The little paper bag

A little paper bag was feeling unwell, so he took himself off to the doctors.
"Doctor, I don't feel too good," said the little paper bag.
"Hmm, you look OK to me," said the Doctor, "but I'll do a blood test and see what that shows, come back and see me in a couple of days."

The little paper bag felt no better when he got back for the results. "What's wrong with me?" asked the little paper bag.
"I'm afraid you are HIV positive!" said the doctor.
"No, I can't be - I'm just a little paper bag!" said the little paper bag.
"Have you been having unprotected sex ?" asked the doctor.
"NO, I can't do things like that - I'm just a little paper bag!"
"Well have you been sharing needles with other intravenous drug users?" asked the doctor.
"NO, I can't do things like that - I'm just a little paper bag!"
"Perhaps you've been abroad recently and required a jab or a blood transfusion?" queried the doctor.
"NO, I don't have a passport - I'm just a little paper bag!"
"Well", said the doctor, "are you in a homosexual relationship?"
"NO! I told you I can't do things like that, I'm just a little paper bag!"
"Then there can be only one explanation." said the doctor...
[wait for it]....[waaaaait]..."Your mother must have been a carrier"

A drinking club with a running problem

On Friday my roommate talked me into hashing with him. No, that didn't involve a pipe or rolling papers. A hash is sort of like a race in which you must follow clues laid out beforehand in order to get to the end, which is always a pub where there is free-flowing beer and pizza. Hash clubs have Hashes weekly or biweekly for the purposes of exercise, socializing and drinking.

I met my roommate at 7:00 at night on the corner of 96th and Central Park West for the annual flashlight hash. After the requisite bitch slapping to determine which of us was going to use the fancy flashlight flashlight (the flashlight was mine, but the idea for the hash was his) he snarkily informed me that the race was actually 5 miles, not the 2 miles he had initially told me. Since it has been quite a while since I have done any cardio excercise, I knew it would be painful. About 30 or so people showed up and the organizer called for all the "virgins" so that he could explain to us what the different clues meant, so that we could navigate our way through the race. There were check marks, chalked arrows on pavement, toilet paper wrapped around trees, ketchup (organic, we were told) arrows in the snow, etc.

The organizer pointed us in the direction of the first clue and we all began running, directly into Central Park, with our flashlights lighting our way. Through the fields, over the hills, in the tunnels, under the bridge, we ran, looking for marks indicating the way to the next check point. Every time we would reach a check point the trail would stop, and we would have to send people in all directions to pick up the trail. The trail was picked up after finding 3 consecutive clues in any direction. The person who found them would shout, "found 1," "found 2," and finally "found 3!!" and then everyone would abandon their own searches and follow him to the next check point. The most colorful clue along the race was a mark "YBF" chalked on a pavement meaning You've Been Fucked, which would indicate that all the clues we had been following since the last check point were incorrect and we all had to go back to the last check point and look again for the correct direction.

About halfway through the race I got really tired running through snow covered hills, stairs, and icy paths in my sleek, fashionable and now soaked pumas. My calf muscles were giving me a sharp pain with every step I took and I really wanted to stop. Luckily, the group invariably slowed down at ever check point to look for where the trail would pick back up, and I used these opportunities to rest.

The race took us through Central Park, up into Harlem, up an impossibly long and icy staircase in Morningside park, through the campus of Columbia, over to Riverside park, and finally ending up in a beer joint on Broadway and 132nd, where there was an open bar of about 30 different beers on tap. Pizza was ordered and songs were sung. Participants were roasted and one was made to drink beer from a sneaker. The two "virgins", myself and another girl, were brought up and everyone sang dirty and slightly insulting songs to us while we chugged beer. My roommate had tripped somewhere along the race, so he had to come up and take a heap of abuse from everyone while he chugged beer.

All in all, it was fun, especially the beer part. It was a really great way to socialize with people you've never met before with no agenda other than to have fun. I need to get back in shape with running. I really liked it and want to do it again.

Blogging

When I returned from Florida, I found myself in the very bar in NYC that Brittle Ego Boy was performing at. (Remember him? My nemesis-turned-paper-dragon mentioned in an early December post) Not surprising, really, as I knew he would be there, but I was meeting a friend there before we would then chose a dining spot and it was a convenient location. The bartender that was working that room that evening was also a close friend of mine whom I hadn't seen for a couple months. As I sat down to wait for my dinner companion to arrive, he served me my usual and then turned to me, eyes wide open and exclaimed: "Oh! My! God! I read your blog post about Brittle Ego Boy!" (Brittle Ego Boy is singing in the backround as he says this.) Honestly, when I was writing that post, I had forgotten that my bartender friend is a consistent reader of my blog. He is also friendly with Brittle Ego Boy, perhaps even friends with him, and of course works with BEB every week. My friendly bartender continues, still wide-eyed and excited. "I wanted to print out your blog entry and post it in the employee area!!" Oh shit. This is the price for putting my life out on the blogosphere.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am aware that I really can't control who reads this blog; it's a public forum. But I also keep this blog anonymous, meaning that unless you know who I am before you come to this blog, you won't be able to easily figure out my identity by reading any of the entries. That's why I use nicknames or vague descriptors for friend and foe alike. I also don't use this blog with any kind of agenda, or to cause harm. I generally am aware of which of my friends and family read this, and I don't use it as a forum to manipulate anyone. I am always honest, even at the expense of showing my flaws and faults. My intent upon keeping the blog initially was as a place to collect my travelogues. Before that I sent them out via email to about 20 friends that had expressed interest in my wanderings. But it has grown beyond being a collection of travelogues into a personal journal, a practice in creative writing, and a place I collect information and pictures, so that I too will be able to read this in 5 or 10 years, much like looking at a photo album of my life, and remember what I was thinking, and some of my thoughts, attitudes, observations and experiences. But, having such a journal available to anyone can be complicated, and can backfire. Now, as far as having my bartender friend tape up my blog entry about Brittle Ego Boy in a place where he and all the people he worked with would see it, well it was a kind of funny idea, but it would have complicated my relationships with the people in Florida that had worked with BEB. My friend decided to be prudent and not print out my entry for all to read, and I appreciate that. Ultimately, however, I stand by everything I say in this blog, regardless of who reads it or what wall it is tacked up upon.

Oooopps!

I was on the downtown A train, going local, headed to see my friend that lives in midtown east for our monthly dinner and catching up, when a Chinese man of about 24 comes on the train at 110th St, with his bicycle. The bicycle looked like it had been spray painted a dark charcoal gray and had been reinforced with a steel pipe that was wrapped around the top bar with a lot of electrical tape. It was clearly a bike that had seen a lot of use, and as ugly as it was, I suspect it was a really solid bike that had given it's owner solid service for many years. As the man situated his bike on the train he decided to chain it to the vertical steel pole on the train with a massive steel chain secured by an industrial padlock, a setup that only professional delivery people in NYC seem to get a hold of. He sat down next to his bike for about 30 seconds and then stood back up and started taking off the front wheel of the bike. The man then undid his rear bike wheel, and freed it from the chain, so that he had both wheels in his hand. I was listening to some music I was trying to memorize on my headsets, but I could tell something wasn't quite right, as this guy quickly disassembled his bike. I turned off my music to eavesdrop on the conversation that the man was now having with the stranger that he had sat next to for half a minute. It turns out that after he locked the bike to the post, he realized that the only key he had for the massive padlock had fallen off the string on his wrist (still wrapped around his wrist) where he kept it. He immediately realized that he would have to abandon the bike, as there really was no way to get the bike off the steel post. Perhaps he was an illegal alien and did not want to involve the authorities, or perhaps he realized it was time to replace the bike. I don't know, but it struck me as tragic as he left the train at 72nd Street, two wheels in hand, leaving the abandoned bike behind. One of the other things that struck me was how quickly he had accepted the fact that he would have to leave the bike behind. As soon as he had realized what he had done his reaction was immediate: save the wheels and get off the train. No regret, no remorse, no anger. An interesting NY moment.

Learning songs

I played piano bars for years convinced that I was the one piano player that could and would never be able to memorize my songs. When I got into dueling, that shit didn't fly, so it was either figure it out or not do DP. So, for what it's worth, here's how I learn a song:

1. I have a playlist on my iPod of every song I want to eventually learn (currently there are 140 songs). I listen to this play list on shuffle whenever I have time.

2. When I have time to sit down and begin learning a new song I do a few things. First, I pick a song that I've been listening to for at least a couple months and have become familiar with. Since there are so many songs I need to know, i stick with the ones I generally like. Then, I look up the song on Wikipedia, to get any background or history I might want to know...i.e., who originally wrote it, who did the definitive version, when did it make the charts, will it be useful over in Europe, who has remade it recently, what movies was it in, etc. etc. etc.

3. d/l or type a lyric sheet with space between each line. If it's not a core song, I sometimes choose to shortcut and only memorize 2 verses since I generally want a three minute arrangement anyway.

4. Go to a website with chords, such as ultimate-guitar.com and get the (best rated) chord chart for that song. It will almost always be either wrong or too simplistic for professional use, but it's something to reference when working out the correct chords. Since I was not gifted with a particularly exceptional ear, doing this saves me time. I always notate the groove and tempo on my charts and I notate if there are solos or particular licks that will be important. The intro will be of particular interest.

5. Once I have a functional lead sheet, I carry it with me for a few days. Whenever I have a free couple of minutes, work on memorizing it. I usually have 3-5 songs I'm working on at any given time. The thing that helped me immensely in memorizing lyrics was doing idea associations between the lines. (Check out the Memory Book by Lorayne and Lucas. It's well worth the time.)

6. Once I have the lyrics 70-90% memorized, I practice the song at the piano at least once every day, for maybe a week, or if it's complex, much more.

Multitasking

New Years Day I was returning to New York on the train with 3 other friends from the retreat. 5 minutes before we were pulling into the train station where we had to catch our connecting train, I got a call from my best friend and roommate who was stranded in an airport in Ecuador and needed me to call American Airlines and straighten it out for him. Knowing that he is on a cell phone and paying $2 a minute for this call I frantically search for pen and paper to write down his confirmation number. My friends are handing me pens, and of course the first two don't work. Finally, I have a pencil and a tiny post-it note that already is full of writing. I copy his info in the only unused corner of this ragged, sorry excuse for a note paper, using my damp, cupped hand as a writing surface, and then hang up to call AA.

As I get a snippy AA woman on the phone the train pulls into the station. One of my friends grabs my luggage while another leads me out the door as I try to explain to this woman that my roommate is stranded in an airport and the American Airlines people aren't rebooking him until tomorrow. She wants to know why they won't let him on the plane, because according to her computer, the plane is at the airport, not scheduled to depart for 35 more minutes. Of course I don't have this information. Meanwhile I have walked over an 8 foot metal scaffolding structure that bridges the sizable gap between train and platform. I see a local news crew on the platform, about 10 feet away from me, doing a story. Meanwhile, in my ear, the American Airlines agent is acting very put out by my request, telling me she needs to know why they won't let my roommate on the plane, before she will even attempt to find another flight. So I hang up and wait for him to call me back with more info. He calls back immediately, and I ask him why he can't get onto the plane as it won't depart for another half-hour. As he begins his answer, the train pulls away.

I was about 7 feet away from the metal scaffolding type bridge that I had just crossed to get to the platform, and the news crew was about 15 feet away but on the other side of it. As the train pulls away this two-ton metal structure is ripped off the platform by the departing train, flipped up in the air and lands on the track behind the train, only a few feet from me. The news crew immediately swings their camera around and gets a good shot of the structure, now lying on it's side, and then proceeds to interview, on camera, my three friends. Back in my ear, my roommate is trying to tell me that the gate agents in Ecuador closed the flight, stating that he should have arrived 2 hours prior, and they are not letting anyone on. He gets cut off. I redial American Airlines as my friends are now leading me to another platform to catch the connecting train that has now been rerouted to another track. When the second AA agent gets on the phone, my story has now become, "My son is stranded in an airport in South America and he needs to get back to the US today to take his medicine!" This agent was actually helpful. As she is searching for another way to get him back, he rings back on call waiting from Ecuador just as my connecting train pulls into the station. I am trying to merge the calls as my friends lead me onto our train and find us a seat. I let them stow my bags as I have now successfully merged the two phone calls and am introducing the two people on the phone to each other: "Stranded Son, this is Henrietta, Helpful Agent. Henrietta, Helpful Agent, this is Stranded Son." As I am trying to come up with creative ways to repatriate my medicinally deprived son the train leaves the station with the news crew still visible from the window of the train. One of my traveling companions indicates that I need to get my ticket out. I reach into my wallet, my tiny cell phone wedged impossibly between my cheek and left shoulder, retrieve my ticket, hand it to my friend who then hands it to the conductor. (Yeah, I was THAT guy!).

Finally all the tasks of transferring trains and the tasks of dealing with my stranded friend come to an end at about the same time. I hang up the phone, thank my traveling companions seated next to me, and ask them about the news crew. I was told there had been a fire at the train station the day before and the news crew was there interviewing passengers to see if people felt safe with this mode of travel, when the 2-ton metal scaffolding was ripped off it's mooring, and careened past my fragile head. Nice.

Peggy - Zen Retreat, part 8

As we returned to our cushions to begin the service for Peggy I began to quietly cry. I didn't know Peggy at all, but i suspect that being so close to any death brings out feelings with every other death you've ever experienced. At that point I was so open after having experienced a week of meditation and the beautiful New Years Eve service and celebration that there really wasn't anything stopping my feelings from coming through. Roshi began by speaking, addressing her comments to Peggy. At one point she let out a loud wail that was part of the ceremony (we had a memorial service the year before and she did the same thing at the same time). The ceremony involved a lot of different chanting and then once again everyone formed two lines, but this time we headed to the alter where two by two we each burned incense.

While the bass drum beat out its' complex sycopation, we all chanted:

KAN ZE ON
NA MU BUTSU
YO BUTSU U IN
YO BUTSU U EN
BUP PO SO EN
JO RAKU GA JO
CHO NEN KAN ZE ON
BO NEN KAN ZE ON
NEN NEN JU SHIN KI
NEN NEN FU RI SHIN.

The chanting started out subdued, but in each subsequent chorus there was a little more energy in the chant.

After everyone had burned incense and returned to their cushion, the service was ended. Someone placed Peggy's meditation bench on the floor along with a bud vase with a single flowering branch. We then made a circle around it and began to share. With the exception of "Charlie", no one single person seemed to know Peggy all that much, yet so many people had very vivid memories of exchanges they had with Peggy, strangely enough, many of them in elevators with Peggy holding on the person's arm and intensely engaging them with her eyes. As people shared their individual stories, a vivid picture of the person that Peggy was began to materialize in the circle. I heard one person later sum her up as "old school, New York salty ex-nun...you would have loved her!" Charlie shared that he had known Peggy for over a year and Peggy had been given 6 months by her doctors over 2 years ago. She would tell anyone who would listen about how she was cheating death. She also used to tell Charlie that she wanted to die in the Zendo on her cushion, and that she wanted Charlie to be there when she did.

The empty bench stood as a silent witness to all of this, and as a powerful statement of the immediacy of life.

I have never before experienced a funeral service for someone who had died only 1 hour before. I guess very few people have. It was so real and connected. But more than that, I have never witnessed nor have I ever heard of a more beautiful death. Girlfriend knew how to make an exit!

New Years Eve (cont.) - Zen Retreat part 7

After the "Carol of the Bells" died away we were allowed to stretch and then once again resumed our sitting. There was a large bowl shaped bell that was brought to the center of the Zendo and as we were sitting in silence someone rang the bell. It was a profound and resonant note, rich with overtones and a slow beat frequency (sorry, always the engineer) towards the finish, belying the great mass of metal and the mindful craftsmanship with which it was made. It took about 8 seconds for the sound to die away, only to be rung again. After about 20 strikes of the bell, the ringer gradually speed up to a rhythm of one strike every 6-7 seconds which he maintained for the remaining rings. Each strike of this bell seemed to reverberate through every cell of my body. It was a time of connection and thoughtlessness for me that seemed to go on and on. The bell was rung 108 times before it was done. Apparently this is a significant number, although I couldn't begin to explain why. It is really impossible to articulate the experience to anyone who wasn't present. It was as though I was one with the sound, and it flowed through me, rather than me merely observing it. That, of course, was the point, I'm sure. The Buddhists believe that everything is connected, and when we become completely silent, only then do we begin to realize this fact. I have no idea if that is true, but perhaps I caught a glimpse in that direction.

After the bell was rung 108 times, we all got an opportunity, presumably for the first time in 6 days, to speak. Every one of us was given 60 seconds to share something significant about their experience of this Seshin (retreat). This is called "open Sozan." Common themes shared were gratitude, struggle, back pain, realization, awe and simplicity. There was a woman who had been sitting across from me all week who I came to learn was named Peggy. She was a short, white-haired pink-faced Irish lady who had been wearing a bright white zippered jacket the entire week. The color of the jacket isn't really significant except that all of the rest of us were wearing dark colors, mostly black, and so the white coat really stuck out. When it came her turn to share, she said that after sitting the entire week her experience was life changing. She said that she wouldn't be the same person as the one who drove up. "I have to grieve the person I was and greet the person I will become." I remember hoping that the person she would become involved dark-colored clothing.

We then all got a chance to ring the great bell with our New Year's vow. We formed a line to go up to the bell, chanting a New Years Dharani in Sanskit: Namu to nen jo hon myo ganshin! Namu to nen jo hon myo ganshin! over and over as the bass drum thrummed out a complex rhythm while we slowly filed up to the great bell and individually rang it. As this was going on, a commotion occurred. One of the monitors entered the zendo and and ran over to someone and grabbed them by the wrist and dragged them quickly out of the zendo. No one runs in a Zendo, let alone physically removes someone! I looked at Roshi, the abbot, who was at the front of the room, yet she gave no clue as to what was happening, and we all continued our chanting and ringing. When the last person rang the bell, and everyone returned to their cushions Roshi announced that Peggy was having chest pains and that an ambulance had been called. Since the hallway outside the Zendo needed to be kept clear for the medics we should all move directly into the adjoining room where a New Years Eve party had been planned. In spite of the emergency that was going a few yards away from us, everyone was mingling, eating and talking as this was the first time in a week or so that we could chat with each other. After 45 minutes a nice buzz of energy had built up in the room when Roshi came in and asked us to gather 'round. "Expect the worst," she said. She told us that Peggy had died at the hospital, and asked us to file back into the Zendo where would would immediately hold a funeral service for her. "I have to grieve the person I was and greet the person I will become." had been Peggy's last words in open Sozan an hour before her funeral.

Guess who I saw today, my dear.

WARSAW (Reuters) - A Polish man got the shock of his life when he visited a brothel and spotted his wife among the establishment's employees.

Polish tabloid Super Express said the woman had been making some extra money on the side while telling her husband she worked at a store in a nearby town.

"I was dumfounded. I thought I was dreaming," the husband told the newspaper on Wednesday.

The couple, married for 14 years, are now divorcing, the newspaper reported.

(Writing by Chris Borowski, Editing by Matthew Jones)

© Thomson Reuters 2009 All rights reserved

New Years Eve - Zen Retreat part 6

By the time the final night of the retreat had arrived we had all been through so much. We struggled both physically and mentally, we dealt with back pain, frustration, feelings of inadequacy, battling the urge to run, discomfort. Some of us had epiphanies and moments of supreme connection we had never before realized. I had a 30 minute zazen period where I had such creative energy come through me that I had to return to my room and write down some of the ideas down before I forgot them. Much of the blogging that I've done about this retreat came out of that zazen period. Some of us had life-changing moments on our little square 3' x 2' zabuton cushions all alone and yet surrounded by others that were having their own epiphanies and battling their demons in the loneliness of their zabutons, surrounded by the rest of us. And all of this roiled beneath the veneer of silence and tranquility that is 60 Buddhas sitting silently in a Zendo.

The final night began with a period of zazen. We didn't know what to expect. After we had been sitting for about 15 minutes in complete silence, we heard the haunting sounds of a Japanese chakuhachi emerge from the front of the Zendo. The first note began so softly that it seemed to just insinuate itself into my consciousness. I closed my eyes and drank in the mournful sounds of this lovely bamboo instrument, with it's pitches bending wildly, wielded by a musician that understood it's power to speak, and from the music he played, I clearly knew he had been on the same retreat as I had, and walked the same stark morning kinhin walk that I did. As he is playing, the wind outside the building is intermittently howling and rattling the windows. After 7 minutes or so, he ends his moving concierto as quietly as he began.

Again we sit. There is nothing but the wind outside the strong cinderblock walls of our building. And then maybe 5 minutes we hear the single "ding" of the hanging bronze umpan plate. It is a clear resonant sound that is allowed to die off. Silence.

Ten seconds pass and then from another direction we hear a metal gong being struck. It's sound is lower than that of the umpan and is also allowed to fade away into silence.

Then we hear a the hollow high pitched "tuk!" of an wooden block from the same direction.

Silence.

A small bell is rung in another direction. It's sound dies away. There is silence. We hear the wind outside.

From somewhere else the low, quick thump of a hokku or bass drum breaks the silence. No wind this time, just silence.

I wonder what the next sound will be and where it will come from.

A more sonorous larger bell from yet another corner of the zendo speaks it's deep voice before dying off into silence.

Then it all begins again, and each silence is imperceptibly shorter. And shorter again. This carol of the bells slowly picks up speed spinning clockwise around the room as each sound comes faster and faster. I notice my body begin to sway. Soon a frenzied carousel of percussion and resonance dances wildly around and through us. And then when all the sounds are piling up on top of each other it abruptly stops.

Silence.

The silence becomes louder and has a resonance of its own.

"Ding ))))))))))" from the bronze umpan.

And it's done.

Morning kinhin - Zen Retreat part 5 -- (read parts in forward numerical order)

As I had mentioned in part 1 of these Zen Retreat posts, there would be a single defining event that would occur on the very last full day of this retreat that not one person would have ever anticipated, and that would change all of us forever. Well, perhaps that's not entirely accurate. There was one person that could have had a vague idea of the events to come, but I can't be entirely sure, and besides, I am getting way ahead of myself.

After retrieving my pants and bundling up, I joined the outside walking meditation line. The retreat center that the Zen group had rented out was run by Catholic nuns and was situated on a very nice campus that was surrounded by woods and streams and fields. There were houses in the neighborhood of the center, to be sure, but most were on large plots of land and nestled in and around the natural elements rather and were rather unobtrusive and almost part of the natural setting. On a sunny spring day, this would be the most inviting and idyllic New England setting. We walked off the property and onto the back country road well before the sun had even thought of coming up. Even in this darkness the you could see a dark ominous glow from the low-hanging thick cloud cover if you bothered to look up. On both sides of the narrow and hilly road, the land was thick with tall barren trees reaching out with leafless branches rattling from the cold winds gusting without apology through the skeletal forest. Some of the few remaining dead leaves would blow along the road, as if to accentuate the loneliness. Our boots crunched through isolated patches of ice and snow as we climbed a steep hill. As the icy wind stung my skin, I looked at the collection of sleeping trees and thought about how it would be to be a traveler through this very place in the days before any civilized structures were ever built here. It would be an easy place to die. It was a beautiful walk.

Later that day one of the Zen teachers commented about how wonderfully unapologetic nature is. Even in the deadness of winter, with the trees bare and the winds howling and hurtful, there is beauty in the starkness. Nature doesn't come with signs saying, "Pardon our appearance, we are redecorating for the spring." Oh, no. It is what it is. And that was the lesson.

Mindfulness - Zen Retreat part 4

Am I the only weirdo that had frequent dreams about being naked in public? This is how the dream usually goes: I'm on a crowded school bus, or in the last one at the piano on a large stage with 400 people in the audience, when I realize that I forgot to put my pants on. In some dreams I'm wearing underwear and in some I'm not even wearing that. Here's the twist: Nobody has noticed it yet but me and I have to figure a way of standing up and getting off the school bus/stage without anyone noticing that I don't have any pants on!

So here I am at the retreat, presumable practicing mindfulness at every turn. Mindful meditation, mindful walking, mindful dish washing, mindful bathing, mindful scratching of my privates...you get the point. Except I was not really completely committed to this retreat, as you may have already figured out from my previous blog entries. I was checking my email daily, attempting to memorize and learn an Oasis song (Don't Look Back in Anger) and a song by the Blues Traveler (Run Around), not looking at the floor while I was walking, reading my novel at night, and daily phone calls to my BF, all of which were expressly forbidden. So, for me, I wasn't taking the medicine exactly as prescribed. And I really cheated myself out of something. Don't get me wrong, I had wonderful Zazens (the act of seated meditation) and most definitely deepened my practice of meditation throughout the week, but the first three days of my retreat was more a collection of lots of separate Zazen periods, rather than one contiguous silent journey. After the Shuso pointedly pointed out the rules to me (mentioned in a previous post) I came to realize that I really was not fully invested in this retreat and I did change how I approached the entire thing after 3 days. But before that happened...

I woke one morning at the requisite 5:15am (who DOES that??!) and put on my thermal underwear, since I knew that we were scheduled to do outside meditation and it was about 20 deg F. I washed my face, brushed my teeth and put my eyes in. I ran down to the coffee room to jump start my heart with the necessary dose of caffeine before heading into the Zendo for our first morning Zazen. I shed my flip flops outside the door, and walked into the zendo towards the square cushion that I had been assigned to all week. I bowed to the cushion and then to the people sitting opposite me. I sat down on the little 6" high bench I was using and as I was adjusting my legs I realized that I forgot to put on my pants. I was only wearing thermal underwear. So here I was, in a crowded room, the bell had just been rung beginning the period and I realized I was trapped in my underwear in the middle of 60 people that hadn't yet noticed. (Remember, everyone is supposed to be looking at the floor). After an initial moment of horror, and assessing if you could see the outline of my dick through the underwear (you could), I realized there was only one thing I could do...just sit. So I sat. Roshi, the abbot and senior Zen master (mistress?) came around for her morning "inspection", which involves her walking through the four columns of sitting meditators, looking at each one and simply recognizing that we are present. The lights are always very low in the zendo and because it was the predawn hours, there was no sun yet. So because of the low light and the dark color of my long underwear, I somehow managed to pass muster. And amazingly I had a nice peaceful zazen period for the next 30 minutes until the bell was rung and the Jikido intoned the words "Prepare for outside Kinhin (walking meditation)." I knew there was no way I was going to do outside walking meditation in underwear, dark or not, because it was windy and cold. So I quickly exited the Zendo with all the other participants and run up the 4 flights of stairs to my little monk's cell where I found my pants patiently waiting for me. I put on the damn pants, went back downstairs and grabbed my jacket and scarf and managed to join the line just as everyone was moving, wondering if anyone had noticed my nakedness.

[note: Several of my readers have asked me if this was a dream. The answer is, no. It really happened like this.]

Back in the Pit - Zen Retreat part 3

In addition to the specific tasks assigned to us in samu we were all asigned daily tasks. Mine was dinner clean up. It was alright. The group leader was a cute young gay guy who sort of rubbed me the wrong way a couple times because he acted more like a supervisor than a team member. (Truth be told I think I would handled it the same way.) He kept his hair cut very close to his head in the self depriciating way of Buddhist monks the world over who are not concerned with outward appearance and fashion, but bless his gay little heart, he just couldn't help himself. He had the lovliest Prada glasses accessorizing his humble haircut and formless meditation robe. Since he was kind of hot, many sins could be forgiven.

Anyway the third day of dinner duty I found myself in the pit, that is, in restaurant speak, loading dirty dishes in a tray, hosing them off and sending them through an industrial dish washer. The last time I was in this spot was when I was 15 and worked at a restaurant near my childhood home. I was a dishwasher for two years before getting the dubious promotion to bus boy. Anyway it all came flooding back to me and pretty soon my hands were moving faster than a Buddhist running for the doors in a slaughter house. I was doing 4 things at once, loading and hosing down dishes just as soon as they came in. I kicked out the other guy that was back in the pit with me as he was slowing me down and asked him to help the 2 people drying dishes who couldn't possibly keep up with me. I was 15 again back at the Olde Mill Stream Inn and I was flying! Soon the (now 3) dish drying people are impossibly backed up. I'm in full dinner rush mode, washing all the cups, glasses, dishes, dessert plates and silverware for 60 vegitarians in minutes while the beautiful Bohdisattvas on my drying crew were wiping each little drop of dharma (individually, it seemed to me) on every clean plate and glass that flew out of my industrious dish washing factory, no doubt getting closer and closer to acheiving enlightment with every mindful swipe of the dish rag.

I so missed the point!

Karma - Zen Retreat, part 2

I arrived at the retreat with my body on my usual late night schedule. So when we had to turn out our lights at 9:30pm I fell asleep quickly but woke up a couple of hours later, wide awake. I laid on my bed for most of the night, not sleeping until finally falling asleep around 3:30 only to have my roommate's alarm wake me at 4:45am, a full half hour before we were required to get up. Meditating is virtually impossible when you are that sleep deprived, so in order to rectify this I took the two hours after breakfast (8:30-10:30) to sleep. Now our official retreat (called "Seshin") schedule called for Samu practice during this time. Now Samu is an opportunity to continue and extend your mindful meditation practice in a "work practice." So when you are mopping the floor you are doing so in a mindful and meditative way thus deepening your practice and your understanding of the Buddha Dharma. Ok, that's nice, now here are my thoughts. Some swindling Bodhisattva came up with this crock of steaming horseshit because he couldn't cook and hated to do the dishes. Regardless, it was expected that all the attendees show up for Samu each day and I didn't. In fact, it took me two days of sleeping through Samu in order to get on this ridiculous daytime schedule. So when I finally went to Samu the third day, well rested with a full 8 hours of sleep, I entered with not a little trepidation, wondering if I had been missed.

Work practice begins. After legitimizing this swindle with an appropriate amount of chanting and bowing, the job assignments are given by the Shuso (the same guy I wrote about in the last post.) Now, I don't believe I can read minds, and I truly don't know if I was specifically missed or not, but as soon as the very first job assignment was given, I knew as well as any Buddha can know anything, which assignment I would be given. It took him awhile to get down his list, and once he got to the mundane cleaning jobs he would say, I need someone to polish the doorhandles on all the doors, and would ask for volunteers or might simply choose among the remaining people. But as soon as he said scrubbing toilets there was not an instant of hesitation before he pointed to me.

I bowed deeply and set about my noble task.

They Beat Us - Zen retreat, part 1

They beat us. Those Zen bitches beat us with a fucking stick!! The monitors walk behind us and literally whack us on our shoulders while we are trying to meditate.

Ok, while entirely true, it doesn't really explain what's happening. We generally do 3 half hour seated meditations interspersed with 2 walking meditations at each session. Many times by the middle of the second half hour you are sleepy (a form of resistance, I am told). It's around this time that one of the monitors walks ever so slowly behind the meditators, sometimes sliding his feet so you may know he is approaching. In his hands he carries an "encouraging stick" or kyosaku. If you choose, and only if you choose, you place your hands together (as though in prayer) as the monitor comes towards you. This indicates to him that you wish to get hit. I have done this several times to help jolt me awake. As you sense him directly behind (and above) you, you both bow. Then you tilt your head exposing your neck and shoulder. He may move the collar of your shirt or robe to cover your bare skin. Then he hits you. Hard. You repeat this on the opposite side. After you have been good and truly beaten, you put your hands together again and bow indicating your gratitude.

[note: As I was hand writing this entry on a piece of paper (no computers allowed) while still at the retreat, the Shuso, who was the main guy running the entire event, walked by me. As he had been one of the wielders of the kyosaku, I told him that I was at that very moment writing about him and, did he wish to read my entry? He gave me a very stern lecture about this being a silent retreat where talking, reading and writing were inappropriate, and no he would not read it, and in fact if I must continue writing, I should do in the privacy of my lonely monk's cell where I couldn't infect the virtuous minds of the more pious practitioners with my mutinous activities. As he began to walk away, the just and righteous shuso turned back to me, and said in a conpirital whisper, "Could you write down the Blog address for me?"]

The significance of this beating is similar to that of Manjusri's sword, which is said to cut off all dilussions. In fact, one time while I was not sleepy but extremely alert and very much Zen'd out I asked to be struck. At the moment of being hit, I actually felt as though, for just a spit second, I got it. For that spit second of time, I actually understood what Zen and meditation really is. At that moment I had no past and I had no future. Only the present moment. And the present was perfect in every way. This lesson was affirmed in a way that I would never have imagined just 2 short days later with an event that would change the lives of everyone sitting at this retreat forever. Stay tuned, readers.