point."
"Did you appreciate them?"
"Not always." She sighed and set her hands in her lap. "But it's always a last chance for something. Are you appreciating this? I mean, this moment. You organized it."
He grinned as he surveyed the family members and extended families. There were so many. Even the people who had been friends and neighbors, who weren't related, could have filled a room. A smile crept onto her face as she took in the sight of him looking over the crowd.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Not Even Not Zen 8: A Bandit Accountant, 1.1
A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Thirty-Two Minus Thirty-One
Scene One: Fired
Denario sipped a penny ale as he considered his dilemma. The mayor had refused to pay for the final installment of his audit. He had, in fact, tossed Denario out through the front door of the town hall with the help of three toughs. The accountant had shaken his fist and cried, “You can't do this!” but, in fact, it had already been done. Two of the mayor's loyal men kicked him when he tried to stand.
“Like I told you,” said the mayor. “If you're still around by nightfall, you're dead.”
Kevin, the red-haired guard with shoulders that belonged on a horse and who Denario had once liked, brushed his hands of the dust they'd accumulated in throwing him out.
“The stagecoach,” he whispered, “leaves before sunset.”
Then he kicked Denario again. The mayor stomped back into his office and the toughs watched Denario for a minute to make sure he didn't try anything stupid like re-entering the building. He hobbled away with bruises on his thighs and arms. At least they hadn't broken his fingers, he thought. He knew that these country folk in towns like Ziegeburg killed outsiders with little excuse, often in mobs at night.
As Denario drank, he wondered if he were immune to their lynchings.
Surely he had made enough friends here. He'd lived in the boarding house for nearly three months. The farmers and tradesmen seemed to like him and they didn't particularly care for Mayor Figgins. It was Figgins who'd broken the contract, not Denario, and the accountant wasn't his first victim, either. But that was Denario's real problem with leaving: the contract. He had been depending on the final installment to pay his way home.
“Bless, Denario.” A tanned, gnarled hand clapped him on the shoulder.
“Gordi.” He nodded. He'd heard the old man coming.
“I stopped work early today. Ye too, I hear. I know ye've got to skip town.”
“Well,” he began, unsure how to respond.
“'Ave ye got time for a last game of darts?”
“Of course, Gordi.” Denario downed the rest of his ale. He was good at darts. It was very nearly his only physical gift. He couldn't outrun a pregnant milkmaid. His arms could just about manage a bale of hay if the bale didn't knock him down. He could swim but he feared the water. He'd hired a man to teach him swordsmanship but the instructor had given him one lesson and returned the rest of his money with the advice, 'Don't waste your time.' Denario couldn't even hold his beer. He was a three-cup drunk.
He could throw, though. He was decent with a half-brick or anything lighter. Darts was his favorite activity – or at least his favorite of those he got to engage in regularly. He supposed he would have to say goodbye to his fiancée before he skipped town. He wasn't looking forward to the conversation and hoped she would at least try to talk him out of leaving. Sometimes he thought she was too good for him despite his coming from the big city. Most of the time, in fact.
During the Three Handfuls game with Gordi, he kept score of each dart sequence and secretly kept score of a second game in his head. For the secret game he chose Poke Jonni, which involved scoring a number immediately after the other fellow scored it. That was different from getting triplets in each number, as players did in Three Handfuls, so it kept Denario extra entertained. It was hard to win at both games at once. It was fun keeping score in both, too.
“Ah, ye win again,” said the wheel-maker at the end, as Denario sunk a triple fifteen right behind Gordi's fifteen. Denario had won both games, in fact, including the Poke Jonni in his head.
“I think you let me.” He pulled out the darts and handed them back to his friend.
“Nah, ye always win at darts. I always win me money back at cards.” It was an odd trend they'd developed and it was strange to Denario because he knew he was excellent at cards. Yet Gordi was better at certain games, especially those in which he could bluff. Also, Gordi cheated a little, probably, although Denario didn't really mind. The accountant didn't want to make his money from gambling.
“At least let me play you a game of Mad Kings to make it up.”
“My favorite.” Gordi gave him a regretful look. He'd won drinks from everyone in the bar at that game. “But no, ye have a stagecoach to catch so I hear. Can't keep ye.”
At the bar with the penny he'd won from Gordi, Denario started to panic. If a farmer had learned about Denario's troubles then the news was all over town. He checked the other faces in the Proud Pony. He knew them all, the miller's deadbeat son, the cloth merchant, the pot-bellied rancher, and they had all been watching him until the moment he turned around. Their glances shied away, a mixture of embarrassment and curiosity. Even Gordi wouldn't meet Denario's gaze as he sat next to his rancher friend.
The town of Ziegeburg was large by regional standards and it supported, barely, three drinking establishments. One was called Hippogriff's. It had gilt lined doors and sat in the center of a neighborhood referred to as The Towers. It was far too rich for Denario. Hippogriff's would admit an accountant grudgingly but it would have thrown out a wheelwright or a potter unless accompanied by a better member of local society.
That was the best place to drink. The worst was the one that occupied the southwest end of town just outside the gate. It was called Bottoms Up. The place was too cheap to have a wood floor, just straw over dirt. The Proud Pony had a dirt floor, too, but it was cleaner somehow. The barman didn't tolerate thugs or bandits. His establishment catered to the wealthier farmers and part-time tradesmen like Gordi.
Denario had no idea what went on in Hippogriff's but he was sure that the news of his disgrace had already reached all ears at the Proud Pony and Bottoms Up.
“Last beer?” muttered the barman.
“Alfie,” whispered Denario with both hands on the bar. “This is terrible. I can't leave but everyone is telling me I should. What about you? Do you think I should buy a place on the stagecoach? What happens if I miss it?"
Alfie's eyebrows rose. His lips moved but no sound came out for a while. When he finally spoke, he checked to make sure no one was too close to hear.
“If you miss that stagecoach,” he said, “walk.”
“Seriously? Won't bandits catch me on the road?”
“Maybe. Maybe they'll catch the coach, too. They sometimes do, nowadays. The roads aren't as safe as when I was a boy.” He picked up a clean mug and decided to clean it some more. He rubbed it hard with his rag. “But getting robbed is better than having the mayor's men hang you by your neck off the jailhouse at the center of town. That sort of thing scares the children. I got a little girl now who I don't want to see that.”
“Hadn't thought of it your way.” He slumped against the bar top, the image of his body dangling from a thick rope in his mind. Now he realized why those three joists jutted out from the south wall of the jail. He should have clued in when he heard someone call them the gibbet beams. “But I'm engaged to Widow Brightli, you know. And today I'm getting chased out because the mayor's brother pocketed a share of the baron's tax collection.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” said the barman with a stony face.
“It's why the mayor wants me to leave. His brother ...”
“And don't say it again.”
“Ah.” Denario nodded He sat upright. “I suppose I should have another ale, then.”
“One penny, sir.” The barman had clearly been about to give it to Denario for free but must have changed his mind when he heard the crazy notions swirling in Denario's head. There was a heavy, round copper piece pinched in Denario's fingers. He handed it over. The barman's stuck it in his pocket and grabbed a mug in his thick fingers. When he slid it, full to the brim, across the counter, he said, “I'd drink fast, sir, if I wanted a word with the Widow Brightli. And if I were in your situation, I would want that last chance, sir.”
“I need a plan,” mumbled Denario to himself.
“Kiss the widow and step on the stagecoach.” The tough man softened his tone just slightly. “That's your plan, sir.”
Scene Two
Chapter Thirty-Two Minus Thirty-One
Scene One: Fired
Denario sipped a penny ale as he considered his dilemma. The mayor had refused to pay for the final installment of his audit. He had, in fact, tossed Denario out through the front door of the town hall with the help of three toughs. The accountant had shaken his fist and cried, “You can't do this!” but, in fact, it had already been done. Two of the mayor's loyal men kicked him when he tried to stand.
“Like I told you,” said the mayor. “If you're still around by nightfall, you're dead.”
Kevin, the red-haired guard with shoulders that belonged on a horse and who Denario had once liked, brushed his hands of the dust they'd accumulated in throwing him out.
“The stagecoach,” he whispered, “leaves before sunset.”
Then he kicked Denario again. The mayor stomped back into his office and the toughs watched Denario for a minute to make sure he didn't try anything stupid like re-entering the building. He hobbled away with bruises on his thighs and arms. At least they hadn't broken his fingers, he thought. He knew that these country folk in towns like Ziegeburg killed outsiders with little excuse, often in mobs at night.
As Denario drank, he wondered if he were immune to their lynchings.
Surely he had made enough friends here. He'd lived in the boarding house for nearly three months. The farmers and tradesmen seemed to like him and they didn't particularly care for Mayor Figgins. It was Figgins who'd broken the contract, not Denario, and the accountant wasn't his first victim, either. But that was Denario's real problem with leaving: the contract. He had been depending on the final installment to pay his way home.
“Bless, Denario.” A tanned, gnarled hand clapped him on the shoulder.
“Gordi.” He nodded. He'd heard the old man coming.
“I stopped work early today. Ye too, I hear. I know ye've got to skip town.”
“Well,” he began, unsure how to respond.
“'Ave ye got time for a last game of darts?”
“Of course, Gordi.” Denario downed the rest of his ale. He was good at darts. It was very nearly his only physical gift. He couldn't outrun a pregnant milkmaid. His arms could just about manage a bale of hay if the bale didn't knock him down. He could swim but he feared the water. He'd hired a man to teach him swordsmanship but the instructor had given him one lesson and returned the rest of his money with the advice, 'Don't waste your time.' Denario couldn't even hold his beer. He was a three-cup drunk.
He could throw, though. He was decent with a half-brick or anything lighter. Darts was his favorite activity – or at least his favorite of those he got to engage in regularly. He supposed he would have to say goodbye to his fiancée before he skipped town. He wasn't looking forward to the conversation and hoped she would at least try to talk him out of leaving. Sometimes he thought she was too good for him despite his coming from the big city. Most of the time, in fact.
During the Three Handfuls game with Gordi, he kept score of each dart sequence and secretly kept score of a second game in his head. For the secret game he chose Poke Jonni, which involved scoring a number immediately after the other fellow scored it. That was different from getting triplets in each number, as players did in Three Handfuls, so it kept Denario extra entertained. It was hard to win at both games at once. It was fun keeping score in both, too.
“Ah, ye win again,” said the wheel-maker at the end, as Denario sunk a triple fifteen right behind Gordi's fifteen. Denario had won both games, in fact, including the Poke Jonni in his head.
“I think you let me.” He pulled out the darts and handed them back to his friend.
“Nah, ye always win at darts. I always win me money back at cards.” It was an odd trend they'd developed and it was strange to Denario because he knew he was excellent at cards. Yet Gordi was better at certain games, especially those in which he could bluff. Also, Gordi cheated a little, probably, although Denario didn't really mind. The accountant didn't want to make his money from gambling.
“At least let me play you a game of Mad Kings to make it up.”
“My favorite.” Gordi gave him a regretful look. He'd won drinks from everyone in the bar at that game. “But no, ye have a stagecoach to catch so I hear. Can't keep ye.”
At the bar with the penny he'd won from Gordi, Denario started to panic. If a farmer had learned about Denario's troubles then the news was all over town. He checked the other faces in the Proud Pony. He knew them all, the miller's deadbeat son, the cloth merchant, the pot-bellied rancher, and they had all been watching him until the moment he turned around. Their glances shied away, a mixture of embarrassment and curiosity. Even Gordi wouldn't meet Denario's gaze as he sat next to his rancher friend.
The town of Ziegeburg was large by regional standards and it supported, barely, three drinking establishments. One was called Hippogriff's. It had gilt lined doors and sat in the center of a neighborhood referred to as The Towers. It was far too rich for Denario. Hippogriff's would admit an accountant grudgingly but it would have thrown out a wheelwright or a potter unless accompanied by a better member of local society.
That was the best place to drink. The worst was the one that occupied the southwest end of town just outside the gate. It was called Bottoms Up. The place was too cheap to have a wood floor, just straw over dirt. The Proud Pony had a dirt floor, too, but it was cleaner somehow. The barman didn't tolerate thugs or bandits. His establishment catered to the wealthier farmers and part-time tradesmen like Gordi.
Denario had no idea what went on in Hippogriff's but he was sure that the news of his disgrace had already reached all ears at the Proud Pony and Bottoms Up.
“Last beer?” muttered the barman.
“Alfie,” whispered Denario with both hands on the bar. “This is terrible. I can't leave but everyone is telling me I should. What about you? Do you think I should buy a place on the stagecoach? What happens if I miss it?"
Alfie's eyebrows rose. His lips moved but no sound came out for a while. When he finally spoke, he checked to make sure no one was too close to hear.
“If you miss that stagecoach,” he said, “walk.”
“Seriously? Won't bandits catch me on the road?”
“Maybe. Maybe they'll catch the coach, too. They sometimes do, nowadays. The roads aren't as safe as when I was a boy.” He picked up a clean mug and decided to clean it some more. He rubbed it hard with his rag. “But getting robbed is better than having the mayor's men hang you by your neck off the jailhouse at the center of town. That sort of thing scares the children. I got a little girl now who I don't want to see that.”
“Hadn't thought of it your way.” He slumped against the bar top, the image of his body dangling from a thick rope in his mind. Now he realized why those three joists jutted out from the south wall of the jail. He should have clued in when he heard someone call them the gibbet beams. “But I'm engaged to Widow Brightli, you know. And today I'm getting chased out because the mayor's brother pocketed a share of the baron's tax collection.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” said the barman with a stony face.
“It's why the mayor wants me to leave. His brother ...”
“And don't say it again.”
“Ah.” Denario nodded He sat upright. “I suppose I should have another ale, then.”
“One penny, sir.” The barman had clearly been about to give it to Denario for free but must have changed his mind when he heard the crazy notions swirling in Denario's head. There was a heavy, round copper piece pinched in Denario's fingers. He handed it over. The barman's stuck it in his pocket and grabbed a mug in his thick fingers. When he slid it, full to the brim, across the counter, he said, “I'd drink fast, sir, if I wanted a word with the Widow Brightli. And if I were in your situation, I would want that last chance, sir.”
“I need a plan,” mumbled Denario to himself.
“Kiss the widow and step on the stagecoach.” The tough man softened his tone just slightly. “That's your plan, sir.”
Scene Two
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Not Zen 168: Unknowing Privilege
In a forest, on a high hill, there lived a bearded hermit. His home lay to the northwest of a small town. Children hiked from the valley town to visit him up on the hill. He tried to discourage their intrusions on his solitude. Their parents, however, continued to let the children roam.
The parents and the children regarded the hermit as a tolerant man. This was the case. He endured the noise and the naive questions of his visitors. He took them to the garden and encouraged them to work as they chattered about the details of their lives. The hard labor discouraged a few. He spoke to the rest about matters of spirituality. That drove away more.
A handful of visitors remained as regular callers to his home, however. One of them who returned many times was a young girl, dark-haired and small. The hermit watched her grow, over the years, into a young woman.
"When there's no other person here," she asked one day. "Do you remain quiet?"
He nodded as he tended his garden beside her.
"I think I would like to be a hermit," she said.
She didn't say anything more for hours. Instead, she worked in silence. After she straightened and took a break, she hiked farther up the hill. She seemed to be looking for sites to build her own hut. Although he liked her, he felt some alarm. He did not want her to live so close. Fortunately, she found a vantage point and surveyed different hills. She seemed to settle on one above the northeast of town. A home there would have fewer trees for shelter but it would have access to a stream. The solitude would perhaps be better because the slopes by the stream there looked steeper.
He approved. Although he did not say a word, she caught him studying the site. Her eyes glinted. She smiled as she walked back to his home.
"So would you really recommend a solitary life for me?" she asked him when she arrived.
"For anyone who wants to be alone in their contemplation of holy existence, I do recommend it," he replied.
Her decision seemed so resolute that he expected that he would not see her again. However, a few days later, she returned. In her company was a woman the hermit had never seen before.
"I am her mother," the woman said. She fluttered her robe to wave off the heat of the steep walk. Without smiling, she bowed her head politely.
The hermit bowed his head as well.
"You recommended a solitary life for her?" the mother asked.
"She may find it good."
"She may. It's not that women don't also wish to be hermits, alone in the wilderness. Clearly, you live a beautiful life." The woman expanded her arms as if to encompass not only his hut and garden but the entire wilderness.
"Then what is the problem?"
"The problem is that men cannot seem to permit women to be alone."
"I would. Many men would, I think. Most."
"Many would gladly allow women that freedom, of course, but it only takes a few to make the practice impossible. It is not the point of being a hermit to occupy oneself constantly with self-defense."
"I had not thought of that." The vision disturbed him. A young lady's hermitage would often be under threat. But it did not surprise him except in that it hadn't occurred to him before. "You are correct. I'm protected by being a man and by having nothing to steal. Otherwise I would come to harm."
"Women on their own must take pains to appear diseased or crazy. My daughter would have a difficult time with either." Her glance slipped to the young lady by her side, calm, self-assured, and glowing with health.
"She would."
"A nunnery, perhaps, or a quiet life with a quiet family on the edge of town would work. But can you see that being a hermit is not an option?"
"It would be needlessly difficult." It saddened him to agree.
"I'm surprised to hear you admit it. I thought you must be telling all of the children that the life of a hermit is best."
"This way of living is best for me." He took a deep breath of the mountain air. "Thank you for enlightening me. This is why each path must be different. When I took a vow of poverty, I had not expected to ever see myself again in a position of privilege. But I have been living with this particular privilege the whole time."
The parents and the children regarded the hermit as a tolerant man. This was the case. He endured the noise and the naive questions of his visitors. He took them to the garden and encouraged them to work as they chattered about the details of their lives. The hard labor discouraged a few. He spoke to the rest about matters of spirituality. That drove away more.
A handful of visitors remained as regular callers to his home, however. One of them who returned many times was a young girl, dark-haired and small. The hermit watched her grow, over the years, into a young woman.
"When there's no other person here," she asked one day. "Do you remain quiet?"
He nodded as he tended his garden beside her.
"I think I would like to be a hermit," she said.
She didn't say anything more for hours. Instead, she worked in silence. After she straightened and took a break, she hiked farther up the hill. She seemed to be looking for sites to build her own hut. Although he liked her, he felt some alarm. He did not want her to live so close. Fortunately, she found a vantage point and surveyed different hills. She seemed to settle on one above the northeast of town. A home there would have fewer trees for shelter but it would have access to a stream. The solitude would perhaps be better because the slopes by the stream there looked steeper.
He approved. Although he did not say a word, she caught him studying the site. Her eyes glinted. She smiled as she walked back to his home.
"So would you really recommend a solitary life for me?" she asked him when she arrived.
"For anyone who wants to be alone in their contemplation of holy existence, I do recommend it," he replied.
Her decision seemed so resolute that he expected that he would not see her again. However, a few days later, she returned. In her company was a woman the hermit had never seen before.
"I am her mother," the woman said. She fluttered her robe to wave off the heat of the steep walk. Without smiling, she bowed her head politely.
The hermit bowed his head as well.
"You recommended a solitary life for her?" the mother asked.
"She may find it good."
"She may. It's not that women don't also wish to be hermits, alone in the wilderness. Clearly, you live a beautiful life." The woman expanded her arms as if to encompass not only his hut and garden but the entire wilderness.
"Then what is the problem?"
"The problem is that men cannot seem to permit women to be alone."
"I would. Many men would, I think. Most."
"Many would gladly allow women that freedom, of course, but it only takes a few to make the practice impossible. It is not the point of being a hermit to occupy oneself constantly with self-defense."
"I had not thought of that." The vision disturbed him. A young lady's hermitage would often be under threat. But it did not surprise him except in that it hadn't occurred to him before. "You are correct. I'm protected by being a man and by having nothing to steal. Otherwise I would come to harm."
"Women on their own must take pains to appear diseased or crazy. My daughter would have a difficult time with either." Her glance slipped to the young lady by her side, calm, self-assured, and glowing with health.
"She would."
"A nunnery, perhaps, or a quiet life with a quiet family on the edge of town would work. But can you see that being a hermit is not an option?"
"It would be needlessly difficult." It saddened him to agree.
"I'm surprised to hear you admit it. I thought you must be telling all of the children that the life of a hermit is best."
"This way of living is best for me." He took a deep breath of the mountain air. "Thank you for enlightening me. This is why each path must be different. When I took a vow of poverty, I had not expected to ever see myself again in a position of privilege. But I have been living with this particular privilege the whole time."
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Not Zen 167: Always-Land
His daughter leaned forward in her chair. She closed her book. Her finger remained in place so she could open it again in an instant.
"Daddy." She turned her head towards him. Although the whole family had packed into the living room to read after breakfast, he was the closest to her. "What do the people in Neverland call this place?"
The question made him sift though his childhood memories. He'd read the same book. He should have known what the children there called the real world.
"Home, I think." It was a right answer but he was pretty sure his daughter was looking for more.
"What about the grown-ups? That's who I mean. The ones who live there. Like, it's the mermaids, the warriors, the gnomes and fairies, the pirates, and those kind. Do they have a name for our place?"
He leaned back and stretched his arms. His gaze swept the room. His youngest son had sprawled on the couch with a comic. His wife bent over a magazine by a casement window, shoulders hunched, forearms resting on the sill.
"The Mainland, maybe?" He sighed. His attention turned from his wife to his child. "My memory isn't so good. There are probably other names for our place in the book. I'm sure there would be more that aren't written."
"I know." His daughter stretched out her words as if she'd made the most obvious point to someone not understanding. "I want you to tell me the other names."
"You want the unwritten names?" he chuckled.
His girl didn't laugh with him. She folded her arms and waited for an answer.
"Well, this place is the opposite of Never-Never Land." He closed his book. This time, he gave his daughter a moment of serious thought. "So this should be called Always-Land."
"Okay." She shook her head in agreement. Good. "But Neverland is where you don't have to grow up. That means that here in Always-Land, we're growing. Right?"
"Sure." He hadn't thought about it but of course she was being logical. "That's the point, isn't it? Always-Land is the opposite of daydreams. Here, what's important is our awareness of how things are. In our shared land, we maintain connectedness. We allow ourselves to be conscious of our responsibilities."
"That's too much, daddy."
"Okay, I make too much of awareness and responsibilities, maybe. We build those things up in our minds to be too difficult, too imposing. Maybe that's why, in Always-Land, we make so many gateways to the Neverlands. Fantasy lands don't take up much space. We have room in our lives for escapes."
"Is that good?"
"Fantasies are like everything else." He drew chopping motions in the air with his open hand as he tried to illustrate the point. "Knives are good for cutting up your food. They can be used for bad things, too. If you meet someone who is too preoccupied with knives, like to the exclusion of having friends, you probably think they're sad and creepy."
"Yes, yuck."
"It's the same with the Neverlands we make. Do you let them do something good for you? Are you learning how to be brave or smart or a good friend?"
She turned over her book in both hands and looked at it doubtfully. "I think so."
"Or do you get overly occupied with fantasies? That's where it goes wrong."
She barked with laughter.
"It's not the poor potato's fault I'm fat," she said.
"What?" He shook his head. "You're not fat."
"That's what you said yesterday!" She raised an eyebrow at him as if he didn't listen to himself, which often he didn't.
"Oh, right. I see what you mean. I was complaining that I eat too much." He patted his stomach. "Well, here in Always-Land, we continue to develop. And it happens to us whether we pay attention to it or not."
"Why wouldn't someone pay attention?"
"Good question." He lifted himself from the chair. "I don't know if there's one answer or many. But we should pay the best attention we can. With awareness, we cultivate the goodness in ourselves. We can let everything else just fall away as we grow."
"Daddy." She turned her head towards him. Although the whole family had packed into the living room to read after breakfast, he was the closest to her. "What do the people in Neverland call this place?"
The question made him sift though his childhood memories. He'd read the same book. He should have known what the children there called the real world.
"Home, I think." It was a right answer but he was pretty sure his daughter was looking for more.
"What about the grown-ups? That's who I mean. The ones who live there. Like, it's the mermaids, the warriors, the gnomes and fairies, the pirates, and those kind. Do they have a name for our place?"
He leaned back and stretched his arms. His gaze swept the room. His youngest son had sprawled on the couch with a comic. His wife bent over a magazine by a casement window, shoulders hunched, forearms resting on the sill.
"The Mainland, maybe?" He sighed. His attention turned from his wife to his child. "My memory isn't so good. There are probably other names for our place in the book. I'm sure there would be more that aren't written."
"I know." His daughter stretched out her words as if she'd made the most obvious point to someone not understanding. "I want you to tell me the other names."
"You want the unwritten names?" he chuckled.
His girl didn't laugh with him. She folded her arms and waited for an answer.
"Well, this place is the opposite of Never-Never Land." He closed his book. This time, he gave his daughter a moment of serious thought. "So this should be called Always-Land."
"Okay." She shook her head in agreement. Good. "But Neverland is where you don't have to grow up. That means that here in Always-Land, we're growing. Right?"
"Sure." He hadn't thought about it but of course she was being logical. "That's the point, isn't it? Always-Land is the opposite of daydreams. Here, what's important is our awareness of how things are. In our shared land, we maintain connectedness. We allow ourselves to be conscious of our responsibilities."
"That's too much, daddy."
"Okay, I make too much of awareness and responsibilities, maybe. We build those things up in our minds to be too difficult, too imposing. Maybe that's why, in Always-Land, we make so many gateways to the Neverlands. Fantasy lands don't take up much space. We have room in our lives for escapes."
"Is that good?"
"Fantasies are like everything else." He drew chopping motions in the air with his open hand as he tried to illustrate the point. "Knives are good for cutting up your food. They can be used for bad things, too. If you meet someone who is too preoccupied with knives, like to the exclusion of having friends, you probably think they're sad and creepy."
"Yes, yuck."
"It's the same with the Neverlands we make. Do you let them do something good for you? Are you learning how to be brave or smart or a good friend?"
She turned over her book in both hands and looked at it doubtfully. "I think so."
"Or do you get overly occupied with fantasies? That's where it goes wrong."
She barked with laughter.
"It's not the poor potato's fault I'm fat," she said.
"What?" He shook his head. "You're not fat."
"That's what you said yesterday!" She raised an eyebrow at him as if he didn't listen to himself, which often he didn't.
"Oh, right. I see what you mean. I was complaining that I eat too much." He patted his stomach. "Well, here in Always-Land, we continue to develop. And it happens to us whether we pay attention to it or not."
"Why wouldn't someone pay attention?"
"Good question." He lifted himself from the chair. "I don't know if there's one answer or many. But we should pay the best attention we can. With awareness, we cultivate the goodness in ourselves. We can let everything else just fall away as we grow."
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Not Zen 166: Peace Process
On a hill nestled between greater hills, in a cleft of the hill's rocky south face, lived a colony of mastiff bats. Each year after the snow melted from the mountains around them, the bats bore their children. Mothers nursed the young in a protected nook of the colony. Fathers brought back food for the mothers - usually moths, birds, lizards, and pieces of fruit foraged from the forest floors.
One spring, the smallest of the children found herself being pushed around by members of the colony. Other young ones would not give her space to rest. Her parents were gentle souls and felt ashamed by her complaints. They did not want a bullied child. On the other hand, they were not willing to confront the parents of larger children.
"Don't yell," they told her. "It excites the bigger ones. Ignore your bullies and they will go away."
The next evening, her parents headed out to hunt. Other young bats pushed the smallest one. When she didn't respond, they raked her with their wing claws. It hurt. Frightened by the sight of her own blood, she fought back. But there were too many. She fled and took shelter in the hanging moss outside of the nursery. She emerged only after her parents returned and called for her.
When she told them what had happened, they said, "You must not strike back. Anger begets anger. Violence begets more violence."
Since she didn't know how to stop the violence, she started to avoid the other children. During times when both of her parents were gone, she hid in crevices, or behind sleeping children, or in the hanging moss. There weren't many places she could go. Each time the bullies found her, they teased her, raked her wings, or bit her ears.
Only when she nursed with her mother did she have peace. In those times, she dreamt of flying. She longed to join her father in freedom. She stretched her wings as often as she could. Thanks to her motivation, she was the first of the spring litter to leave the nursery.
"Finally I will be free from bullies," she told her mother. Her mother gave her a reassuring embrace.
She flew only in the cave, at first. But soon she ventured out. For two nights, she was right about the relief she experienced. Although she was still the smallest of her colony, she flew in peace. She watched her father's methods. She learned to hunt by studying him and her uncle. Patient fellows, they showed her how to locate insects of the right size for her. Her uncle stressed the need to avoid the edges of the treelines where owls roosted.
On the third night of her self-sufficiency, as she dove at a moth, another bat swooped close. It was one of her former tormentors. He had left the cave. He screamed at her to ruin her echolocation. A second, larger girl snatched her moth.
She screeched at them with outrage. The bigger two flapped away, laughing.
"Don't provoke them," her mother replied when she learned of the incident.
"Provoke them by eating?" She had to confront the impossibility of her parents' advice. "You think I should stop having food?"
Her next few days of hunting were interrupted by the bullies. Sometimes she ate in peace. Too often, she didn't. Hunger did odd things to her mind. She considered dire solutions. One long, hungry night, she followed one of the bullies and attacked him while he was eating. It was a fight she'd known she would lose and it was over in a few seconds but, if she couldn't eat, she felt determined to make sure that her tormentors knew how she felt.
As she landed on a tree branch, a larger bat joined her. She spun, ready to fight another tormenter, but it was her uncle.
"I suppose you're going to tell me that I should let the bullies do what they want," she said.
"No. It's bad for everyone when that happens," he replied. "Violence and thievery is the result."
She lifted her head. It wasn't the usual answer she'd heard. "Then what?"
"All of us must train ourselves." Her uncle spread and re-folded his wings. "Some of us become expert at self-defense in the air. Your parents were not willing to learn. But I am willing to teach you."
She couldn't imagine that there was anything someone could teach her that would help.
"Peace cannot be obtained through fighting, my parents say." It was the only thought that came to her mind.
"Yes, your father is childish in that way." Her uncle chuckled. "He and your mother have an immature concept of peace. Social equality and justice are not achieved once then then forever set. Peace must be maintained in a continual process."
"But my parents say ..."
"There are some of us in the colony who achieve calm lives for a while by being meek. Those folks depend on the justice maintained by others."
"That's my parents."
"Yes, and it is a position of luxury. Perhaps they don't realize it but their meekness means someone else must do the work. Not everyone can escape responsibility. Some are called upon, for a short while or for a lifetime, to do the hard work of maintaining peace."
One spring, the smallest of the children found herself being pushed around by members of the colony. Other young ones would not give her space to rest. Her parents were gentle souls and felt ashamed by her complaints. They did not want a bullied child. On the other hand, they were not willing to confront the parents of larger children.
"Don't yell," they told her. "It excites the bigger ones. Ignore your bullies and they will go away."
The next evening, her parents headed out to hunt. Other young bats pushed the smallest one. When she didn't respond, they raked her with their wing claws. It hurt. Frightened by the sight of her own blood, she fought back. But there were too many. She fled and took shelter in the hanging moss outside of the nursery. She emerged only after her parents returned and called for her.
When she told them what had happened, they said, "You must not strike back. Anger begets anger. Violence begets more violence."
Since she didn't know how to stop the violence, she started to avoid the other children. During times when both of her parents were gone, she hid in crevices, or behind sleeping children, or in the hanging moss. There weren't many places she could go. Each time the bullies found her, they teased her, raked her wings, or bit her ears.
Only when she nursed with her mother did she have peace. In those times, she dreamt of flying. She longed to join her father in freedom. She stretched her wings as often as she could. Thanks to her motivation, she was the first of the spring litter to leave the nursery.
"Finally I will be free from bullies," she told her mother. Her mother gave her a reassuring embrace.
She flew only in the cave, at first. But soon she ventured out. For two nights, she was right about the relief she experienced. Although she was still the smallest of her colony, she flew in peace. She watched her father's methods. She learned to hunt by studying him and her uncle. Patient fellows, they showed her how to locate insects of the right size for her. Her uncle stressed the need to avoid the edges of the treelines where owls roosted.
On the third night of her self-sufficiency, as she dove at a moth, another bat swooped close. It was one of her former tormentors. He had left the cave. He screamed at her to ruin her echolocation. A second, larger girl snatched her moth.
She screeched at them with outrage. The bigger two flapped away, laughing.
"Don't provoke them," her mother replied when she learned of the incident.
"Provoke them by eating?" She had to confront the impossibility of her parents' advice. "You think I should stop having food?"
Her next few days of hunting were interrupted by the bullies. Sometimes she ate in peace. Too often, she didn't. Hunger did odd things to her mind. She considered dire solutions. One long, hungry night, she followed one of the bullies and attacked him while he was eating. It was a fight she'd known she would lose and it was over in a few seconds but, if she couldn't eat, she felt determined to make sure that her tormentors knew how she felt.
As she landed on a tree branch, a larger bat joined her. She spun, ready to fight another tormenter, but it was her uncle.
"I suppose you're going to tell me that I should let the bullies do what they want," she said.
"No. It's bad for everyone when that happens," he replied. "Violence and thievery is the result."
She lifted her head. It wasn't the usual answer she'd heard. "Then what?"
"All of us must train ourselves." Her uncle spread and re-folded his wings. "Some of us become expert at self-defense in the air. Your parents were not willing to learn. But I am willing to teach you."
She couldn't imagine that there was anything someone could teach her that would help.
"Peace cannot be obtained through fighting, my parents say." It was the only thought that came to her mind.
"Yes, your father is childish in that way." Her uncle chuckled. "He and your mother have an immature concept of peace. Social equality and justice are not achieved once then then forever set. Peace must be maintained in a continual process."
"But my parents say ..."
"There are some of us in the colony who achieve calm lives for a while by being meek. Those folks depend on the justice maintained by others."
"That's my parents."
"Yes, and it is a position of luxury. Perhaps they don't realize it but their meekness means someone else must do the work. Not everyone can escape responsibility. Some are called upon, for a short while or for a lifetime, to do the hard work of maintaining peace."
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Not Zen 165: Tribes
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| Goatfish by Albert Kok, Wikimedia Commons |
On most evenings, each school went its separate way. The groupers swam to the seagrass beds to hunt for smaller fish. The goatfish split up and descended to the sandy substrates. They combed the bottom for snails, worms, and molluscs. The snappers dove to a cool, dark reef that lay on a slope below the higher one. They ate the shrimp, squids, crabs, and kelp.
After a night of eating, the fish met again in the heat of the day. All of them coveted the valleys of the reef slope. All of them took shelter in the clefts between corals when large predators swam by.
"Watch out for the groupers," said one goatfish to another as the schools of fish passed each other.
"There are only a few," replied her friend. "None of them are large enough to hunt us."
"Look at those teeth. They're violent."
The elder goatfish turned his eye to the outnumbered groupers. They looked tough, yes, but defensive. They were not swimming toward anyone with aggression. They were keeping their distance.
"They're fine."
Since the two of them had drifted to the edge of their school, they swam in a wide arc. The path took them near a mixed school, which consisted of goatfish and snappers together. The bluestripe snappers were numerous and therefore intimidating to medium-sized predators. Goatfish were able to change the shading of their stripes from yellow to blue, so they liked to merge their schools with the snappers. That let them camouflage themselves but the snappers didn't always like it.
Abruptly, the elder goatfish turned inward to their school, away from the snappers. His companion thought about remaining where she was on the outskirts but she felt something was wrong. She veered inward a little, enough to stay close to her friend.
"Why did you turn us away?" she asked him. "Are you biased against the snappers? Then why not against the groupers as well?"
"Several of the snappers were dangerous. Couldn't you see that they were about to start fighting?" He flipped his body to face the great swarm. They could both see the conflict in progress. Two fish picked on a smaller one at the edge of the group. "Worse for us, we have not adopted the colors of the snappers."
The scramble continued as the mixed school of snappers and goatfish grew closer to the school of goatfish. The snapper who was on the losing side had been driven out. Unlike the goatfish, a snapper did not feel safe on its own. That one needed to find a way back in.
The elder goatfish took pity. He turned toward the swarm of snappers.
As he closed in, two snappers charged to meet him. Whether they really meant to attack him or whether they intended to finish their battle with one of their own, in a moment they had no other target. The beaten snapper darted behind the goatfish. Only the elder fish remained, calm and relentless. His caudal fin stroked the waters evenly with no hesitation.
One of the snappers charged him. He did not dodge, which forced the attacker to veer to one side or else risk collision with a fish of equal strength and size. The second snapper charged a moment after. This one was smaller but it was quick and aggressive. The goatfish barely had time to turn his head so that the blow struck him on the gill cover, not on his ribcage or a fin.
He stared at the snapper. It was not a gaze of aggression. The snapper backed up to launch another attack. But it hesitated, confused. It was prepared for a sparring match. It wasn't ready for fearlessness and calm.
"Our mistake, friend," said the other aggressive snapper, the one who had charged first but veered off.
"Thank you, friend," said the goatfish.
All four of them rejoined their schools. The snappers darted quickly into their places. The elder goatfish took his time. His companion slowed to let him catch up to her. They swam side by side for a while near the outside of their school.
"Why didn't you fight back?" she asked him. "I don't understand what happened. When you didn't strike at them, why did the others stop attacking?"
"It does not always work that way," he drawled.
"That doesn't answer my question."
He kept up his pace. "Young one, do you think I am a goatfish?"
"Yes." But she paused to check for the barbs protruding from his chin. For a moment, he had seemed different.
"I don't feel that way." The movement of his caudal fin stayed strong and regular. "I belong to the race of peace keepers."
"Who are they?" She thought it sounded like a military order.
"We range all over the world. Those who don't know us think we belong to different schools and tribes. But we are the greatest tribe of all, the largest majority."
"That's not a tribe, then." It took her a long time to come to the conclusion. "Anyone can join."
"Yes. Anyone does. Eventually, I believe we will win over everyone."
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Not Even Not Zen 7: Secret Society
Secret Society
In we walk, to the to the shade and stale air,
leather boots, jacket, and black helmet for me,
red overalls for him, sitting up on my shoulder
in a jaunty way.
He throws himself forward, says “Bump!”
and pulls my hair for balance.
Only last year, when I came into this mall,
the shop owners kept an eye on me.
Boys leaned to one side; mothers raised eyebrows;
rent-a-cops scowled. Girls gave me odd glances,
making up their minds.
Now, none of that matters.
Even with the same clothes and grease,
the mothers smile. They seem so knowing
when my boy takes my helmet and hugs it
or takes the fruit pie out of my hand and says “Share?”
The rent-a-cops laugh when they walk by
and the little man hides behind my leg.
There is a secret society of baby owners,
a series of nods, winks, and grins others do not know.
I see it in a teen, a girl half my age
with a newborn, just a few weeks old.
My stare and smile reach her as the child struggles,
lifts its head, blue eyes open, strong baby,
and she beams back, somehow noticing
my gaze, my stupid mouth open
from eighty feet away across a crowded hall
because she is part of the society, too.
Mothers with strollers glance,
old women with carriages, too,
fathers with toddlers, grandfathers with grown children,
their children’s children, all gawk at my son
and he giggles, my passport to this shriven world.
He gives them the secret hand sign that admits us
through all the society’s doormen.
There, in the center of the mall, I catch myself for the first time
scrutinizing the faces of the other young creatures.
No one acts like I’m a kidnapper.
A black mother in denim catches me
studying her child and chuckles.
The Indian woman in the play area notices
and smiles despite two daughters pulling on her sleeves.
Desperate women in tight jeans and tired eyes smile.
Redneck pickup drivers in flannel shirts smile.
Only the old men in suits do not
and even them, sometimes,
when my boy gives them a secret sign
that I do not yet know.
What is it about these animals, our children,
that diminishes us, crumbles our suspicious exteriors,
our hunched shoulders, keys jutting from ready fists?
They are clumsy monkeys but they make us laugh.
They are proof of our membership in life’s hidden cause,
our big eyed, chubby fingered, running, stumbling,
drooling, shrieking, gurgling, half bald,
buddha-bellied, badly dressed
unwitting soldiers for peace.
In we walk, to the to the shade and stale air,
leather boots, jacket, and black helmet for me,
red overalls for him, sitting up on my shoulder
in a jaunty way.
He throws himself forward, says “Bump!”
and pulls my hair for balance.
Only last year, when I came into this mall,
the shop owners kept an eye on me.
Boys leaned to one side; mothers raised eyebrows;
rent-a-cops scowled. Girls gave me odd glances,
making up their minds.
Now, none of that matters.
Even with the same clothes and grease,
the mothers smile. They seem so knowing
when my boy takes my helmet and hugs it
or takes the fruit pie out of my hand and says “Share?”
The rent-a-cops laugh when they walk by
and the little man hides behind my leg.
There is a secret society of baby owners,
a series of nods, winks, and grins others do not know.
I see it in a teen, a girl half my age
with a newborn, just a few weeks old.
My stare and smile reach her as the child struggles,
lifts its head, blue eyes open, strong baby,
and she beams back, somehow noticing
my gaze, my stupid mouth open
from eighty feet away across a crowded hall
because she is part of the society, too.
Mothers with strollers glance,
old women with carriages, too,
fathers with toddlers, grandfathers with grown children,
their children’s children, all gawk at my son
and he giggles, my passport to this shriven world.
He gives them the secret hand sign that admits us
through all the society’s doormen.
There, in the center of the mall, I catch myself for the first time
scrutinizing the faces of the other young creatures.
No one acts like I’m a kidnapper.
A black mother in denim catches me
studying her child and chuckles.
The Indian woman in the play area notices
and smiles despite two daughters pulling on her sleeves.
Desperate women in tight jeans and tired eyes smile.
Redneck pickup drivers in flannel shirts smile.
Only the old men in suits do not
and even them, sometimes,
when my boy gives them a secret sign
that I do not yet know.
What is it about these animals, our children,
that diminishes us, crumbles our suspicious exteriors,
our hunched shoulders, keys jutting from ready fists?
They are clumsy monkeys but they make us laugh.
They are proof of our membership in life’s hidden cause,
our big eyed, chubby fingered, running, stumbling,
drooling, shrieking, gurgling, half bald,
buddha-bellied, badly dressed
unwitting soldiers for peace.
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