Yearning @ MindSay

We all sat silently reflecting upon what had so far transpired. I was fascinated. To me it seemed all so interesting! A full minute of silence went by, maybe more, yet no one appeared visibly uneasy. We regulars in the sangha had all grown comfortable with such silences. It had become part of our practice. I again raised my hands in gassho.

The master acknowledged me.

“Nonin,” I said, my voice thick and unsteady with entreaty, “you would not want Joe to cut off his arm as evidence of his commitment. If Joe cut off his arm and brought it to you as an offering you would be aghast. I know you! You’d say, Joe, what have you done, you moron! How stupid!”

The master listened calmly to my scenario. He seemed unimpressed. He remained silent for several seconds before he responded.

“No,” the master replied contemplatively, “I don’t know how I would respond.”

The master and I looked over at Joe sitting directly across our semicircle from me. Joe returned our gaze, blankly, and then looked down at his hands resting in his lap in the mudra.

Joe remained silent.

“You mean cut off his arm as a metaphor,” I said. “As metaphor it makes sense.”

The master thought about this.

“Kyoki cut off her arm,” he said. Kyoki was the master’s first and so far only dharma heir.

“Metaphorically you mean,” I said.

“Kyoki cut off her arm!” the master repeated.

It was clear that this was the master’s final statement on the matter. I understood that the master would make no concession to metaphor.

I was silent.

We all were. We all understood that Kyoki had given up her life, that is, the way she had previously lived, to study with the master. In that sense, yes, she had given everything, I could acknowledge. But all of us who were present knew that she had not cut off her arm. From his cushion the master gazed out over our small assembly to see if there were more questions.

There were none.

I didn't press the matter. The master was immovable, adamant, stubborn, defiant, in the mode I would call borderline insulting. One more question and the master, I felt sure, would call it or me or both stupid.

Had Kyoki cut off her arm?

No, not if my language meant anything at all. But perhaps the master intended to break the language or somehow to demonstrate its limits.

I was hung up.

Kyoki had given up everything for the teaching, yes, she had. Had she cut off her arm?

No.

It was all so interesting. I wanted to ask the master about the medieval Christian monks who had castrated themselves for God but the time wasn't right.

The Dharma Talk was over.

The master placed his palms in gassho, I struck the big rin, the keisu—gatsu!—and we all recited the simple eko and the four Vows of the Bodhisattva. In front of the main altar the master offered three full prostrations as we watched. I rang the inkin and we all bowed in shashu and I rang the inkin and we all bowed once more as the master left the room.

We brushed grit and the hair of the Temple cat and dog from our zabutons and we fluffed our zafus and stacked both mats and cushions neatly in their assigned spot in the corner of the Buddha Hall. The shoten had prepared the pastry, tea, and coffee which waited for us now in the kitchen. As we strolled to the rolls and doughnuts Joe pulled me gently to the side. He grinned and, feigning confidentiality, his eyes twinkled.

“Why did you have to choose my arm as your example?”

We laughed.

Over our pastry and beverages we made small talk of Christmas and Christian prejudice and in general of holy days and their observance.

That afternoon I received an email from Esther.

"I admit I was too chicken to speak up after the way the master responded to you,” Esther wrote. “Neither did I understand how cutting off an arm proved that the monk had the right stuff to study under the teacher. Huiko, though, certainly did get his attention! But the master never did explain in what way Kyoki had cut off her arm yet the master also said that the cutting off of her arm was not symbolic."

In my three years at the temple I had heard more than a few people say that because they felt intimidated by the master they had not said or not asked what they had wanted to say or ask. More than once the master had let me know that he himself knew this was true. Yet the master seemed to interpret their intimidation as a sign of weakness on their part; and it seemed to me that often the master’s response to such weakness was increased contempt. When I got home from the Temple I sat down at my computer and recorded my thoughts of what had just transpired.

Had Kyoki cut off her arm?

No!

A thousand times no!

But still I had learned, as I always did, from the master’s answers.

Every Tuesday I served as doan at evening zazen and every Tuesday night we ended zazen by chanting the Fukanzazengi, the Universally Recommended Instructions for Zazen. Near the beginning of the text is this passage:

“Therefore put aside the intellectual practice of investigating words and chasing phrases and learn to take the backward step that turns the light and shines it inward.”

Then—just a few lines further on—this:

“Put aside all involvements and suspend all affairs. Do not think good or bad. Do not judge true or false. Give up the operations of mind, intellect, and consciousness. Stop measuring with thoughts, ideas, and views.”

I'm not dealing so well with these memories right now.  It's only in the early hours of the A.M. does my brain get flooded by it all.  Memories of my mother...memories of my other family...

I sit here looking at the pictures...wish I was with them...wish I understood my own emotions.  Wish I could just hug them...hold them...

I imagine going back to WC and it all being the same...but I know that it won't be...it's never going to be the same way again.  Life does go on and we can't change that.  It's just that, sometimes, it's hard to accept that cruel reality.

It's like I've lost more than my mother...it's like there's more than her presence that's missing.  It's almost as if I can't even feel her anymore.  And it's different...not having her around...I can't just call her up on her cell and ask her for advice anymore.  I can't just lay in her lap late at night watching tv...not speaking...just the feel of her hand on my head.

As if missing her isn't hard enough...I miss my T Money...and my Tigger Pounces....and my Rachel Fabulousness like shwoah...and my Jess Diva Moments...and UNINHIBITED A time....and Singles Awareness....and even Sequal giddy emo moments.....hell...I'd kill to write a paper for DeVenney....

Too many emotions to sort out...too many memories...too much.....

On one hand...my "project" is helping me because it gets me to write out my story...write out my thoughts...

On the other hand however, is it hurting me?  I'm writing fiction...so, it's not all based upon my life, obviously.  There's chapters and scenes, already written, that I wish could be real...to paint a picture in reality in shades so brilliant that no one could ignore them.....

There's chapters and scenes, yet to be written, that swirl around in my head...I try to paint them with the same colors...but they just turn out to be surreal...unwilling ghosts and apparitions in the dark night that only fade away come morning. 

The feelings I've tried so hard to forget about...for that certain someone (and to those of you who know the story..no, it's not F***face from a certain 3rd floor)....the feelings just keep coming back with the memories...

And I have yet to sort it out...maybe I am just trying to make up for something....just trying to fill in these empty spaces, these black holes and voids that have been suddenly created in my life.  Then again...maybe it's more than that.

 

Yes, I AM still afraid to be who I really am.  I'm afraid to unleash that person here...where that person is hated.  It's like a forced repression...there's nothing I can do...safely anyway.  And it's so sad that it has to be that way.  Why can't we all just simply be accepted for who we are?  Why can't we just be ourselves? 

Is it because society has trained us to hate ourselves?  Is it because Americans are so damn hypocritical?

 

I saw "The Lake House" the other night with A...and towards the end...when all the strife and hardship comes (like in all love stories) one name kept resounding through my head.  And while the movie's plot in itself didn't do anything for my tear ducts...the thought of that name and the person it represents (paired with the soundtrack and circumstances) did make me tear up...I held back though.....I've trained myself to hold back.  I know I shouldn't...but...ugh.......I just feel so stupid and weak......

 

I feel like my life's at a standstill....everyone else keeps going...keeps moving.  All I want to do is run.  Run to the ends of the earth and back....take the numbness away...take it from my body, my heart.....

 

Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings"...if music could be a car....I'd chose this one to take me away from all this....

 

Happy frickin' birthday ravenscry......