Professional Documents
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The Zen Revolution
The Zen Revolution
REVOLUTION
H. GREVEMBERG
COPYRIGHT © 2010 HENRY GREVEMBERG — ALL RIGHTS RESERVED — WWW.THEZENREVOLUTION.COM
ISBN 1451562357 — EAN–13 9781451562354 — THE SECOND PRINTING, JANUARY 2011
IN THE OLD DAYS THERE WAS A LAKE
GUARDED BY A FIERCE DRAGON
FOR DEEP WITHIN IT WAS A GREAT TREASURE
A MAGICAL PEARL
ALL THE VILLAGERS KNEW ABOUT IT
BUT FEW DARED TO LOOK UPON THE DARK WATERS
ONE MAN TOOK IT UPON HIMSELF TO EXTRACT THE JEWEL
HE BROUGHT A BUCKET TO THE LAKE’S EDGE
AND BEGAN FILLING IT
CARRYING IT SOME DISTANCE AWAY TO POUR IT OFF
SEEING THIS, THE DRAGON WAS AMUSED
HE ROSE FROM THE DEPTHS TO WATCH THE PROCEEDINGS
BUT THE MAN CONTINUED AS IF NOTHING HAD OCCURRED
FINALLY THE DRAGON SPOKE
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOU FOOL!”
DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING TO EMPTY THE ENTIRE LAKE
WITH A SINGLE BUCKET?”
THE MAN SPOKE WITHOUT BREAKING HIS STRIDE
“NO, BUT MY CHILDREN, OR MY CHILDREN’S CHILDREN WILL.”
THE DRAGON WAS STRUCK BY THIS
SO MUCH THAT HE SANK BENEATH THE SURFACE
WITHOUT ANOTHER WORD
MOMENTS LATER HE REAPPEARED WITH THE PEARL
WHICH HE GAVE TO THE MAN
WHO LOOKED SUSPICIOUSLY AT THE DRAGON
“WHY ARE YOU GIVING THIS TO ME?”
“I REALIZED YOU WOULD NEVER STOP.”
- FROM A TALK BY A WESTERN ZEN MASTER (ORIGIN UNKNOWN)
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION 6
SEASON ONE - DISCOVERY
one ------- FALL TO THE GROUND 12
two ---- THE CALL TO PRACTICE 21
DISCOVERY
THE PATH BEGAN ON ITS OWN
THERE’S NO WAY TO EXPLAIN IT
I WASN’T INFLUENCED BY ANYONE AROUND ME
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE ZEN IN THE DEEP SOUTH
IT MUST BE EMBEDDED IN ALL OF US
THE ETERNAL QUESTION
THE PERCEPTION OF THE UNIVERSAL SUBSTANCE
THE UNDERLYING NATURE OF REALITY
IS WHAT EVERYONE STRIVES FOR ULTIMATELY
IT’S NOT FAR FROM WHERE YOU ARE
IF YOU’VE EVER LOOKED WITH WONDER AT THE STARS AT NIGHT
OR FALLEN IN LOVE
OR BASKED IN THE GLOW OF A BEAUTIFUL SUNSET
YOU KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT
THE PATH OF THE ZEN IS ONE OF COMPLETE IMMERSION
T
he forests in southern Louisiana grow with
such ferocity that whatever touches the ground
is quickly devoured, criss-crossed in vines, tan-
gled weeds, elevated roots, with tendrils stretched taut like
something more sentient pulling the rotted thing down
below. The whole town of Sweetville was consumed long
before I was born. In fact, all that remained were old log-
ging roads and fire lanes that led nowhere, and a place
near the mayhaw trees with a broken slab poking out of
the briars. My father remembered the people who’d lived
there once, but they’re both gone now.
There were a few houses down the road, mostly farmers
and lumberjacks who were poor and lived in trailers, and
farther down a Mennonite settlement. They didn’t have
much to say to us. The house I lived in, built by the Men-
nonites, was set against a pine forest and a tiny branch of
Barne’s Creek. It was simple, like a Preacher’s house — a
sad place, colorless, dark, full of unmarked days — not
melancholy, not black or white or grey; the days rolled by
noiselessly, with no discernible quality. It was the melting
of definition, the ability to define. Burning from an early
age, it flattened me, pulled everything apart.
My parents were many times faded, like old photo plates
on silver glass. I, as much raised by the span of days than
by a human hand, would stand out there in the heat of it,
maybe five or more dogs from the yard would follow me
out, to the shade of the trees, to float in a muddy pond, to
lie in the weeds. My refuge was the wilderness. No harm
could come to one there, that couldn’t be easily avoided.
The quiet in a field of weeds — sweet and safe, always
safe. There was no contradiction of soft man to hard en-
vironment, nothing of man but things left behind, and
barbed wire.
Enormous, dark, haunting, beckoning, the trees had a
long span between them, the ground covered with straw.
They led forever out to the horizon in orderly rows, to the
west to old railroad tracks and field after field of weeds, or
east to an abandoned logging road. You could just make
out the imprint of those who’d gone before — twin trails
of stinking mud, with mud holes full of tadpoles, frogs,
crawfish, waterbugs, spiders, and other friends.
The road was held back by an old barbed-wire fence
grown into a thick wall of myrtle and briars, laced with
old spider webs; a deep hardwood forest on the other
side. I eventually bothered my way through. There was
a marked change in the air, in seriousness. I crossed back
and forth several times before I had the nerve to go far-
ther. It was tough to penetrate the underbrush: the sinewy
limbs were unbreakable, often barbed or bristling with
thorns, with blackberry vines wound tight between them.
I stamped down the shoulder-high stickers with plain-
old shoes, like a deer trail.
Large vines hung down from the pin oak and cypress.
Dry and lifeless, they’d break off in your hand. The creek
hardly moved; its dark brown, oily surface mirrored the
canopy. The darkness and play of light was dazzling,
overwhelming. I can’t explain how it gets under your
skin. Few living things broke the surface. A water moc-
casin would poke his head out, or a mean-looking snap-
ping turtle. There were more strange insects than can be
imagined, bastards of evolution, thriving in the dim habi-
tat. The earth was black, the leaves on the ground mold-
ing, damp, shot through with strange roots that flashed
sparks and glowed in the dark. Large mushrooms of ev-
ery size pushed through the forest floor. The leaves gave
out to felt-like lichen, moss, ferns and the rare bell-shaped
flower, nearly always sick, bent over and faded.
I followed the creek to avoid getting lost. It was lost,
curling back on itself to form islands, branching off in
fork after fork. They all received names in turn; a map
was slowly drawn as I ventured farther and farther away
— to the limit of daylight and memory. When I tired of
this I made caves, or else holes in the ground, log cabins,
tree houses, fire pits. I walked the fields, pranced around
naked, crawled in the mud. I felt a great kinship with the
trees and stray cows, the deadly copperhead always coiled
neatly, the circling buzzards and hawks and singing frogs.
I walked to the end of endurance, fell to the cold, damp
earth, the sweet grass with giant clouds overhead, the
sound of the wind. The stimulus reduced to its simplest
elements, and repeated forcefully, the few animals that
passed through had a palpable presence, something like
a conversation. The crow was a great friend and constant
source of amusement. Many hours were shared with them,
at times almost hallucinatory, where there would be some
important movement or gesture, as if in a dream. The ap-
pearance of a crow had a great significance and particular
meaning — so the field becomes the dream, the line be-
tween sleep and wakefulness lost.
THE HOMELEAVING
IS AN IMPORTANT BREAK FROM THE NEST
THE INDIVIDUAL MUST BE IN THE FLOW OF LIFE
CAPABLE OF MAKING IT IN THE WORLD
BEFORE HE/SHE CAN GO ABOUT DISMANTLING THE PSYCHE
THERE HAS TO BE ALL OF THE ELEMENTS
FOR THE THING TO WORK
THE HEART, THE GROUND, THE OCCUPATION
IF THERE IS NO SUFFERING, THE PRACTICE HAS NO FUEL
AND IN ORDER FOR THE SPIRIT TO BE INFLAMED
THE WHOLE LIFE MUST CATCH ALIGHT
FOR THOSE WHO STRUGGLE TOO MUCH
WITH THE CONDITIONS OF LIFE, THE OPPORTUNITY IS LOST
T
he event on the forest floor was the first inkling
I had that I didn’t have to run the program of a
poor kid from the South. Instead of following
blindly what I was born into, I decided to investigate it as
if I were an outsider. From this position I naturally began
to free myself from the conditions I suffered. It was only
a matter of time before this led to the practice of medita-
tion. In the span of a few years I went through many dif-
ferent practice forms until I found the one that resonated
with me. It was the simplest, yet most profound, in my
opinion — the path of Zen.
Here there were many influences, a multitude of pro-
grams I was to run, many teaching devices I was expected
to follow. How to proceed? A common phrase from the
new strain of Korean Zen is to attain the state “before
thinking.” There are scores of people searching for this,
to no avail! There’s nothing in the realm of thought that
can be fastened to, yet it seems to imply that there’s solid
ground just ahead. Not only that, everyone who hears it
repeats it back to the uninformed as if it were the thing
itself. Not grasping the heart of it, their words ring false,
so they become more animated and forceful in their exer-
tions. This sort of activity is to be expected. The primor-
dial aspect, the thing that we are, this whole matter of
existence, is always there, blasting through every channel
of perception, yet we cannot sense it, remain blind to it.
It’s as if the everyday world is a virtual shell in the field
of the Absolute, where every attempt at observation only
reflects the world inside. Any amount of logic or reason is
fundamentally flawed as it doesn’t take into account what
the Absolute realm entails. If you know what I’m talking
about, how would you describe it, the eternal aspect of it?
Before you understand it, the teaching phrase is seen as
an important clue to understanding mind. Once you’ve
apprehended it, you realize how far from truth the teach-
ings are, how perilous — that the Absolute must exist, yes,
before thought, but after, as well as concurrent with it! As
you can readily see, any analogy is far from the truth.
“Followers of the Way, get hold of this thing and use it, but
don’t fix a label on it. This is what I call the dark meaning.”
Rinzai (?-866)
THE FORMAL
ASPECT
ZEN MASTER SEUNG SAHN HELD “TOGETHER ACTION”
T
he Zen center, a secret place unknown to the
world, was a sprawling old building surround-
ed by fifty acres of trees. There were two enor-
mous wings, at least forty rooms in all, with two large
dharma rooms and long, drafty chambers and passage-
ways leading past room after room. The bottom floor led
to a basement with a dirt floor, lit by bare bulbs hanging
from the rafters. It was large enough that you could al-
ways find a quiet room, or move from hall to hall if noth-
ing else. It was damned nice.
I spent everything I’d saved before finding work on an
assembly line, painting costume jewelry. The days were
full of the struggle to survive, each end firmly anchored
in practice. It was a pattern I was to follow for many years,
until the practice became so enmeshed that my struggle to
survive was the face of it.
My arrival was at an opportune moment, as Rhoda was
exiting along with most of the residents, some sort of up-
heaval that left the grounds whimpering in quiet resigna-
tion — where a new flower could easily take root. Unfor-
tunately the Patriarch who demanded the expulsion is no
longer with us, instead a board of directors, so if the thing
becomes caustic there’s no master to show the sword of
Damocles.
The teacher who ran the center was a brilliant man busy
with raising a family and work. He gave koan interviews
once a week. I spent several years with him grappling with
impossible things. Since there was no one at the center full-
time, a new teacher began the ascent, which amounted to a
chameleon-like transformation from a friendly man of the
house on through increasing stages of obstinacy, leading
to a cleavage point between the ruling fascist and the poor
peasants who toiled beneath him, down to the wandering
gypsies, outsiders, visitors, sightseers. The polarization of
those jousting for position planted the seeds of revolution,
as they gained the underground society gained. There’s a
vibe that goes along with American Zen, a banal mixture
of socialism and religiosity that’s dangerously close to be-
ing elitist. I played both ends, but was too young to be
taken seriously, so it was to the dejected ones that I fell.
There was a lot there. The community of practitioners
is something grand. I don’t know if practice would ex-
ist at all without them. One of my favorites was a rever-
end from some high place who resigned to a quiet life of
books and gazing seriously through thick glasses at what-
ever anyone said, giving us all an air of importance; there
was an old gay nurse, a depressed shaman, a bodybuilder
too aggressive for the cloth, a few East Europeans with
their great sense of the existential, college kids studying
eastern philosophy, and even a few children. We would
assemble in the kitchen or TV room at odd hours, laugh-
ing and sharing stories, books, chocolate — always a gift,
a kind word — until the Abbot would give us a chore, or
the eternal call to practice.
It began every morning at 4:30AM when a bell was
rung down all the halls. We had a few minutes to put on
a short robe and gather in the dharma room for prostra-
tions, a common practice for lay sangha in Korea: from
a standing position the knees are set on the mat and the
torso brought down until the forehead touches, 108 times.
The room let out for a short break afterward, then a few
rounds of sutra chanting and meditation. We took turns
cooking breakfast and washing dishes. There was always
a hot meal and a warm group of friends. We sat in a ring
around the tatami and held hands before beginning, prob-
ably something passed down from the communes. The
evening practice began at 6:30 with more rounds of sutra
chanting and meditation. There were longer sitting peri-
ods once a week, and 3 or 7-day retreats every month.
I went between this and the jewelry factory for a few
years until, threatened by constant repairs on the old car,
the job was finally lost. An old monk from India gave me
one of his, hardly better than the one I’d just hauled off.
“The mechanic told me it was a hazard to put on the
road, but if you think you can fix it…”
All of the turmoil and beauty there made for a very full
life. Always in a state of flux! If you clung to any of it, you
were lost. To find harmony the mind can’t move at all, the
same as in meditation, but who can do this? Long after
I reached a point where there was no more conflict, but
all that occurred at that time was a struggle to get past,
and the struggle only increased. To survive the winter I
painted a house for a friend in Jamestown. It was made of
rough wood clapboard, so the paint had to be brushed on
by hand. The only good thing was the long drive down a
lonely stretch of interstate that cut through the southern
forests. On the last night I raced home at 2AM, money
in hand, when a steady tapping under the hood rose to a
loud knock…
KBLAM!
The engine beat its last few strokes at minus fourteen
degrees. The wind outside, a strong howl, cut above the
clatter. There was no other sound.
I nursed the car forward, nearly crawling to a stop be-
fore I saw an exit for a Park & Ride in the middle of no-
where. If I hadn’t coasted around that last turn of the
road, with the wind behind me! The car squeaked to a
dead halt right in a parking spot. Frozen inside, with only
light clothes and some old newspapers, I survived by sit-
ting on my hands and feet and screaming at the top of my
lungs. Ice crystals formed on the windshield. I watched
them grow as my mind slowed to a crawl, until I could
only stare at the curious shapes like an ignorant worm.
At daybreak I saw a payphone in the distance, clamped
to one of the utility poles. I forced my feet back into stiff,
frozen boots and limped to it. It was dead. I waited hours
more for a bus to arrive, silently cursing.
When the snow finally melted the Zen center began
constructing a 7-story pagoda for the Patriarch’s 20th An-
niversary. I walked out to the site and pitched in. After a
few days I was allowed to pick up trash. In a few weeks
I was moved to sorting out nails and recycling. It didn’t
matter what I was doing, I was glad to be part of it. Cold,
crisp mornings with steam coming from the fields, ev-
erything covered in a thin frost. The sun burned through
by noon. Filtered through our straw hats, the light fell
softly on our work. It affected me; flames rose all around
and danced with delight. There was no sorrow that could
reach me those days. We kept on until the big bell tolled
from the hillside — a signal that evening practice would
soon begin.
Dominik worked late most nights, his torch blasting
through holes in the walls and ceilings, repairing near con-
stant plumbing leaks in the old section. He was a Polish
monk with great, bushy eyebrows. Fresh from the pere-
stroika battlegrounds, he’d spent years in prison for blow-
ing up statues of Lenin. He’d detonate acetylene bombs
on the grounds now and then, usually near the secretary’s
office. Half the fingers of one hand were missing from a
“dummy” grenade, but he had tremendous skill with the
rest of them.
I enjoyed his company, so often stayed up with him. We
were always dirty, crawling around in some dark hole, the
“temple rats.” Over many long nights he taught me much
about life and women, furnace lore, the thousand types
of plaster, the history and manufacture of every chemical
substance from linseed oil to ketamine, and a great deal
about Zen.
More chemist than chef, he cooked incredible, inde-
finable things in the old world style: sourdough bread,
fruit compotes, jellies, stews, and a wonderful baked pear
that took three days in a wood-fired oven. The Canadian
geese that came in the Fall would follow him around like
little children, honking for one of his specialties. They re-
turned every year like he was part of the family. He al-
ways encouraged the flock. The central figure in most of
our lives, without being aware of it, he was just doing his
thing.
There were many more great souls than I can record
here, a considerable amount of socializing and wander-
ing the halls; a great reward after all the hardships. It was
the only period of my life I wouldn’t mind repeating. It
was an enormous step for me: life was more clearly ori-
ented, the work meaningful. Of course I had no idea how
much farther there was to go — so extraordinarily far! It
was a beautiful period of study and absorbing the teach-
ings. What was instilled was an economy of movement.
Meditation wasn’t something that only took place in the
dharma room, but spanned the whole gamut.
The community life is a vanguard for practice, every-
thing branching from it. The focus of the day, which
still excites me, was to uncover the meaning of existence,
to not stop there, not anywhere, but to continue asking
— to reveal the mystery, the rapture, the raging current
unknown that encompasses all that we see, smell, taste,
touch, all that we are. There was a place for it, and time
to attune oneself — an ideal life in that respect.
Dominik and a few of the carpenters took the winter off
to attend kyolche (lit. tight dharma), the long winter re-
treat on the hill. Why I chose to follow them is still a mys-
tery. There must be some instinct in us, like the pull of
gravity, for of all the different training forms, kyolche is
the one with the thoroughness to transform. If daily prac-
tice is a small flame, kyolche is a furnace. It’s easy enough
to put your life on hold for an hour or two, but for ninety
days? Things that weigh on you, things you aren’t even
conscious of, are gradually lifted, gone — it doesn’t mat-
ter what you’re made of.
I pleaded for a loan from the secretary, and turned one
of those corners from which you can never turn back.
T
he Patriarch noticed that the bellhouse had
fallen into neglect. The kids from the school
nearby were throwing rocks at it. He asked the
Abbot to have us dismantle it and move it to a new loca-
tion. Dominik — a man of the world with the wind in
his teeth and a communist flag under his feet, a man who
stood like a beacon for all oppressed people, had no skill of
this sort. He hated hand tools, unless they were fashioned
out of things found under the woodpile. He was adamant
about this. I wasn’t much better, but I had some facility
with power tools, and all of my fingers. Dominik had the
idea to carve our own nails out of wood, but fortunately
there wasn’t time. I rescued what I could from the base-
ment. He went along with it as long as I did the actual
work. He stayed with me through every turn of the screw
until we had it raised. We had a crane hoist the 2-ton bell
down into the frame. As soon as we had the chain loose,
he went back to the plumbing.
I finished the job on my own, with an old Rockwell saw
with a hot-wired switch. You plugged it straight in and
RAWWWWWRR! …it was cutting before you could
catch up to it.
Snow started falling as soon as I had enough planks
down to collect it. I flew off the roof a dozen times, with
that Rockwell spitting fire behind me. Damned lucky I
survived. Somehow the pitch of the roof came out differ-
ent than we planned, but it couldn’t be helped. I’m sure
if you protracted the angle of a man falling to his peril, it
would take that shape.
The Patriarch was gone before the first nail. I had one
interview. Alone with him for the first time, I was imme-
diately in tears. “Your teaching has made a great impact
on my life. I don’t know how to thank you…” He was
silent for a long moment. His face gave no sign.
“You’ve done a lot of practicing and your heart has
opened up. That’s wonderful.”
Suddenly he grew fierce. I was struck by how much en-
ergy he pulled out of nowhere. He picked up a gnarled
branch a foot and a half long, polished cherry sealed with
lacquer, and hit me.
“Now it’s time for you to do much hard practice, bring
your energy down to your tanjin! (lit. energy garden, or
center) OK!”
He wasn’t concerned with my emotion, a hallmark of
Zen, and a great stumbling block for most Westerners. In
Zen emotions are put on the same level as thought: tran-
sitory, and so of little value. When traced back to their
origin they prove empty of themselves. The emphasis is
put elsewhere, toward the far more compelling, unifying
ground of the Absolute.
“The light finally grows dim, the axis of the day declines.”
Albert Camus (1913-1960)
I
took the ferry to Seattle, drifting from one sweatbox
to the next. The lines of cafes, bookstores, eccentric
shops — strongly influenced by the music and drug
scene — gave the street a strange power. It had the feel
of a dank, junky basement with blinking beer lights, the
cackle and scratch of excited humans holding to the rails
in close knots. The light, half-strength, dissolute through
the steady rain, illumed a town slowly sinking in mud.
Gutters shot out volleys from every corner, racing French
drains surged; the rain constant but light, the light poles
drooping overhead, their light diffused in the mist, every-
thing glowed with a strange aura.
The two major streams that ran through my life, the
spiritual and the worldly — one influencing the other,
allowing each other to exist and threatening to destroy
the whole — ran together in one great mass. Everything
began to beat with a new resonance. My life became its
own teaching that, in the end, was better than any path I
could’ve chosen. It was beyond my understanding then,
but instinctively I knew what was occurring. I stayed for
a few weeks mulling over things, but couldn’t keep away
from Providence. All of my things were there, my life
sealed in cardboard boxes hidden in a dusty old room of
the barn. More importantly, kyolche was to begin in a few
weeks.
The Zen center was nearly deserted. The Abbot was
away, again. Kyolche was run by a novice teacher, one of
many who flooded the school after the Patriarch retired.
To survive her and her socialist agenda: her interroga-
tions, accusations of wrongdoing — a prison camp atmo-
sphere, some of us were meeting in a small loft above the
barn, a half-mile down the hill.
The loft was musty, crumbling, lit by broken, filthy win-
dows that let through a steady cold blast. We dug out an
old coffee pot and radio and gathered in the dim light,
laughing and sharing our campfire stories, helping each
other to cope with the school-teacher environment on the
hill.
Stella sat across the room from me one day: a beautiful
Italian with great, blue eyes. Straight backed, strong and
clear… we didn’t speak, because of it I saw only the glim-
mer of the soul. I was enchanted. Her wonderful, clear
gaze set fire to the room, all the more dramatic in the dim
light. I left a note in her shoe.
“I see you’ve joined the resistance.”
She’d recently returned from LA to start a new life on
the East coast. Raised in Connecticut, emotionally re-
pressed, there was a cold fire coming out of her.
“There’s something you have to know about me. I’m
bossy, but I have a good heart. Do you think you can han-
dle it?”
With my limited experience, I had no way of making
a sensible decision. The whole thing about infamy es-
caped me, that one can form an identity on bad behavior.
If someone made a proposition like that to me now, I’d
laugh in their face.
“Why… what do you have in mind?”
“Let’s get an apartment together. What do you think,
Seattle or NYC?”
“I was thinking about moving to Seattle.”
We moved to Manhattan. I welcomed the new challenge,
but wasn’t prepared for the mad pace. I couldn’t tune out
the volume, the turmoil. Eaten alive, my peculiar soul ob-
served its own struggle with amusement.
“Look at the poor bastard! He’s really getting it now!”
I found work with an old Irish contractor, who’d call
every few days to send me to a new job. I did everything
wrong. I had absolutely no training, so was getting by on
brute instinct and flim-flammery. The boss had no idea,
as he’d only show when it was time to collect the bill. I
did what I could, hefted the heavy tools alone on sub-
ways, buses, taxis… I’d walk until I’d lose my grip, rest
my arms, and continue on, slowly exploring the city —
the bristling crowds, the long desolate shafts of light. The
heavy tools forced me to toughen up. Full of adrenaline, I
often felt like shouldering through the walls.
We got a sublet near St. Marks. The window looked over
a long row of Indian restaurants. Sitar and tabla players
lined the streets along with a bizarre clan of homeless,
miscreants, vagrants, pig fuckers, half-naked freaks…
some of them would gather in front of the apartment at
3AM and spread their wares, a foul-smelling thrift mar-
ket of trash.
I fell in love with the city, but Stella was overwhelming
in the tiny apartment. We fascinated each other, but what
use? I had no feel for relationships, something she found
exasperating. I wasn’t made for it, too independent, too
quiet. I’d made it through most of my 20’s without any
contact with the opposite sex. It began to wear on me.
Women became more heavenly than they deserved, used
the advantage to press me beneath their heels. It’s hard to
come from a position of having nothing, of being nobody.
It never worked out for me. After the years of abstinence
I had a few short affairs, mostly women from wealthy
families looking for the oddity.
“The wolf-boy — look at him! He’s so uncivilized…”
The affair with Stella was troubled from the beginning.
It took great effort to weather her strong reactions against
me. Too simple to see the machinery at work, I felt only
the sting of the whip. She held me down with near con-
stant retorts, the sort of struggle that often invigorates her
type. Her impatience had me on a treadmill from the first
day.
“Well? Do you love me or not?”
Using any litmus, she was a fine woman who only want-
ed to be adored, but she wasn’t saintly or delicate or hu-
morous or kind — a beautiful creature, but nearly all are.
If there was something about her that would bring me to
my knees it was kept from me, as punishment.
A cold snowflake fell on her face and melted in the heat.
She was always hot. I’m sure her temperature was above
normal. You could survive any blizzard with a couple of
Italian women and a tin of sardines. I watched the steam
rising from her neck.
“I want sex twice a day…”
“Does that include weekends?”
“…and no TV!”
“No TV?”
“You’re not going to waste time with me. I want you to
be productive.”
The work wasn’t to produce something of benefit to so-
ciety, but that I adore her — and something to do with
a unicorn I imagine, broken to pieces by whoever came
before me. Why does a relationship so easily become a
chore? It wasn’t the discipline that put me off; it was her
requirement that I feel more, that I express my feelings
more, that I become a new male capable of feeling and ex-
pressing emotion unknown to my savage brothers. More
importantly, that I listen to her emotive pleas, note the
symbolic movements, intuit the influence of the weather,
the play of light, the scrap of music in the air, the smell of
rain. I must be intoxicated with her, think only of her…
it required more than human abilities.
Is there a limit to the amount of emotion we can feel? If
emotions are of such high value, would expressing them
in large volume raise us aloft — like angels? Or is there
some seediness to them, a vanity, gluttony?
I began pacing the streets, often riding the subway
through the night — beautiful Mephistophelian nights
never forgotten: the dangerous vaults and corridors of
near pitch black, crackling floodlights spitting arcs and
haloes, stale vapors steaming from the manholes in toxic
clouds; the air thick, raw saccharine; the strange whine
coming from the park; the murmur and silences of end-
less street-level apartments spilling their contents out to
the street. Not a moment without an angry voice in the
ear, I paced the streets in a heightened state, stung by the
perfect scenes.
All the soft places had burned off. I was a new alloy of
unknown temper, unproven, too far removed from society
to be reintegrated. It was largely my fault, what life had
made of me. I felt that I wasn’t fit to be in a relationship, a
feeling that has come and gone, returned again, and now
become a certainty. Eventually I was proven useless for
her needs and shown the door.
Life in a Zen center is insular; the process of stripping
down to the bare essentials doesn’t leave a record society
understands. It’s impossible to get an apartment in Man-
hattan without a bank account.
“Hey Dad.”
“Henry! What’s going on?”
“Dad, I need a co-sign to get an apartment.”
“No.”
What could I do? I took the subway to Grand Central,
watched the security guards hovering around the eleva-
tors. None approached me. The suits scurried around.
Darkness. The filth was contagious. A homeless man held
a station near the door until security pushed him out. He
looked from head to head at all the businessmen who re-
fused to cough up a quarter.
“Can’t you see I’m hungry? Some of you look too fat.”
The world was caving in, all of the animals feasting
on the decay. Billboards of the most outrageous size and
complexity flashed corporate propaganda. Giant screens
showed broken movies of indecipherable meaning. I
plowed through the yipping throngs to Canal and Broad-
way, down a sweatshop alley with steam vents and fac-
tory exhausts, and the few brave souls who wouldn’t go
around.
At Tompkins Square I stood for awhile in the soft en-
veloping darkness swarming with lovers and lonely souls.
Though still barren from the winter, the spring madness
had everyone out. The intense grey winter trees, haunt-
ing soulless grey — so striking! The hours, the scene con-
stantly renewed, the fresh young faces turned inward.
Tawdry messages flickered in the white heat, the black
heat — part of me, something of me. I sat for an endless
time listening to the noises of the city. The different en-
vironments fell against each other like cellophane, frame
by frame. The images conjoined, the ceaseless activity of
meditation burned through with casual splendor. Night
fell, the city glowered with its seductive graces, all the
rough edges were soothed, smudged into black.
SEVERAL OF THEM
BEFORE I WAS MALLEABLE ENOUGH
TO BURN ON MY OWN
SO WHAT’S MAPPED OUT HERE
IS PROBABLY WHAT’S IN STORE FOR MANY OF YOU
IF SO, I CAN ALMOST GUARANTEE
THAT YOU WILL SOMEDAY JOIN
A REBEL FACTION AT A REMOTE LOCATION
six. THE DESERT
L
os Angeles was hot, a grid of asphalt and con-
crete slung low to the ground; a suburban hell
of beat up condos and apartments stretching be-
yond the horizon, teeming with illegal immigrants. The
strong cast of the sun, the endless strip-malls, the grand
old buildings slowly crumbling over the vermin below;
here the beast was let loose, free to roam the wide streets,
mirror of the soul.
An unbelievably slow journey across a sea of asphalt;
LA’s transit system is the worst I’ve seen. Multiple lines
don’t communicate or coordinate with each other so you
have to go by the word on the street, and nobody rides
the bus in LA. Stranded in full sun for an unmarked time
waiting for the next lumbering beast to appear, when it
did finally lunge to the stop I thought it was a mirage, so
went to the other side of the bench to get a good look at it
before I trusted to board it.
At the station I found only one bus made the run to Mo-
jave. The floor was crawling with trash. The usual drab
faces and mistreated abdomens, everyone was tuned to
their own channel, every color infused with grey. The
air shone with CO , which feathered out to a dull sheen
2
“…and the night sky above appears darker, more austere, and a
hundred times more menacing…”
Nikolai Gogol (1809-1852)
“There are no valid dharmas. Once you understand this, what use are
such trifles to you?”
Huang Po (?-849)
T
o the consulate! A stack of papers to sign, pho-
tographs, thumbprints, rectal fluid, DNA, hard
currency... I peered through the bullet-proof
glass into an alien world. A woman stared at me through
the bulletins taped across the front and asked for some-
thing I couldn’t make out.
The engines whined and rumbled. The pilot gunned it
for a second, then cut it back down again. We sat idle at
the end of a mile of skid marks. Thunder struck, every-
thing began to vibrate, the burnt grass fields shot by, and
the sooty jewel of Los Angeles was revealed in all her glo-
ry. Streets criss-crossed in a viral network as far as I could
see, until the whole was finally buried in cotton.
The programming switched from English to Korean
off of Seattle. We crossed the energy belt/center date-line
at an arctic minus 70 degrees. The number two engine
left an oily black line at 35,000 feet. On the horizon an
expanding range of smog-brown clouds, the uppermost
layer of grime.
The cabin was insular, like the inside of a canteen, with
a hollow sound to everything. Whatever it was that exist-
ed below was meaningless to our roaring jet-engine race
against the Pacific headwinds. The light was nearly fluo-
rescent, a color unknown to the surging waves and foam
below. There was no life in the rarefied heights, no bird
or gnat or spore, only the constant thrust of the turbine
and the warm human souls who shared the cabin.
The intercom whined along with the engines, suddenly
crackled to life.
“Is there a doctor on the plane?”
The messages repeated with increasing urgency until
finally the plane banked and made the slow turn back to
Alaska.
“I have an announcement. One of the crew (the pilot) is very
sick, so we’re redirecting the flight to Anchorage. I repeat…”
We landed in Anchorage near dark, under a full moon
larger than any I’ve seen. Everyone silent from fear, en-
dured the long lines to pass through customs and enter
the foreign soil. Those who drop out of the sky can’t be
trusted, even if they’d just flown out of Los Angeles. We
were split into three different groups: first class, coach,
and my end — the nameless third. I don’t know about
the rest, but my party was sent to a seedy hotel past a long
row of beat up houses and liquor stores.
The next morning we collected together in the lobby,
the faces already familiar, a special connection between
us: heroes, victims, survivors. All of us on the way to a
foreign place, unwelcome, we were accepted only because
of our misfortune. A beautiful look on everyone’s faces
because we were part of it, and no damage done!
The red velvet couches were stacked with GI’s return-
ing from leave and beautiful Korean women wrapped in
scarves and black trenchcoats, or quilted down with furry
boots and leather: modern and edgy, succulent, delicate.
The few Korean men between them wore fitted suits. An
intimate tone to their nodding, that beautiful language
that makes one soft when listening, that always ends for-
mally, in good command of the senses. Hunched toward
each other like teenagers, their faces large and full of emo-
tion; they were cold at odd moments, and then the lean-
ing in.
The crowd around us shuffled their feet with waiting,
but I refused to give up my seat, quite unlike the boy who
would’ve given his life for the comfort of another. In my
youth I had no idea what I was worth. Eventually I real-
ized that even the greatest human is still only a human be-
ing. These days I hold to the dictates of nature and luck.
Regardless, those standing boarded the bus first, so we
were left behind in the lucky seats.
We touched down at Kimpo airport after ten hours in
the air. Security made sure I was standing in the right line
through customs. They quickly rifled through my bags
and motioned for me to pass. I didn’t have anything. I
squeezed through the crowded passage to a small patch
of air. As I struggled to get my bearings, a nun from NYC
touched me on the arm. She’d blended into the back-
ground so well I hadn’t noticed her.
“C’mon… we’ve got to get moving,” she blurted out,
nervously eyeing the swarm of passengers, the entire floor
staring at us like we were ghosts.
We raced underneath the heart of Seoul in a car packed
with bad air, a swirling heat of strange creatures — a feast
of eyes. I was so lost, disoriented, nothing could’ve pre-
pared me for the shock of stepping into that strange world.
We came out near a writhing street market. A light rain
took hold, setting the mood. I tried not to be influenced
by my feelings, but they were heavy enough that it was
unavoidable.
The nun moved invisibly beneath her robe, so well
starched and ironed. I followed her through waves of
housewives, grandmas, children, many of them laughing
at the “long-nosed” foreigners, leering. Third-world ma-
chinery banged and clanged out a steady stream of potato
balls and walnut cakes. Tables stretched across whole city
blocks, piled high with squirming sea creatures, persim-
mons, giant turnips, cheap plastic fares, piles of lotus root,
ferns, mushrooms and fungus of other sorts, melons and
peppers, many strange and exotic vegetables, a thousand
types of kimche.
At the top of the hill we joined the crowd pressing
through an open gate with thick cross beams and pointed
spires. The black iron beast was swung closed and bolted
soon after we entered, leaving only a small trap door to
pass through. It groaned on its hinges as the latch was set.
I couldn’t fully register the things I saw, so long had
they been in my dreams. The temple buildings were all
capped with beautiful arched roofs. I was led to an enor-
mous four-story building in front. It housed a kitchen and
dining hall, a king-sized ceremonial hall for the Korean
monks, and a meditation hall for the foreigners. I was
crowded in with an American and a Pole in a small cell
beside the tearoom. It was covered with rough wallpaper
on the walls and ceiling. The floors were lacquered paper
of a deep, burning yellow. Thin sleeping mats were rolled
up and pushed against the walls, leaving a small patch of
floor.
Cole, the American, had a withered, haggard face, the
sunken-pit eye sockets that reeked of heroin, too many
cigarettes. He saw I was teetering back and forth and
grabbed my leg.
“Are you feeling alright?”
“A little sick from the flight...”
“Stomach? I’ve got a good remedy. Hold on a second.”
He sat with a city boy slouch, perfectly at ease. You got
the feeling that he’d passed the flames of hell. I liked him
from the first contact. Rare thing of legend and old Pa-
triarchs — those who’d given everything, traveled to the
end of the world in the pursuit of dharma. For a big in-
sight, a big sacrifice is necessary. The Patriarch remarked,
“There are great monks in Korea, but not in the city. To
find a great Zen monk, you must look deep in the moun-
tains.”
Cole was of the same caliber as any of the teachers.
Though well-mannered and reserved, he could easily an-
swer any koan. He was no ordinary man, yet sat on the
floor like it was nothing.
He signaled to the Pole, who silently left the room.
“We’re going to take you down the hill to get a snack.
Are you up for it?”
I nodded silently, nearly out of juice but curious about
the meal. The Pole returned to the cell quietly with a
small Korean nun and we filed through the gate. The
short walk down the hill had me intoxicated: the color of
the dirt, the strange earthen smells, the peculiar Korean
sounds murmured out of every hole, shaft, doorway. We
walked past long rows of nondescript buildings. Korean
signs by the thousands, their elegant, economic characters
of simple line and circle, the genius of King Se Jong, burst
like flowers from the dim storefronts.
We stepped inside a small doorway at the bottom of the
hill. An old woman greeted us and led us to a small table
in a room much like the cell we’d just left.
Cole, the ecstatic at the table, spoke as much with his
hands as anything.
“Guksu, we’ll have four bowls!”
The old woman watched over us like a proud mother
— treasure of Korea, heart of Korea. I quickly fell in love
with the old bosalnims (lit. bodhisattva, or Buddhist lay-
woman). Despite the culture shock, I felt very much at
home.
Life in a Korean monastery is more colorful than at the
American centers. There’s a hectic pace, a great influx of
people, throngs of women prostrating in all the halls until
late at night with a spiritual fervor that far surpasses our
bookish, toe-in-the-water worthies. I was often in tears,
exhausted from the endless procession.
The halls, carefully tended places of ancient design, were
specific of function, with the highest one devoted to their
oldest deity: San Shin — the mountain god. Other halls
were dedicated to the common Buddhist icons: Ji Jung
Bosal, Kwan Se Um Bosal, Amitabul, Shakyamuni —
always beautifully painted in a kaleidoscope of primary
colors.
After a few days we were lined up and loaded on a bus.
Not more than thirty monks and nuns, most of them
from the temple in Seoul, crawled out of the woodwork
for a three-day workshop at a distant temple. I joined the
line of them as they bowed to the elder Korean monks in
the kunbon (lit. large room), a requirement for leaving the
temple. There was a tightening of the harness. I couldn’t
get comfortable in the strange garments, the incredible
difference it brought. I was expected to be a spokesman
— role model — religious icon for the masses. As I ran
to the kunbon I stepped on my hem and nearly fell, drag-
ging my robes through the mud before stumbling into the
room.
We filed out quickly to the temple bus, which steamed
through thick fog banks, past farmlands with thatched
hay bales tied like broom heads — brown, stubby, ter-
raced flats. Ghostly houses stood out against the moun-
tains and foothills with old clay-tile roofs and walls of
broken white stucco. The fields were cut down for the
winter — a few patches of green in the naked earth, a
few smoldering fires, stone walls, everything hemmed in
granite blocks.
By nightfall we arrived at a massive temple complex.
We ran through the gates and quickly changed from the
long robes to the even longer ones with the ceremonial
kasa. To the main hall! One teacher after another ascend-
ed the high seat. A TV crew with a mob of photogra-
phers flooded us with their powerful lights. Flash bulbs
ricocheted off the golden statues, raising the temperature
a few sweaty degrees. Someone shoved a thousand-watt
halogen in my face and the press swarmed, a fiery cairn.
My belt came loose and my pants began creeping down in
the flash-white glittering fantasy. My kasa followed soon
after.
We walked to the lecture hall, followed by the cameras.
I pulled my pants up and nodded in and out of a thirty-
minute slide show that dragged on for hours.
Saturday morning jet-lag 3AM. Down the winding stone
steps, through wooden gates, between rows of temples,
halls, tea houses, to the cavernous main hall. Shadows fell
in all corners above and below. The air was crisp with an
insidious rapture. A large drum began to rumble and spit
outside, cascading relentlessly to a fever pitch. The toll
of an immense bell gave way to a smaller one inside. The
chanting began, thunderous, as the peal of the small bell
continued to pierce the sad morning.
We stayed through the first few sutras and were marched
over to the lecture hall for more speeches. We sat on thin
mats on the floor as a gaunt old master told a long, haunt-
ing tale of 100,000 prostrations and disappearing into the
mountains, where he survived on wild plants and roots.
He didn’t know what to eat, so almost died nursing a full
belly of poison grass. His spirit left his body there and
flew home to his mother. He tried to tap her on the shoul-
der, but she only collapsed in pain. Alarmed, he flew to
the temple to rouse his teacher, but had no luck. With no
one to turn to, he flew back to his dead body, but it wasn’t
there! A woodsman had found it and carried it to a near-
by village, heaving it on someone’s front lawn. The spirit
and body were reunited there in the grass.
“From this experience,” the old man croaked, “I attained
enlightenment!”
He kept waving his hands with only two fingers show-
ing on each. He’d burned the rest of them off in a ques-
tionable show of faith.
The weather held a dismal spell over us. A chemical im-
balance of the brain overcast, spitting hail, marked our
return to Seoul. We had a few days of rest before kyol-
che. It was to be held at a 13-century old temple in the
Gye Ryong mountain range somewhere south. In spite of
this, everyone, taking the weather’s cue, became dark and
spiteful.
It was something of a tradition to down a few bottles the
night before, to sink into a rosy reverie — a tribute that
only broadened and deepened over time, until it was no
more. I sat in the back of the room, watching the monks
whispering to each other. I didn’t bother with them.
IN THE HEAT OF IT
AND HOW THE GROUP MERGES TOGETHER
THE PEOPLE YOU SIT BESIDE BECOME CLOSE COMPANIONS
K
yolche was its own nest: a great deal of sit-
ting, the same forms, the same grey robes. I’d
sat nearly every winter since the first at Provi-
dence, seven in a row. It cut my life into periods of clam-
bering for work, working feverishly at whatever job I
could find, and the tight discipline of long winters.
As much as Korea had changed, with the advent of de-
mocracy and the marvelous inventions of the West, in
the monastery the old ways were strictly kept. Though
Buddhism is the national religion (it may be soon eclipsed
by the wildly popular Christian movement) its study is
reserved for monastics — a scholar society. In fact, you
weren’t allowed in the dharma room unless you were a
monk or nun. The Patriarch refused this model, setting
up Zen centers worldwide with the doors open to every-
one. We were the prototype for a revolution, and so car-
ried the stigma of going against the established order. A
variety of souls, from the merely curious to the deeply re-
ligious, men and women together, all of us in that pres-
sure- cooker together — the intensity of it!
The bell was rung and it was underway. Cole was at the
center, seated next to Tibor, a well fed Hungarian who
was given the announcements he was told to make and
was otherwise quiet. Seated beneath Cole was Ben, the
old housemaster from Providence. Like most dharma
friends, they came back around to where you were, even-
tually.
Much farther down the line, I was sandwiched between
two scraggly men, polar opposites. The one to my right
snored loudly. Daytime was a time to endure, a light that
burned too brightly. He moved quietly through the bee-
hive with pursed lips. In the changing room — his thin
arms bare, a clump of hair across his shoulder blades —
his feminine delicacy set him apart, made it impossible
to ignore him. In his corner seat by the door he watched
everyone as they came in. At first I thought he was only
staring out through the window in the hall — a symptom
of cabin fever. But his eyes followed us. He watched my
hands ceaselessly, looked into my box of things, peered
through a crack in the door as I walked by, his eyes burn-
ing into me.
“The eyes are open and squinting: the great wide-open whites
of the eyes glitter with a sort of deathly, glassy light.”
Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821-1881)
…a grazing herd of cattle bent to its task while the rest, the
whole of humanity, toiled under grim circumstances. The wind
on the field, waves of pleasure rippling, tingling — bare in the
cold grass, lazy sky, nothing to ponder: tiny pebbles, a line of
ants, a tender shoot in the mouth — taste of the earth, the ex-
posed root.
The midday sun gives way to a bottomless night. The fear van-
quished, the sky void, dreams void. Animals rustle out of their
burrows. A flash of teeth, a flicker of a menacing eye — under-
stood. The pleasure unbound, tearing, consuming, every shred
taken apart. Rapture alone in the dark, untold rapture, fecund;
the damp penetrating, the black impenetrable.
Consumed by the path, fallen from the known, the eyes, such
eyes possess everything. Look into them and you sense some-
thing terribly familiar and dear and threatening. Fear them,
fear me, this night — what I have seen. This is the end. There’s
no going back…
I came to on the other side of the road. Cole was just pass-
ing by, feeling his way with a walking stick. His clothes
were ill-fitting, mismatched. He had very nice, expensive
robes before, but had given them all away. His pocket
bulged with persimmons. He thought nothing of grab-
bing a few from someone’s courtyard prize. His generos-
ity demanded it.
I followed him to a horde of shrines. The granite stream-
bed was filled with icons, statues, burning candles and in-
cense, old bosalnims offering fruit, rice, dried fish. Black-
ened hovels, covered with visquene, glowed with flicker-
ing candlelight — dull shadows lit up with sadness. It was
a place I returned to often, drawn by the fire and smoke
and babbling — a place of power.
Long legged, and long winded, Cole would race up the
mountain with only minutes to spare and lunge back down
like a madman. I’d follow him until something caught
my eye. The wilderness can’t be enjoyed at a fast pace,
at any pace at all if you ask me. Cole was driven. Nev-
er stopping, he ran from something formless, something
that encouraged him to eat less and less, to let his body
grow pale, sickly. He looked at the world through dark
eyes that mirrored an internal paleness. He nurtured not
martyrdom, but dissolution. He fell neatly into a pine-
box symbiosis; the weight of fresh soil pressing against
the lid — suffocation, disintegration.
We came across an overgrown road high on the ridge. I
have a weird nostalgia for abandoned roads, trash dumps,
ditches with old tires grown into the weeds. The breach
of order, the lawlessness, the bare end of society; its rem-
nants dragged out into the forest, taken apart, layer upon
layer of information, things we were kept from knowing.
A microcosm of the processes that, when taken in a larger
context, was the archetype of my life’s work.
I stood for a long moment basking in the forgotten
feeling. The absence of light, the way the environment
changed around me; a symbiotic silencing of wind and
emotion. The crickets and frogs, things passed between
us beyond my ability to describe.
“The same solitude, the same loneliness through which frail and
timorous man had merely passed without altering it…”
William Faulkner (1897-1962)
TO SURVIVE
WHILE THEY’VE DISAPPEARED NEARLY EVERYWHERE ELSE
WITHOUT THEIR INTENSE STRIVING TO KEEP THE FORM
THE WORLD WOULD’VE SUFFERED A GREAT LOSS
TO TAKE PART IN THEIR ANCIENT PRACTICES
WAS THE GREATEST HONOR BESTOWED ME IN THIS LIFE
AND INDEED MY WORK HERE IS IN SOME WAY
TO HELP CONTINUE THE LINE
TO BE ACCEPTED INTO THE ORDER THE CANDIDATE
MUST SERVE AS A LABORER
OF THE LOWEST POSSIBLE POSITION
ONE THAT HAS NO COUNTERPART IN THE WEST
LOWER EVEN THAN A PRISONER
TO BE SUDDENLY CHANGED FROM A MAN OF THE WORLD
TO A DOG IS SUCH A RIDICULOUS PROPOSITION
THAT IT BECOMES SURREAL
NO ONE WOULD WALK WILLINGLY INTO SUCH A ROLE
YET FOR THE SPIRITUAL SEEKER IT’S A TRIFLING SHIFT
IF THE ADEPT IS TRULY SINCERE IN HIS ASPIRATIONS
WHY WOULD IT MATTER WHAT COLOR THE ROBES?
nine. HAENGJANIM
T
he Korean order invited all the foreign monks
to a ceremony for the handicapped. We were
the important guests they put in folding chairs
off to the side. Two Catholic nuns in black — austere
young faces, pious, tight-skinned — sat across from us.
We all watched the chorus girls in their show dresses,
which flared out at chest height, completely concealing
any trace of figure. A doll’s dress that suggested the waist
began under the arms: innocent and contrived, billowing
layers of polyester with embroidered flowers tied with a
bow. They sang beautiful hymns and, like the rest of us,
nodded off when the speeches began.
The sky turned cold, filled with dark clouds. I stared
solemnly out of the field of gray, watched the podium
with its eternal ring of cameras. Swallows with sharp
wings sailed through the heavy skies. The speeches wore
on. Since I understood nothing, and quickly tired of the
birds, I began to watch the cameramen. They placed their
well-oiled tripods gingerly between the rows as the choir
rustled to life, fumbling with their sheet music stands.
The last speech died out. It took three tries to get the pi-
ano rolling, then the choir kicked in and everything was
alright. The crowd wavered momentarily, then collapsed
into a nearby building. It was a treatment facility for the
handicapped funded by the Buddhist order. A wonderful
reason to call us out into the weather, but I had no idea.
The monks that delivered us to the event disappeared,
leaving us to walk a long mile back to the bus. I passed
back and forth through the ranks, enjoying the strange
and worn personalities who infallibly fell in line, single
file. We marched in our long gray robes like pale ghosts
of the Confederate South, saying little.
Xui, a tiny nun from Singapore, pulled me toward the
art markets near Chogye-Sa. We crammed together in the
rush-hour subway, endured the feasting eyes. Fame, in-
famy, a Western face brought both. I leaned back against
the door and went from eye to eye. Hardly a face softened.
The only bit of warmth was the random flirtatious smile,
more potent behind the barriers of culture and language.
Pressed back against the door I mirrored each gaze with
a mask of impenitence.
“It’s very difficult here,” she whispered.
“Meditation isn’t confined to the dharma room, but in-
volves all of life. They support each other, the formal and
informal aspects. In the same way you allow good and
bad thoughts, nature allows the whole gamut, loves all
things equally.”
“It’s not that… the forms are stifling… how can you
make a life here?”
“When you act together with others your mind loses its
sense of individuation. It’s a matter of survival. Of course
it rebels at first, but if you continue the illusion of separ-
ateness will come apart. Use it, to drill down to the core.”
She sighed heavily, “I suppose…”
“It’s not easy… whatever you do differently, they will
root it out, an endless line of citizens pressing you to con-
form. You will lose your identity.”
She laughed, pushing me away.
“Ok, ok… hey look! That’s what I was talking about…”
The street was furious, packed tight and bursting with
foreigners. We hit a few shops on the way south. The sun
was fierce. My head began to bristle in the hot ozone-free
UV’s. We met a Korean couple who spoke a little Eng-
lish. They took us through a maze of side-streets to a nar-
row passage that twisted drunkenly into the heart of In-
son-Don. Every door fronted a restaurant or tea-house.
We checked out a dozen places, stopping at a low-class
joint. Ravenous, we sat on the warm floor next to a young
couple and a Korean monk. The waitress was busily serv-
ing four different parties, constantly bending over at the
waist in form-fitting polyester.
The street continued the provocation, a riot of capti-
vating spring dresses and perfect lipstick. Girls stood out
with plump thighs, olive-gold flesh pumping under short
black dresses, pressed into breathtaking blue denim. Small
breasts, narrow hips, a pleasing roundness, trim and light
and delicate, certainly one of God’s most beautiful crea-
tures.
I leaned over the counter of a tea shop into the crushing
space of tinkling-star spandex stretched tight and shim-
mering across a thrusting 34-B, into her soft-focus per-
fume and outlined lips, lips that promised eternal bliss
and thanked me for the 30,000 won.
I sank into the bus seat, lurid, famished, a multitude of
firm young bodies bending and writhing in front of me,
so close my vision blurred. Through the murky window
the streets teemed with more of the same. They swayed
into the evening sun, casting writhing shadows. Only the
shadows remained.
The next morning I was called to the office. The Ab-
bot leaned over the desk and looked me over. He spoke
quickly to a young Korean monk, who translated.
“…you’re going to be a haengja (lit. novice monk), right?”
“I’m already a monk. The Patriarch sent me here to do
the kyoruk.”
“In order to attend kyoruk, you must be a haengja for
six months.”
Suddenly the smile went off my face. Instead of enter-
ing the practicing stream as a monk, I was sent to the back
of the line, dressed in brown robes, and from that point
on, wasn’t allowed to leave the temple grounds. Unfor-
tunately, I wasn’t alone. Ben and Xui joined me, along
with Zosha, a tough Polish woman with sullen blue eyes.
There was something in her voice that whistled at you, a
thin, reedy sound that put me off from the first day.
You could feel it, the pull of gravity on him. He’d nev-
er used drugs or alcohol, never touched cigarettes, didn’t
like sex. I resolved to avoid him unless it was obvious,
sometimes even then. Of course he eventually became a
teacher.
The mountain of lanterns, more than five thousand,
had to be peeled and stripped to their skeletal wire frame,
covered with fresh rice paper, and overlaid with pink or
white petals — more than a hundred on each. The amount
of hand-work was enormous. The lanterns would hang
in the courtyard for Buddha’s Birthday, each bearing a
streamer with its donor’s wishes.
The lantern project had us in the kunbon most of the
day. The momentum gained, the full moon pushed us far-
ther down. The floor crawled with bosalnims. They were
exasperating, fast, pushy, boisterous, a few ridiculously
beautiful for the sake of torment. In Korea the temples
were filled with lay people, mostly women, who did their
own practices or hired monks to perform ceremonies.
The temple, a cornerstone of society, meant many differ-
ent things, many of them unknown to me.
Trapped in the feverish room, swimming through the
springtime madness — body heat — the shy creatures
watched over me as if I were an exotic pet. The smell of
spring flowers and women in their prime breeding sea-
son; I found myself staring back at them, caught in hope-
less dreams of my own.
Signals flew by the hour, comforted me that the world
was thriving still, that the intoxicating feminine charms
were not absolved. The beehive rustled with fertile, agile
creatures. My seed held the promise of a new life. My back
was strong, eyes clear. Women danced around me with
aching hearts and the heavy burden of an empty womb.
This eternal drama tugged at the corners just as the fu-
neral ceremonies, clustered tightly, cut each day into seg-
ments of mourning, sad faces, and endless baskets of fruit.
In the spaces between we worked on the lanterns. On a
bright, sunny day an old bosalnim cried out.
“KAAAAA!”
Clutching a stack of papers, she fell to the steps. A funer-
al banner fluttered in the wind, passed back and forth in
front of my face, gently touching me on the cheek, push-
ing me into a tremulous euphoria.
Another woman stood in the doorway, delicate and pre-
cious in pure white. The day before she’d led the choir. Her
mouth invoked a threshing rapture, pulled me into her
sorrow. Her dark beauty seduced me, took me away from
the paper lantern fury. It all became her and her twisting,
spiraling melody. She stepped into her shoes and turned
toward me, sorrowfully bowing deeply, cutting into me,
forcing me to recoil. A flawless creature hastily moving as
a flashpoint in the eye, she glimmered and shone like an
antique diamond.
She squeezed the old woman on the shoulder as she
passed. The banner was carefully rolled together and tak-
en away to burn. I watched her move through the court-
yard, her white dress shining until the last, kerosene va-
pors that clung to me through the dreamless night.
I saw her again the next day, clasped in the arm of an-
other beauty. I shouldered a basket of fruit and walked be-
side them down the long path to the kitchen. They talked
softly with each other. A feminine gentleness, estrogen
perfumed sweat. We stole glances at each other but no
attempt was made to breach the wall; nothing tangible
passed between us. I walked beside them mute, unable
to say the simplest thing, bent under the weight of a full
basket.
She had her husband in tow the next time I saw her.
The same flickering eyes that had caused so much staring
at the ceiling in consternation turned innocent. So easily
quieted! An arid life; an absence of life, of subdued pas-
sion.
Damian spoke out at our weekly house meeting.
“I think everyone should keep silence in the kunbon.”
His voice was calm as he spooled out that bit of bromide.
To cut apart the daily routine under “holy” pretense, the
audience a symbolic representation.
He continued, “I will keep silence for the first three days
of each month, and each Monday.”
Several decided to join him. Some weren’t eating. My
stomach turned — something in the air. Out of work de-
tail, the dark cell, cluttered with Ben’s bags of laundry, lit
by a crude rice-paper lamp, had a pungent, trailer park
apathy. I began reading Tae’Go and became infused with
the blight of reason. Antiseptic, plunged into the fleshy vi-
rus with Chinese yellow pills and instant coffee and kids
squealing outside, I spent all day under a summer quilt,
shuffling downstairs only to ring the bell and signal the
meals and sit at the table across from the haengjas.
I got my strength back after a few days. My reward:
hours of peeling and grating a pile of pumpkins. They
were small and dense, with a very thick skin. The knives
flashed dangerously as we squatted on the floor. The blood
pooled in my head, a dull throb that began to work on me.
The funerals ended suddenly. Shorty and I ran between
the halls until the kitchen swallowed us again. Crowded
between the besotted haengjas and an alarming number
of bosalnims, we swam through the murky dishwater
haze crazed, babbling nonsense. Not more than half an
hour later we sat in the sweathouse twisting petals. I be-
gan coughing again, the virus festered in me like a raging
summer storm, but I kept on.
Inexplicably, Damian was civilized. I mentioned it off-
handedly to one of the Poles. The crowd within earshot
quieted.
“You don’t understand him.”
I had him far enough away that he couldn’t run me
through, whatever was in play. I understood the need of a
partner, friendship, but why manufacture enemies? Are
we no better than dogs? Truth is bent, or abandoned, in
the rush to dominate, and anything that can be felt out in
the dark serves as a weapon.
L
eaden, the days showed cruel lines on once fea-
tureless, smooth skin. Everything was lost in the
downpour, all of it hammered, pummeled to-
gether under a tremendous weight.
I ducked into the bellhouse, watched through pointed
rails as rivulets formed like cataracts across the courtyard,
overflowed the french drains, cut channels through the
sand on the way to the swollen creek. I stood gaping at
the wild breach of order as a yellow apparition flicked
past. Xui, stirred out of the kitchen by the onslaught, held
the gate closed and giggled at me through the rails. Reck-
less, dissolute, the spasming cycle of sex; the fount of life.
She was tougher than she looked. Out of all of us, Zo-
sha was the biggest threat, so of course they had to square
off. Xui made it plain with her mashing, shoving, wind-
mill dishwashing technique, though she tried to be civil.
Small-boned and tough, drained from the intensity of her
anger, she wouldn’t think twice about dotting your eyes
with her tiny fists.
Zosha perfectly ascended from the black depths. I strug-
gled constantly not to dash her against the furniture. Odd
that this thing that fouled the air was capable of jabber-
ing with others, that they weren’t holding their noses
and frowning. The horror of her features projected pure
menace, but the frequencies were cleverly masked. She
studied us, borrowed her affectations from us. Her move-
ments negated this, but only, I’m sure, to one who’d been
ravaged by her type before.
They promised to pull us all under, the light extin-
guished as resolutely as a candle snuffed out. Ben bore the
darkening tide with indifference, with an ease I found
admirable. It encouraged her. Zosha became more domi-
neering with him. A mighty wave threatened — inno-
cent talk of night practice, prostrations, emotions, panties
drying on the rack. Ben halfway realized the horror that
was courting him and withdrew. The pressure that had
been building let out like a lanced boil.
Zosha sat across from us and our dishes of cabbage.
“I’m going to do a thousand prostrations a day. What
about you?”
Xui, frowning, said nothing. Ben smiled as if he hadn’t
really understood, but wanted to appear knowledgeable.
The stuffiness, the lack of air, quieted everyone for a stale
moment.
You could see nature working more easily through the
competitive student. They went through very rigorous
training, driven by their own ambitions, until their at-
tempts to establish some sort of identity were exhausted
and the subtle ground revealed. No one could force an-
other to go to such lengths. Nature does it effortlessly.
I left them in the dining hall and wandered into the
streambed. A small bird raced past. As I stepped closer
to get a good look, a much larger one stabbed through
the trees. With a nasty shriek it bit into the small one and
pulled out a beak-full of feathers. They flew off in a grim
death-snarl, a dozen feathers twirling in the sun.
“Zosha not natural, she’s a demon. She plays, but it’s a
lie. Never sincere. So much lie! It’s not our work, not catch
you. You understand? Later it will come back to her. You
must be strong.”
Xui had followed behind, nearly whispering. When I
returned to the kitchen Zosha got on her knees, teeth too
close to me; the damned hot breath! She threw my towel
down on the floor. Her mouth formed around features of
clay, her eyes cold and distant.
“Look… this is how you fold a towel…”
I grabbed one and flung it in her face. It was too much
for her. She went outside and stood near the dumpster, her
arms crossed, looking as if someone had run her through.
I walked out to console her, but only managed to nod in
her general direction. Her eyes reflected the vivid sorrow
that clung, as the seeping fog of the monsoon, to all sor-
did places. She smoldered a few days more, turning more
and more pale. She tried to stay apart from the rest of the
haengjas, but we only pressed more tightly to her, out of
magnetism or some other ungodly force. Finally she fell
sick and crept to her cell.
Life, since its impetus, has fought to exist. To relinquish
the fight is to become extinct. How to live in this world?
Here the basic tenants of Buddhism, of not being attached
to anything, apply, but these must be tempered against
the human instinct to take everything that it can — what
gave rise to the Republic.
“…the truth, which is old as history itself, that law, in its es-
sence, is bound to be transgressed.”
Albert Camus (1913-1960)
I
t was a surreal moment — the mass of pedestrians,
the pre-70’s occidental buildings, the black govern-
ment cars with heavy tinted windows, the barking
PA and flaring lights — as if we were waiting for tear
gas and rubber bullets. The bullets never came. Instead
a number of small cannons were wheeled out. Strange
hoover-chrome machines, they exploded in unison as the
crowd counted to one. There was a flash, ribbons of silver
and gold mylar spewed out over the startled assemblage.
Pressed to attend another event, we’d just made it out of
the rush-hour subway; a solid hour of changing lines and
wandering the cavernous underground to city hall. In the
center of the square, surrounded by 5-lanes of traffic, stood
an enormous pink lotus, two-stories tall. It was fronted by
chorus girls in their show dresses. A few roadies in con-
cert shirts were still laying cable as the PA crackled and
squealed to life. A Korean monk grabbed the mic and
addressed the surging traffic and vacant office windows.
We eventually crossed the highway and fell into a flock
of young nuns. A stout figure, the abbess, pointed to Ti-
bor.
“No chewing gum!”
I was impressed with her keen eye, as he’d hardly moved
his mouth. He kept chewing, but kept it quiet. A busload
of Korean kids followed in white robes tied with yellow
and red ribbons, armed with double-sided drums. They
took over the 5-lane behind the chorus girls, barricaded by
a police line. Camera crews wheeled in with their blazing
lights as the important officials arrived, and shuffled to a
long table in front of us. The chorus girls hit the last note,
the drums ending in a sweaty flourish under the flash and
glam of the KBC.
As the cannons blasted confetti over us, the white-gloved
officials hit a row of switches on the table and the giant
lotus sparked to life. The monks began chanting and cir-
cumambulating through the blinding flashbulbs. The
crowd, drawn to us, pressed us tight against the glowing
pink, into the mirror black lenses, into the living rooms of
the Korean nation.
Soon after the haengjas were sent to a tryout for the ky-
oruk (lit. learning bridge), the boot camp for monastics,
both a method of weeding out the chaff and an indoctri-
nation into the order. Only a handful of foreigners had
attempted it, none of the Zen masters or teachers. It was
a new challenge unknown to the West.
Through the gate with Zosha in the lead, all of us with
our hands clasped in front; the day was overcast, factory
grey, tinged brown. The city’s rude, tarnished storefronts,
the stacks of condominiums with junk piled high against
the windows, a desolate showcase. Seoul reflected the
tone of the sky in concrete banality. When the sun finally
burned through it was strange to see the slanting, mercu-
rial rays, as if the impenetrable gloom were the true color.
The flowers glistened in the rain, perpetually gyrating
in transparent silk. Down into the subway, into the men-
tal projections and glancing intrusions of passion clearly
reflected in the smudged plexiglass. Worse the steps up to
the street, assaulted by the slow ascent of firm and tender
loins. Zosha remained a few paces ahead, her stiff move-
ments putting everything in sharp-edged focus.
The tryout was packed with sweaty Korean youth. The
only foreigners, we sat on the bare floor, with no cushion
of any kind, for eight full hours. We were only required
to listen, but how difficult! Because we were foreigners
we weren’t expected to understand the intricacies of their
form. Everyone in rapt attention, I could only search their
faces for some inclination of what was going on and grind
through the hours of heavy pain on the floor. Hot steam
blasted from my knees. A cold, numb feeling in the seat;
I was pushed to the limit of what I could endure.
We lined up for the formal lunch. Wonderful to stand
again, but we were quickly returned to the floor. Four
steel bowls sat coldly in front of me for an hour before
the lecture was done. All I wanted was to return to my
numbered spot on the floor, as if it would’ve been more
comfortable!
We ate quickly, darting glances at each other. Everyone
seemed to be making outrageous mistakes, so I relaxed
and shoved down the rice. Afterward we stood in line,
our feet pressed tightly together, waiting for the signal to
file back into the chamber.
A short nun with severe features swam in and out of fo-
cus for hours. All comforting gestures, she smiled broadly
and spoke in a soft, honeyed drone. She helped me several
times when I was lost, touched me with calm efficiency,
turned my books upright and to the right page, in and out
with the privilege of the master over a slave.
The speeches wore on, their heads floating above the
podium as the rain pounded outside. The light flickered
and spat until finally, at five sharp, the power went out.
The short nun rustled in the dark, lit only by two feeble
candles on the altar. She tapped the dead mic fruitlessly,
quieted by the hand of God.
The next day the clouds parted momentarily as the
courtyard filled with crashing cymbals and drums and
one bright, tiny trumpet that soared overhead in acid jazz
inflections. An endless line of bosalnims with bundles of
folded paper on their heads snaked out of the main hall,
led by the spitting trumpet. They wound through the
courtyard, spiraling around and back in a colorful pag-
eant. The bundles were a large sheet of paper, carefully
folded and tied, meant to cover their bodies during their
own funerals. I walked among them with a basket of
white linen, on the way to the laundry.
The chorus girls wore white instead of the usual pink.
White, the bright death of Asia: a glamour, a childlike
softness. They passed me on the stairs, had me trapped on
the landing as they squeezed past. Girlish laughter, flash-
ing eyes, their hands hurried to cover bosoms that showed
through a meager layer of white, a white that seemed un-
natural on their olive skin.
The banners, flags, and bundles of cut paper streamers
that filled the courtyard were piled over a rack of old pipes
and burned in a choking blaze. The trumpeting monk
cut through the smoke, surrounded by a field of followers
clutching their burial papers in the fading light. A slave
moon, turned fiercely round, filtered over the dispersing
crowd. The moon, matriarch of time in the East, had giv-
en us a leap year. It was the reason for the ceremony, but
more…
I was called to the office. The secretary shuffled pa-
pers in the back. When he noticed I’d taken a seat on the
couch, he stopped and joined me. He was a good man,
always laughing. And he had a beautiful young assistant
with smooth lips. I’d usually draw near her face to better
examine their soft texture. She’d speak as if nothing pe-
culiar were occurring, though her face would flush as the
distance between us narrowed to a paltry few inches.
The bus driver came in with a moist ear of corn, which
had just come into season. He presented it to my friend
in some sort of pagan mating ritual. She took a few small
bites and gave it to me. At the time I had no idea of the
significance of this delicate unfolding-of-the-flower, but
read it plainly enough on the face of the bus driver, who
began scowling and was short with me from then on. I
took the corn out to the forest and devoured it in private
like a simple beast.
A young monk tracked me down with a note from the
secretary. He grabbed me by the shoulder.
“Is it good? Yes? ...Sir… I’m sorry… because of the leap
year, an extra month is added to your haengja training.”
Low, the ground — prone. The damned moon! And
just as I’d fallen to my knees for the glory of the final few
weeks.
IS NEARLY IMPOSSIBLE
THERE CAN BE NO GREATER CHALLENGE
I WOULD SUGGEST A WILLINGNESS TO ACCEPT ANY NUMBER OF TRIALS
I
was an ant. A hundred-sixty men swarmed the big
hall. Everyone wore the same leggings, the poofed-
knee trousers, in forty shades of brown. I was
grabbed at and pushed, leaned on, pressed against, all of
us packed into a waiting room hardly big enough to hold
half our number.
The fully ordained monks, or bikkus, filed through.
They gave us forms to fill out, in Korean. Seven of them
came to check on me. They patted me on the back and
tried to reason with me. One of them finally turned the
sheet over and told me to write an essay.
“Why you want to be — monk?”
I don’t remember what I wrote. I know I didn’t have a
feel for it. If you look plainly at the example of the Buddha,
he left everything behind and kept on until he attained
enlightenment. There are those who insist that you can’t
understand Buddhism unless you study the sutras and
wear the brown, crimson, black, grey, or golden robes.
Certainly it’s more productive to be in a community set-
ting, to work together with other people, but the institu-
tion doesn’t guarantee enlightenment, or provide many
examples. And Zen has yet to adapt to Western society.
There are still many facets that are cultural, so one must
become a Korean in order to be successful at it, and to be-
come a Korean is a difficult thing.
The day began cross-legged on the same yellow floor,
the same snarl of aching joints and numbness, the same
relentless pain as the tryouts. The only difference was that
we were naked. Arms raised, everyone frail — skinny
legs, narrow backs, smooth and hairless — they checked
for scars, tattoos, searched our bags, our pockets, took
all of our things and dumped them in large boxes. We
kept only a few changes of clothes, our bedrolls, and a
toothbrush. Afterward we faced a panel of four judges in
succession. They tried to be stern with me, but, with no
translator, we could only nod back and forth.
“Kyoruk — difficult…”
A camera crew lit up the hall, shoved their lenses at me.
A target for anyone walking down the line, I was pes-
tered into a corner. Korea seduced me with her endless
fascination of the Western male, although the extent of it
was unnerving.
The panel of judges continued to examine each haeng-
ja in turn, a process that stretched on into the evening.
The windows blackened above the hard floor, the cool air
chiding, biting. It seemed impossible that at some point it
would all be over. I’d worn the slave costume for too long.
I’d forgotten what the outer world was like. The training
is very effective.
We lined up in formation a dozen times an hour, sat on
the cruel floor through the worst moments of pain I can
remember. When the last of them finally made it through,
I fell on my thin blanket, unconscious as soon as I hit the
floor.
The next day began at 3AM. Dark, the room was lit by
feeble fluorescents in a tone so dreary it always felt like
rain. Shafts of light cut through at odd moments, felt more
than seen. Even so you could feel the sun pass its zenith,
with a great feeling of relief on the floor — the rage of
midday dispelled, a fit of madness gone.
It was the yellow floor that illumed the room, as if the
sun were shining underneath lumps of tallow, each pre-
cisely placed a yard apart. We slept in the same spot, near-
ly touching. We stretched and walked around in the few
minutes between lectures, but the floor was never taken
away from us, and it was used mercilessly. The only way
through was to give in. I switched positions every few
minutes. The pain was so great I thought my heart would
stop. I was left with nothing more than a spasming foot,
but it left me frightened of what I must endure.
A few bikkus paced the ranks with long sticks carried
over their shoulders. They used them to tap legs into align-
ment, or to rattle us awake. If I fell asleep I got the stick,
but listening to hours of their lectures shoved me to the
brink. I swam from near unconsciousness to a wary at-
tention to the stick wielders, who stepped out of the shad-
ows as soon as my eyes narrowed. One way or another I
had to pull myself out of the black. It was the whole of my
training, to endure. I fell asleep a dozen times an hour, for
seconds only — not enough to let the muscles go slack. I
often found myself writing notes with eyes nearly closed,
words and sentences coming out in dream fragments, oc-
casional lines and smudges on the page when I’d blink
out.
The lectures began with all of us on our knees. When the
teacher made his entrance we’d prostrate three times, and
back to our knees. At some point he’d tell us to “get com-
fortable,” meaning to sit cross-legged, but sometimes he’d
forget, or something more sinister, and we’d be trapped in
that painful position until one of the bikkus intervened.
I let myself sink into it one morning, forced to hold a
kneeling pose for far too long with an old monk lean-
ing on the microphone. I writhed in place for an endless
time, wrenching, wringing my hands, nearly moaning
out loud. I made it through, but a hollow victory, for the
next lecture had me back on my knees, feeling the pain
welling up again — out of juice, unable to bear it, and do-
ing it anyway.
One of the haengjas nudged me in the storeroom. He
whispered to me in thick Australian English, “There’s
problem… your eating.”
He was a native Korean who’d spent several years abroad
as a bush pilot. Big and dark skinned, he sliced through
the ranks like a linebacker. He was always fooling around
behind the scenes, a friend to everyone.
We had only two meals a day, breakfast and lunch. They
were both formal. There was no time to shove down a
good portion, so I put the rice in with the rest. The bikkus
were outraged. No mixing allowed! The rules were very
strict about this. Everything had to be eaten separately,
with the bowl held over the mouth to conceal it. The rice
was so bland I could only get down a small amount, but
the miso soup, a wonderful stock from the bean mash
loaves that wintered under the eaves of Korea, saved me
time and again. Even stripped down to only broth and
cabbage, it was delicious.
My etiquette improved, so the bikkus moved Songwon
beside me. He was the only one who spoke more than a
few words of English. He straightened out all the things
I was doing wrong and translated the important an-
nouncements (very few were important). I enjoyed him
immensely. He helped bring the rest of the haengjas into
my world. Despite the torturous conditions, it was a warm
community of souls.
“Think of anything but rice.”
He went over some of the finer points with me. We were
instructed to attend one-month classes twice a year for the
next four years, in-between winter and summer kyolches.
I made a mental note to see how things were going back
in the States.
On the fourth day we marched over to the shower in
military fashion. As we moved from place to place each
row formed a line, then waited for permission to move.
We couldn’t walk anywhere unless in a group of three or
more, often causing a hundred men to crowd the latrine
— survival of the fittest.
The floor was packed with squirming haengjas splash-
ing tubs of water over their heads, a hundred-sixty men
in near panic; a Korean centipede of wiry, meatless bod-
ies bathing each other at top speed. I found a razor in a
soap dish, but it belonged to the old monk above it, who
made it plain whose razor it was. I grabbed a small tub
and crouched down, barely touched a discarded razor to
my head before a haengja flung himself at me. I never
saw his face. As I stood up to find a mirror, someone else
offered to do me. I apologized, as he seemed put out, and
fished my way between a dozen buttocks. Everyone was
bent over at the waist jamming their asses out and look-
ing for someone to shave — a good bunch.
I found a spare shower next to a mirror, with several
haengjas beneath it. A shady face greeted me. Four days
growth gave me the look that caused so many delightful
problems back home. I sighed, and shaved it off.
After the first week all the boys began to writhe in place.
We were all in agony. I was the worst, with one knee stick-
ing out, covered in a heavy sweat, with salt streaks every-
where. Our torment had everyone toeing the line, not a
renegade in sight. They had our attention.
The latrine collected a troop of haengjas on the side fac-
ing stream. It was the only place out of view of the bik-
kus. I was left there a few times a day after following my
line. I never knew where they were going! Every day a
flock of them would gather around, the braver ones at the
front.
I enjoyed playing a small part in their society, though I
often had to convince them that I couldn’t speak Kore-
an. It was hard for them to fathom. How could I survive
without understanding the lectures?
Songwon remarked, “It’s as if the heart’s been ripped
out!”
One by one I spoke with every one of them behind that
latrine, standing in the sun for our precious seconds of
liberty.
Along with the daily lectures we did three long pro-
grams of sutra chanting. I was often stuck on my knees
listening to the rest of them. I didn’t know most of the
chants, and the ones that were familiar had odd phrasing.
It struck me that the sounds held a great deal of meaning
to them. The history of man, when taken back a million
years, eradicates dogma. The societies who were able to
cultivate crops dominated, to paraphrase Jared Diamond,
and slaughtered the rest. This more clearly defines the
phenomenon of humanity to me, the movement of nature
as it struggles against the limitations of the phenomenal
world, but there were many on the floor that worshipped
the text and, in one way or another, looked down on my
shoddy education.
“You must study sutras before you can meditate.”
I nodded. “Yes, of course…”
“The true Way is sublime. It can’t be expressed in language. Of
what use are scriptures? But someone who sees his own nature
finds the Way, even if he can’t read a word.”
Bodhidharma (440-528)
D
own to the subtropics of the deep South, the
years fell away through the long miles, the old
truck drifting past narrow, chewed roads to
clear-cut fields. Pine trees flashed in skinny rows between
cow pastures, soybeans. The strong yellow light stream-
ing through towering clouds above, I felt enveloped in a
dream, more of a dream than the images I carried with
me — stinking, sweltering.
I met the family at the homestead, showed my legs fresh
from the cruel floors of the kyoruk. They were covered in
calluses their entire length, my knees swollen and red. My
mother shouted and grabbed one of them to get a closer
look.
“Dang! What did they do to you?”
The Mennonite community was nearly gone, assimilat-
ed piecemeal into the redneck world as their farms fell
through. The only big industry, pulpwood, grew in ex-
panding plots that devoured the hardwood forests. Har-
vested extensively, acres of stumps and rotting limbs were
often all that remained, burned off to further add to the
desolation.
The ruined forests poured silt into the brackish creek,
threatening the environment still more. Not to be out-
done, my father cut down all of the big trees on his own
land, but there nature sprang back — the fields grew thick
with black-eyed susans, dandelions, reeds, and waist-
high stalks of crabgrass. The forests, overgrown with bri-
ars, were parceled off into large blocks leased to hunting
clubs, fenced in barbed wire, crawling with armed men.
My father pulled through. Newly charged with a vein
from his leg, his heart sprang back to life. A red, crinkled
scar ran from his neck to his foot; a thousand staples all
the way down.
“They really cut me this time. Look at that!”
After a few weeks they brought him back and took the
leg. They sent us a hydraulic sling to move him in and
out of bed. I sat with him for awhile, watching him feel
around for a scrap of food. His eyes were gone, his world
narrowed to what he could hear of us from the back of the
house, and what he could feel out on the bed and night-
stand. He gestured to me, to the wrong side of the room.
He finally found me and grabbed me with his good arm.
I was surprised how much strength he had.
“I’ll be walking out of here pretty soon.”
I looked out the window. “I’m sure you will.”
He knew he was dying, but refused to acknowledge it,
the same stubbornness that cost him his eyes and limbs.
He wouldn’t listen to the doctors, or monitor his insulin
levels. He could’ve lived much longer, and without the
macabre end.
I leaned over the bed. “I love you Dad.”
It was strange to acknowledge him, as if I were an an-
gel, my words cumbersome, but I would not let him die
without hearing it from me. His eyes moved slightly. He
refused to respond otherwise. He communicated with me
subliminally. He named me after his great uncle, a hobo
who rode the rails and died there, crushed underneath
a train. I heard the story from my mother. My father al-
ways kept to himself, unless I made too much noise, or
somehow got in the way. What I remember most were his
three rules:
“Never buy a house, never buy a car, and never get mar-
ried.”
He was sullen, angry. I remember falling off a tricycle in
the house and being dragged away by the arm. He threw
the damned thing out in the yard, doused it with gas, and
set it on fire!
I can’t say anything about my mother. She had her own
troubled childhood. According to her, from the way she
was raised, she didn’t know how men were supposed to
behave. It was a tough environment to grow up in. There
was only the razing through the fields, the smell of the
myrtle, the flight of the crow. There was no place, or rea-
son, to stop, but for the overall feeling of the place to be-
come ingrained in me, and with it a new layer of com-
plexity or meaning.
To know a field of weeds I would walk through it for
long periods, with no concern for time. Anyway, there
was no place to go, and no end of field after field. I would
walk until my legs were wooden, the smell of the wild
grasses worked into my skin and hair. As an awareness
of a deeper reality gradually became known, my relation
to everything was permanently altered. In the early days
there was a great deal of turmoil. Because there was no
framework or shoulder to lean on, my environment so
wild, I was something feral. A large part of it was a sur-
vival mechanism against the townsfolk who openly sought
me out — to deride me. A great amount of time and en-
ergy was given to surviving the onslaught, which blessed
me with a wonderfully thick skin. Of course I was drawn
to the heat, but even then I found no reason to engage
them. Nature sets plenty of fires on her own. It’s a privi-
lege to stand apart, to observe the ceaseless functioning,
to become aware of the underlying structure. It’s this cu-
riosity, this undying need to comprehend, that inculcates
the sage, for in the bare perception the witness is made
immune, to any sort of calamity — in fact is enriched by
it, and adapts organically to the perception, gradually be-
coming aware of the underlying truths.
I consider these experiences the most important of my
life, where I learned the most, where I began to unravel
the mysteries, though I had no feeling for my own path
that would spring out of the darkness. The immensity of
the human soul! It’s a mystery that I came to anything. I
felt trapped by the boundaries set before me, and too self-
conscious among my peers. There was no way to salvage
me. Whatever I did, I believed I could never escape my
origin. If I was born into an intolerable situation, I must
be intolerable. If my existence was of no consequence,
why not set things on fire?
My father had no flash of insight, no time to cultivate
something meaningful. He was always grasping at things,
and finally betrayed by them; the same for all of us — for
what did we know of his yearnings? It must be unimag-
inably hard to come to such an end. The confused feel-
ings I had were lost to an overbearing pity. I couldn’t stay
with him long, a few sentences. I wanted to connect with
him in some way, but I could find no way in. It was too
late for him.
I made a pirogue in his workshop as I waited for him
to stabilize. I needed a constant flow of work to keep my
head together. I don’t know why creative work is so nour-
ishing for me. I don’t question it anymore. I took the truck
an hour north to the Kisatchie River. Drifting down the
slow moving waters, dark brown, heavily scented with
magnolia and dogwood, dusted with pollen and flow-
ers strewn from overhanging vines — I was intoxicated.
There were long sandbars at every bend, with tall virgin
pines, oaks, and many wild trees and vines unknown to
me. The creek flattened to wide sandstone shelves, the
water cascading down tiny steps for a half-mile of gentle
rapids. I found a spot under a golden beech tree and sank
into the moist earth.
In my youth it was the high point of a day, finding a new
clearing or bend in the creek. Here the dream entered life
— a totem. The site was tended carefully, a trail cleared,
hours spent in one spot or other, absorbing the goings on,
watching the birds and squirrels, the play of light. This
could be, and often was, the extent of a day, and the search
for more totems when the excitement faded.
More of a mystery as I grew older, the totem became
indistinguishable from my habits and tendencies, from
my own identity. There’s no real difference between the
movement of nature and the movement of the subcon-
scious. One mirrors the other: the roads, maps, names,
settings, aggregation of people in certain sites; the group
sentiment, national perspective; the wisdom of the crowd,
the dream — the same long conversation with the self,
the same sort of intimacy that’s Godlike in equanimity —
explained in the bend of the river, the dead tree decaying
on the forest floor. But we’ve lost our feel for nature. We
dominate it, as if it were something separate. The tragic
results are in the news every day. More subtle, and because
of it more insidious, is the damage to our own psyche. The
will is exhausted by logical design, its boundaries.
As the light began to fall a swarm of mosquitoes de-
scended on me. I’d forgotten how bloodthirsty they were!
I stumbled through the forest with the pirogue overhead.
My back was covered with bites before I made it to the
truck.
The money, everything I had, quickly ran out. Monk or
no, I had to pay my way. There wasn’t much on the job
front, and what little there was had been picked clean by
those who’d stayed behind. All the men of my time faced
a tough choice: to leave the South in search of a career,
or stay and become part of the ruined fabric, the burn-
ing pair of eyes at the back of the line. Those who stayed
were shut off from the world. If not stupefied from long
hours baked alive in pulpwood forests, they drove count-
less miles, sealed in air-conditioned trucks — to indus-
trial plants, paper mills, refineries, oil rigs. Their spirits
dimmed by the stifling conditions, their flames nearly
snuffed out, they became boring, repetitive, of little use to
anyone but their own clans, mistrustful of strangers.
These men respect only their own kind, or else the hero.
It’s easy to fathom their desperate need of one. If you were
new in town you wouldn’t have an easy time of it, but if
you could command a room, well that’s a different matter
entirely. Ghosts of the revolution, formed on the dregs of
a nation, the wounded pride of their fathers, the impos-
sible conditions and meager rewards, there’s a pervasive
darkness, one that has no glamour. Apart from the badge
of the modern cowboy, the historical loner, the rebel with-
out a cause — misunderstood as a rule — the anger and
prejudice and wounded pride of the Southern man con-
tinues on.
I finally found work at a paper mill, putting up scaf-
folding inside an eleven-story boiler. It was brutal step-
ping back into the labor pool. I carried heavy brackets up
and down eleven levels of iron grate, my shoulder scraped
raw, spit flying through the cracks, steam blasting out ev-
erywhere. Trucks moved constantly below with wooden
benches full of men in hard hats. The air was pungent
with pulp mash, the paint worn off where hands and feet
had found purchase, the metal brown underneath. Steam
whistles, clouds of vapor, leaking valves dripping sting-
ing hot sulfur; everything hot to the touch. The furnace
flames groaned like jet engines, as hot as the sun.
We wore harnesses inside the boiler, tied off through
the open ports. I stayed near the top, passing material
through pipes that hung down from the ceiling in long
loops like a church organ. The inside was dark as night,
with a few dim lamps strung out for us. The cavernous
chamber echoed with shouts and the clang and bang of
the crew hammering the scaffold together to reach us,
eight stories below.
My helper was a tough little Cajun from Pitkin. He had
a squinty eye; a peculiar way of moving sideways.
“You ever seen rooster’s fight?”
“No… heard about it in Mexico.”
“Well most places have it as far as I know.”
As I drew close to hear him, I noticed a strange pattern
sprayed across his cheeks.
“What happened to your face?”
“Well, one night I was cutting cross’ the fields and when
I got to old man Peterson’s yard he pulled a shotgun on
me. I waved at him but he thought I was a coon — guess
it was too dark. Man, everything was on fire!”
He was odd. I couldn’t tell if he was a man or woman un-
til he began talking about his wife. He flapped around the
upper levels with me, jabbering about his prized roosters.
We clung to the pipes and shouted through the din.
“Are you military?”
“No. I’m a Buddhist monk.”
He had no ready answer for me, but his eyes spoke vol-
umes. I was the cult member, the freak selling flowers at
the airport. Word got around. Trashcan, a newly released
inmate, was the next one down the line.
“You look like a mass murderer. You better not sneak in
my winder.’ I got it locked just in case you were wonder-
in.’ I bet you done followed me home. You know where I
live, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t mess with you, Trashcan. I’d probably take
one of the smaller ones.”
“Yeah…” he boomed, laughing, “a knife would do me
just the same. I know you want to carve me to a steak.”
High on the catwalk he slammed a heavy pipe into my
groin. I’d been through it before, knew what was in store
if I didn’t stand my ground.
I shouted back, sweat streaming down my face, “Hey,
watch it!”
He tensed, drew his muscular body into a wall.
I slapped his hardhat, “Watch what you’re doing.”
He pawed at me viscously, knocking my hat off. I watched
it fall eleven stories down and slam into the grimy soil. He
waited until I looked back at him.
“Don’t touch me motherfucker! I’ll throw you over the
side!”
The air was cool blowing through the grate. The wind
whistled around my naked head, turning the sweat into a
greasy mask. A party of supervisors stood nearby, caught
in the spectacle.
“That’s enough…”
Another month and I was the only one left. Thirty had
filtered through the cracks. It wasn’t that I was better
than them, or stronger. I needed the money. I took what
I’d saved and bought a ticket out, back to the Zen center
in LA.
My father clung stubbornly to what remained of his life.
Forced to stay in the hospital for long periods, his insur-
ance was stretched to the limits. My sister pleaded with me
to help with the payments. Unfortunately, in the Korean
monastic system you don’t work in society. If my father
would have died simply, cleanly, my life would have been
different. But nature doesn’t fit any mold. I arranged a
meeting with the Patriarch.
“My father’s very sick. My sister says they’ll lose the in-
surance policy if they can’t make the payments. I need to
work.”
“No! If you want to help your father, go back to Korea
and do a kido (lit. chanting retreat).”
What a difficult position! There was no one I respected
more in the world than the Patriarch, but my father, ob-
stinate, lonely, there was no hope for him. Could I turn
my back on him in his hour of need? Does the Zen monk
alone hold the high ground?
THE RETURN TO THE WORLD
IT CAN’T BE REASONED OUT
EITHER YOU REMAIN FOREVER ON THE OUTSKIRTS
OR SOME CONCESSIONS ARE MADE
IT’S THE CROSSROADS
THE POINT WHERE YOUR LIFE’S WORK WILL FIND PURCHASE
TO EMULATE IT
WEIGHS IT DOWN WITH THE HUMAN NEED OF APPEASEMENT
THE VERY THING WE SEEK TO GO BEYOND
THE WHOLE BUSINESS IS TIRESOME
BUT IT HAS BROUGHT YOU HERE
fourteen. NOE’MI
T
he Zen center in LA was more of a hostel, with
junkies on the mend, travelers who used it as a
convenience. There was little of the protestant
vibe, but there was no teacher. I helped run the dharma
room, managed the house and bought groceries, and con-
tinued to write, which only added more fuel to the fire.
The book quickly began to dominate. The constraint of
the cloth, the apathy of the residents, who had no passion
for practice or any sort of deep question — there wasn’t
anything contradictory between me and the heavens, but
that conviction was easily lost in the dull pattern of days.
Noe’mi was a welcome break in the routine. I knew only
fragments of her: an exposed arm, an ass revealed in tor-
tured spandex; a square, regal ass; an ass that spoke of long
days pressed into creaky antique furniture soaked down
with lemon oil. Red orange hair cropped short, framed
her face in a strange way, ridiculous. Her nose flared in
the heat. She was always hot. Her eyes, small and difficult
to get around, were constantly lit in a hedonistic frenzy.
She squirmed like a worm on a hook, competed with me
in a childish way.
“Have you ever been to South America? Of course not,
you couldn’t survive it! You’d be scared — to — death!
You couldn’t handle it! There’s mercenaries everywhere;
spiders as big as your hand. You sleep under mosquito
netting or you’d just die; big cats run wild — you can
hear them screaming at night, so many noises. You feel
like something’s going to steal — your — body!”
Impossible to find the ground with her. I knew some-
thing was missing; I had a thousand reasons except the
right one, her manipulations masked by my desire to
possess her. Something stirred in her, but I was too ripe,
too sentimental… fluids lost, turned sour with turmoil;
knuckles scraped from the floor, spine out of joint — de-
licious on the outside. She sensed something wrong about
me. I was a new taste she could not resist. I mistook her
lust for something more. The feeding was long and slow.
My vows kept her from getting her tongue into me. The
anguish! She boiled and seethed, fastened herself to me,
took me out on many occasions, paying for everything.
We began to talk openly of our feelings for each other, to
seek each other out during the spare moments. But every
word was a cover for something undefined, perhaps noth-
ing but a feeding instinct. I was forced to watch her body
language and to work on what was underneath through
clues of this sort.
She became impassive, withdrawn. For two weeks she
would hardly speak with me. Flattened under the new
day, full of despair and unable to shake it, finally the chill
became unbearable.
“What’s going on with you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She wouldn’t breathe a word inside the Zen center. It
was another week before I managed a few moments with
her, following behind on errands. She spoke over her
shoulder, without looking back.
“We were being stupid. Indulging. You’re a monk. We
have to cut it.”
She wavered and succumbed a dozen times after, the
robes between us, lost and more denial and more. The
drama unfolded in delicious layers of rot, the flame di-
minished, everything ludicrous — all lies and sticky limbs,
sweet breath, words careening on a flimsy surface, empty
desire, a game of seduction with no winner in sight, and
both of us weary for the distance.
The family’s need for money only increased. The extrac-
tion, like everything else, was slow and tedious. Pulled
back and forth to keep the precepts or give them back, the
core became molten, spilling hot lava through my ears.
If there had been a break for me, the demands on me
lessened… the Buddha had everything before entering
the path, an entire kingdom. My crude upbringing yield-
ed more a cloud of yearning, which had to be acknowl-
edged. It was so intense that, though I had some sense of
what I should do, many things from that time only make
sense now, from a distance.
Noe’mi took me to a local bar. Martinis in the courtyard;
she walked over and kissed me. I was aflame with the
powerful musk at the back of her neck. I ran my hands
over her body and felt her moist sex.
The days after were thick, haunted with memories of
her.
“I could kiss you forever,” she whispered.
The walk home, the brief interludes on the dark street;
the night flashed like gunpowder. It was all that ever
passed between us. She left for Paris soon after. I found a
note under my door:
A man at sea, salted with the spray of estrogen and spit, cir-
cling inside an icy gale that selflessly rips him apart at the seams.
Natural instinct. No blame can be given. Better to be kept out
at sea mingling only with the creatures of the deep than to blow
ashore like a load of dynamite.
Days mangled together; I fell — consumed. Whipping
to the queue, the morning sinking until she strode out,
the evening brought down by her return, her door was
slammed and locked. The rejection was total, deceiv-
ing, masking something not spoken, an anxious pulling
apart that left nothing alone; a strain beyond familiarity;
a stretch of silk pulled tight over the face, distorting —
the gauze sunlight stained, strained.
Peaking, shuffling, preening, no desire for sustenance
but to keep the strength, to keep moving. The desire of
conquest, union unfulfilled. Everything rancid, the mo-
ments vague with sorrow, lost potential. The kiss. Both
of us in black, looking away, drawn tighter for the lack.
The layers of abuse, all of them still fresh, one supporting
the other… she pretended not to care, but closed down,
locked herself in her room, looked to me in anguish, an-
guish, frustration, repression. Her eyes!
Not speaking, we camped in our separate rooms, for-
aged for food in the shared kitchen when hunger drove
us out. Passing her in the hall a soft aquiescence. Sad mu-
sic and incense wafted under her door, with the smell of
her mixed in.
Hours, days… no sign of weakening; compromise an in-
cremental movement in the pitch black. To approach her
would allow another thrust of the knife. Unwilling to give
comfort, instead wanting more — more damage, more
drama. Hot to the cold, hellish core. A sleepless night; in-
between the cracks a sputtering ray, flames. I paced the
streets constantly. Fiercely trained to rip and slash through
the mental swamp, I began laughing hoarsely.
Dreams — the love and comfort and security, the warm
bed at the end of the day, the fragrant witch musk on my
clothes — every thread consumed in a fiery collapse; an
empty pit of longing, the emptiness rampant.
The unappeased heroine, her spandex leopard skin un-
touched, her bed cold; beneath her window a thousand
cigarettes, the stars gleaming in a far away dream — soli-
tude. The crime of it! She turned me out… nothing more
to devour.
“I want someone I can be proud of.”
The shock settled into my bones, hysteria slowly filtered
out. Persecuted for five long months, finally she burned
the swaying bridge between us and raised her filthy wings
to the updraft, and fell to the ground.
SEASON THREE
THE FALL
ALL THE THINGS THAT CAUSE ONE CONCERN
ABOUT THE INSTITUTION
ARE BUT A NATURAL OUTGROWTH OF
THE LOVE FOR A SAINT
TO BECOME A SAINT IN YOUR OWN REGARD
REQUIRES A BREAK FROM IT
THERE ARE NO EASY ANSWERS
THOUGH YOU MAY HAVE A THOUSAND RETREATS TO YOUR CREDIT
IT DOESN’T TRANSLATE TO ANYTHING TANGIBLE
YOU MAY FIND THAT ALL OF YOUR GOOD YEARS
ARE SWALLOWED IN THE PURSUIT OF DHARMA
WITH NOTHING TO SHOW FOR IT
THOUGH IT MAY SEEM A COLOSSAL WASTE
IT’S ONLY ANOTHER MEANINGLESS DEMARCATION
IF YOU SURVIVE THE FALL
WITH ALL OF YOUR FACILITIES INTACT
IT’S THE BEST POSSIBLE OUTCOME
FOR YOUR INNER LIFE HAS BEEN FIRMLY ESTABLISHED
AND IN A VERY REAL SENSE
THE PRACTICE HAS JUST BEGUN
THOUGH THERE ARE NO PAPERS TO PROVE YOUR YEARS OF STUDY
NO DIPLOMA OR POSITION
OR EVEN A MEANS TO SURVIVE IN THE WORLD
YOU’VE DONE THE WORK
THAT’S REQUIRED TO LIVE FREELY
AND WHAT’S A BIT OF SADNESS TO ONE ON THE PATH
A
t the Zen center things stirred under the sur-
face, unknown to me. One of the directors
started a campaign to oust nearly everyone. I’d
seen it before. Those that become established drive out
those that don’t fit the mold. Instead of approaching the
sangha as a great resource, it’s king of the hill, and orga-
nized religion is a tough game.
I was holding some cash in a drawer in my room for the
groceries. I’d take a five out now and then, but always put
it back. I told the head monk about it — to keep things on
the level. Neither of us had any money, so it was necessary
if we were to survive. The same rules applied to a junkie
who’d moved in, who would sneak into my room and
steal the grocery money to buy heroin. I didn’t figure this
out until years later. The director accused me of stealing
from the temple. I thought it was about the five dollars, so
it got away from me. She demanded that I be thrown out,
for this and other atrocities of similar fabrication. As the
push to the street began to mount, a strange thing hap-
pened. As I stood in the garden one afternoon a car pulled
in slowly, stopping inches from me. The passenger door
swung open, revealing a beautiful Korean woman in a
black dress who motioned to me.
“Get in.”
This is where the story gets complicated. The woman,
Kye Soen, was my liberator, as you will see, but it’s not
what you think. I stayed with her briefly, but she was on
a different path, one of PHD’s, BMW’s, and designer fur-
niture. What she required from a man was a pile of mon-
ey and a storehouse of compliments. Ah well... the light
played on the sidewalk the way it always had, but there
was a long period of digesting all that had occurred and
reorienting myself to the world. Full of exaltation and a
new creative fire, it was marvelous to let it come alive like
a new voice, a new soul. All of the dark parts found their
beauty through this new channel, and so were grasped,
taken in, poured over, delighted in. Whatever can be said
for structure, discipline, long study — the same for find-
ing the resonance, the pattern of things, the flow of na-
ture beyond reach of the institution. One builds on the
other, until the mind becomes spontaneously aware. Hav-
ing said this, it was a very dark time.
The links of the chain, so clearly set, so dull… the end
of the witch affair left me doubly free: free of an agoniz-
ing ordeal, a bloody knot of an aborted birth that couldn’t
struggle out of its own placenta; free of the robes that con-
tained our struggle, that made everything I strove for im-
possible. Since I was forced to adapt externally, it created
a sort of funnel. The fire of practice began to work its way
through to life on the surface.
From the Zen center to the streets of LA — a tingling,
warm feeling and the sharp taste of metal and blood.
Dark, lethal, ready to stand against the tide of obligations
I had coming to me, I found work as a carpenter for a
temp agency. It was day to day, but sometimes a job would
last a week or more. Down in a dark basement someone
handed me a wire brush and pointed to a low pit.
“That’s your job.”
He smiled, pleased he’d found someone to crawl down
in the filthy hole. It was off his hands. I couldn’t see what it
was until I ambled over to it. Deep inside the narrow shaft
I found a snarl of rebar with cement splattered through it.
I worked the iron clean. The air thick with form oil, my
lungs filled with the foul air. Worn to a ridiculous state,
I teetered between menacing dark moods and a mind
devoid of feeling. My mind festered; a thousand curses
under the breath. I pressed on to the nose-bleed end of
the day — the stray dog desolation, the driving, mewling
lack; the soaring moments over the briars and overgrown
fields, turning in circles in the tall weeds, sinking, peering
through tiny gnats and dust motes…
Before I climbed out of the hole I discovered my father
had stocks hidden away. It made my sacrifice pointless,
a ridiculous waste! I couldn’t fight my way back into the
monastery; a man once freed is more or less gone. I re-
turned to Louisiana to watch over him through the last
weeks of his life. Deathly pale, covered in a cold sweat, he
clung to the sheets like he was sailing into a tempest.
“I-can’t-do-this-anymore...”
He held to whatever scrap of life left him until he was
hardly human. I was of no use. I couldn’t relieve his fears
of annihilation — it was for him alone. The usual course
unravels here. What use the things of this world? The
problem of our mortality is nearly always put off until the
end. Rather than apprehending life at its source, we’re
encouraged to fill the void with distractions. Along the
trail of life few manage to get to the bottom of it, yet the
question of our existence is arguably the most important
we face. Fortunately for him, the struggle was soon over.
I landed a job as lead carpenter of a martini bar in the
Wilshire district. Coming from nowhere, I had to work
like a madman. As I struggled to plow through the thou-
sand responsibilities I got a letter from Rhoda. Since I’d
returned the monk’s robes, I was given the rank of “senior
dharma teacher” and expected to pay dues to the school. I
wrote her a brief note explaining my difficulties, asking,
“Why, after all I’ve gone through, do you only contact me
to ask for money?” She wrote a very short reply.
“I rest your robes.”
After all my years with the school, I was thrown out
over a few dollars!
“Would you like me, I said, without for a single moment think-
ing of Heraclites, to get down in the gutter?”
Samuel Beckett (1906-1989)
TO ESCAPE, TO WRITE
sixteen. DOWNTOWN
T
o stay adrift, not concerned with land or sea,
or being underground; not caring about mov-
ing from place to place. Things went by the
window like a halothane dream. The train rose above the
horizon. No more dismal walls covered with graffiti, the
only modern art that resonates with me, we edged by rows
of RV’s in the dirt below and a field of LA’s long, flat roofs
with people standing in the parking lots. The sun roasted
me alive in the thing of metal and sorrow and grime. On
to the freeway, the tracks wedged between lanes like an
afterthought. Oppressive, loud, the stop bristled with the
noise of hurtling traffic like a hornet’s nest.
Inside the car, fragments of a thousand stories, thoughts
alive and submerged — the voices drowned each other
out; a filter of human noise. It always gives me a sense of
ease and contentment: the crush of humanity, the con-
stant press of the crowd. There’s something about careen-
ing through underground tunnels in a cabin full of bad
air — the strange hysteria, endless fights, loud guys sell-
ing candy, vagrants, derelicts, stowaways, and young girls
talking over the seats.
The tunnel flashed blue fluorescent over the young wom-
en near the door. Impossible to be young and not beauti-
ful. The flickering light revealed an older Asian couple. I
watched the woman shuffle behind her husband, resigned
to her role, crushed by the twisted circumstances that had
brought them there. I could sense their hard times as if
it were a scene in a movie; the troubling lack of the final
note.
A pregnant woman shuffled in carrying a baby in a bas-
ket. The world is filled to the brim and still the madness to
procreate. Was there something about her that the world
needed more of? But nature surges forward ceaselessly,
there’s no end to the flow of it. Our long fight to dominate
the earth has led to a resounding victory. How many ani-
mals have gone extinct in front of us? Now it seems only
the domesticated ones will survive, and their cousins the
garbage eaters. The forests are now trampled. It’s hard to
get a good, strong dose of the wild. There’s so much to be
gleaned from an overgrown field of weeds, a quiet hour
in a deep forest, so much that can’t be conveyed otherwise
— the movement of the crow from one field to the next.
The train lurched at every stop like a watermelon truck
with a full load — good for the digestion. Eight blocks
to downtown and the wheels froze in place. My preg-
nant friend, now with a young male pierced in her talons,
screeched into her cell phone.
“Of course you don’t care, you’re just hanging out with
your friends! You’re so ungrateful! Why do you spend so
much time with them?”
No logic there. She cut off after a long pause, tired of lis-
tening to the dial tone. I looked at her face, curious. The
frontal lobes had expanded twice the normal size, her eyes
swollen under a Cro-Magnon brow. Did she notice me?
No… I’d glanced away fast enough. You can look at any
man or beast for half a second, even a postpartum woman,
as long as it doesn’t show on the face.
The train stalled so long that everyone began leaving. I
grabbed my satchel and got in line behind a wall of cement
and a chain-link fence. The outbound train had plowed
through a car, killing the occupants, but our train was
spared. Our cagey mood evaporated on the sunny street
as we fanned out around the crumpled car. A thousand
souls, the smell of sulphur and ozone, the group surging,
someone shouting over us, to not be drowned in the sheer
numbers; a primitive leaning not fully felt out to the end,
for it’s usually a delight that the individual is made quiet.
The long walk with the bad knee had me leaning against
walls, clinging to lampposts. I pulled out a scrap of paper
and wrote down a long stream of words, reckless, boil-
ing over with things coming out of me faster than I could
take them down. Like the feeling in a room after some-
one dies, the crackling violence of a house burning, of ev-
erything lost. I was stricken, lost in it. I gave it free reign.
After all, what was there to defend?
Nothing is benign in this mad life of transformation to
transformation. No single thing exists that didn’t claw
its way out of the depths. Every word was wrung out
through ceaseless pacing. Through my own suffering I
gave rise to it, so if anything I wanted to suffer more, to
add more fuel, more velocity, ferocity; to burn on the spot,
as if my existence were a thing to be squeezed and sucked
dry. The work was solar, the heat and all things radiating
from it. At best I was consumed in a sort of fusion, where
time and space had no meaning, matter and energy were
transformed; I was transformed in the blaze, and lost to
it — a conflagration of the soul.
I passed the corporate branding, eyes staring out of ev-
ery crevice, they stared without blinking. Some sang qui-
etly to themselves; a city of ants carrying things over their
heads, following each other in small groups. I was en-
tranced by the pattern, the way things crested and broke
apart, the random silences together with some dynamic
power emanating from every corner, every hole. In the
crowd all is melted in the heat of union, all signals mixed;
a whirling energy that almost becomes something of its
own: the hive mind. Not yet, but soon we will move to-
ward this. Already it informs us, drives us like a light in
the forest. The work of Zen is to inculcate this awareness
— a mind open to all things, all points of view. Though
how we will live in the future is impossible to delineate,
some sort of mind to mind connection, like cloud com-
puting, is unavoidable.
Kardashev, and after him Michio Kaku, both physicists,
defined three levels of civilization. With ours not yet free
of fossil fuels, we haven’t reached level one. A level two
civilization would be capable of harnessing the sun, three
the entire galaxy. Their colleagues extend it further, to
the point that we could escape a dying universe through
a hole in space, or create a new universe entirely; the eter-
nal cycle.
The singularity event, the birth of the cosmos, could it
be the work of an advanced civilization before us? This
could explain the dark matter the makes up a large part
of the universe: old particles that have lost their fire from
universes unknown, as even the atom has a lifespan.
For now we must deal with the individual, and every one
with their own requirements. I followed a knot of them
into the train station. Hardly room to stand two abreast,
the line folded back and there was some confusion about
where we should go; a thousand different stories racing
like mad across their faces. It was something like silence.
The door opened and closed as shadows moved across the
glass, the room packed full, everyone waiting, nodding
off, buffeted into place like spores, growing mycelium
under the street.
T
he days rolled in like a thunderhead, as dark
and restless. The light fell the same whether I
was there or not, held long enough for a few
observations, hardly enough time to observe the span of
things.
“Why do you keep it so dark in here?”
“It gets dark on its own...”
I could just make out her long, thin silhouette, bent
in that peculiar Korean way as she gathered her things.
Kye Soen was more than a friend. There was something
about her, whatever it was that captured me all those
years before: her striking face, her sensitivity. We fell to
the ground from the forces at work, fused together. Little
was left unchanged in us; at times it seemed we were the
same. The peculiar human struggle to combine DNA; we
were powerless against it, and because of our differences
a new upheaval every day. There was some doubt in her
that I didn’t understand what she was getting at, though
it was never beyond my grasp. Since I didn’t go to col-
lege, things had to be explained to me in great detail, the
same mindset that condemns those that don’t belong to
the church. Though there was no problem intellectually,
we might as well be from opposite ends of the universe.
Whatever the subject she’d lose her place and start again,
the same dismal sentences often repeated word for word.
It was a final tempering after a long process in the fur-
nace. The hotter the better! To the end of endurance!
When the crackling blaze finally abated, the female had
been removed from the level of sustenance and placed far
down the list of beautiful things that should be admired
from a distance, behind badgers and bear cubs. Thus the
last great impediment to the path, and the greatest attach-
ment that concerned me, was gone.
She drove off, finally. I went out to the courtyard to clear
my head. It was late, but I was just building a head of
steam. I did odd jobs to survive, trading the progress of
the material for a life nearly swallowed in labor; a great
deal of lessons piled end to end: the long ascent through
the teachings I was made to absorb, the thrashing of the
limbs, the watching over a similar process in a thousand
others.
As I stood near the fountain a few women bustled in. I
knew the blonde from somewhere, one of the usual plac-
es. She’d flown in from Michigan, caught in the currents,
a sparkling fun personality with that great heartland sen-
sibility, on fire in the new LA playground, lit from under-
neath with the same old longing.
The work — to forge and trammel out the damned trea-
sure, like alchemy, requires the heavens to move. A dan-
gerous operation demanding all the facilities and a large
amount of ground for pacing. I swore as she lunged down
the steps, the two others clinging to her like intimates.
They all wore costumes: Marilyn Monroe, Charlie Chap-
lin, and a candy striper. Marilyn was the one I knew.
“Hey Henry… watcha’ doin?”
I could tell they were going to camp out on me. Women
must be tended like a campfire, and nothing can be done
about it. It struck me that I was to remain engaged or they
would feel put off, but I had no need of their company —
something they couldn’t fathom. The whole thing was a
lie. They acted in service of a loneliness that begged to be
filled. The real need, the real topic of conversation, wasn’t
what I was doing, but some lack that remained unsound-
ed in them. Knowing this, and the futility of playing it
through, I sat down.
“No! …don’t sit down…”
“Girls, it’s three in the morning.”
Kye Soen wanted to live inside me, Marilyn to be enter-
tained for an hour. Their need came from the same place
— isn’t love at the core of everything? But a primitive
love that doesn’t consider the needs of others, a juvenile
mind that latches on to things to appease itself? It’s a mis-
understanding that there’s some lack. Life is everywhere.
To become awake to the flow of it is more than enough.
“There are only a very few really permissible things: like the
sea, for example.”
Yukio Mishima (1925-1970)
T
he days were long waiting for surgery. I was
forced to move in with Kye Soen, everything
etched away in an acid bath of ethyl and chro-
mium dioxide. My bones phosphor white, my nails re-
duced to glue, I was brought too often to the sickly sweet
end of the day. Nothing! There was no way to extricate
myself without living on the street. She rose up through
the bile and excrement and latched on like a tapeworm,
everything spoiled by her pointless dramas; an endless pa-
rade. My ears burned through. There was no more listen-
ing, nothing I could do but handle the flow of anger in
and out, like a check dam. The same as the darkness of
Vashon, since I had no means to avoid either, I let them
rule me.
No matter what happened, she returned to her grim
work, as if no hair was missing, no blood lost. Part sala-
mander, the diabolical part, something of me died with
her, but that can’t be helped.
All the things I couldn’t get at through formal practice:
the way I liked to do things — gone — to retreat into si-
lence — gone — to retreat into work — gone — to long
for the company of another — gone. As much as I was
tortured by her, I was dethroned, everything stripped
from me. My leg shriveled to half its size. I was nearly re-
solved to being a cripple when the hospital finally called.
Damned mortality! The conclusion nature draws, who’d
as soon destroy as create, or let out a volume of stink-
ing sulphur — the individual is of no consequence. Why
make trouble here? Every word of this will disintegrate
after I’m gone, of no more importance than the death of a
star, or birth of a new one, and a star can’t go back on its
word.
The surgeons had me half-drugged on a gurney.
“Is he out?”
“Yeah… I already started him.”
“How are we going to get him on the table?”
Still conscious, I flap-jacked over to the damned table
and put my knee up… surprised, their voices receded.
With no angels waiting, there was only the cold, smooth
steel of the operating table, the beehive light dazzling and
beautiful, then dark.
I wasn’t afraid to go under. If I could’ve made a request
it would’ve been for more gas, just to make sure. As soon
as I closed my eyes there was the incessant beep of the
heart monitor. In reality it had been eight hours, but it
seemed as if only moments had passed. My leg was full of
staples, wrapped the full length in gauze, with tubes run-
ning out to drain.
I died. Still, the work continued. The difficulties! The
dealing with spectators after a good laugh, the old friends
who refused to see the state I was in. How could they not
know? A man underground doesn’t have much to say.
ENLIGHTENMENT
NATURE IS PERFECTLY HAPPY FOR YOU TO REMAIN ON THE SURFACE
IT’S THE BUSINESS OF THE INDIVIDUAL TO ACCEPT THIS OR NOT
IT’S AS IF THE CONSCIOUSNESS IS DRAWN TO A MICROSCOPIC POINT
THOUGH THE IMAGES BENEATH IT CHANGE
THE VIEW REMAINS TIGHTLY FOCUSED
THE APPARATUS ISN’T MADE FOR A BROAD VIEW
ESTABLISHING A NEW RESOLVING POWER
NEARLY REQUIRES THE DISSOLVING POTENTIAL OF A BREAKDOWN
WHO WOULD READILY WALK INTO THIS?
TO ADD TO IT, THE CHANGES TO ONE’S RESOLVING POWER
ARE USUALLY INCREMENTAL
REQUIRING A THOUSAND NEW SUMMITS
A THOUSAND PLUNGES TO THE DEPTHS
“SINCE YOUR STRENGTH IS INSUFFICIENT
YOU MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO TRANSCEND SAMSARA BY A SINGLE LEAP
BUT, AFTER FIVE OR TEN YEARS, YOU WOULD SURELY
HAVE MADE A GOOD BEGINNING
AND BE ABLE TO MAKE FURTHER PROGRESS SPONTANEOUSLY.”
HUANG PO (?-849)
FOR ME THE THING DIDN’T REALLY COME ALIVE
UNTIL IT HAD TURNED DORMANT
MY ZEN IDENTITY FORGOTTEN
NO ROBES, NO STANDING, NO SPECIAL ABILITIES
THERE WAS A SHIFT IN THE FOCUS
I WAS REMOVED FROM THE STAGE
THE LENS LOST
AS I BROUGHT THINGS IN
IT WAS TO A NEW FOCAL LENGTH
nineteen. FIRE
F
or years I’d waited for a successor to set fire to
a new generation. The Patriarch had retired a
decade before, with no mention of who would
be the one. I’d come too late to the fold, so was at the
end of the line. His first students were already established
as teachers when I moved to Providence. They were the
ones who had direct contact with the Patriarch. My gen-
eration, the second tier, were largely in the background.
A lot of them are still out there. A few became teachers. I
found it unsatisfactory. I wanted the opportunity to bond
with a real master, so the question of whether to remain
with the school or not was more than politics, it was a
matter of survival. If I were to take a number and wait in
line, I would’ve burned out. Was I to give in so easily?
There was a wonderful teacher on the scene for some
time, a spiritual dynamo approaching the level of the Pa-
triarch, but things as they are, while the two traveled the
world on a marathon teaching tour he died of a heart at-
tack. Afterward there was some talk of a democratic sys-
tem, where the head would be elected by the board and
hold office for a predetermined period, but after the Pa-
triarch was gone there was no more of this.
With no great sage to light the halls there was a surge
among the older students who’d had actual contact with
an enlightened master. Still, I remained outside the school.
What use were the robes to me? The path flowered in me
— I felt it working before me at every step. There was no
lack, no need to hold or release any of it, but I wouldn’t
have this conviction if I wasn’t living in the seat of indul-
gence.
All of the turmoil drew Dominik out of the monastery
circuit. He was quiet the way he moved in my new envi-
ronment, his hand to my throat, the burnt ends of his fin-
gers rough on my skin. He lifted me up, a forgotten slag,
and put me back into the furnace.
BUT AN ADEPT
HOW MANY TIMES WE’VE BEEN BEATEN DOWN
YET THIS IS THE MOST DIFFICULT PART
FOR THE THING MUST CATCH ALIGHT AND BURN ON ITS OWN
TO SIT A LONG RETREAT IS TO DWELL
AT THE FEET OF THE LORD
YOU ARE NO LONGER CONTROLLED
BY THE MOODS AND THOUGHTS OF OTHERS
THOUGH THEIR STORIES CAN BE EASILY READ
INSTEAD THE ABSOLUTE RADIATES CEASELESSLY
THROUGH THE VARIOUS FORMS
THE ASPECTS OF WHICH CANNOT BE NUMBERED
AND SO ATTAIN A SORT OF STASIS
IT’S AS IF YOU ARE WITNESS TO THE BIRTH OF THE COSMOS
ALL THINGS APPEARING IN THEIR PLACE IN DUE COURSE
IN A PERFECT SYMMETRY OF FORM AND ORDER
HERE THE UNSPEAKABLE MYSTERY IS LAID BARE
HERE IS THE MERGING OF MANKIND WITH THE GODHEAD
THE MEANING
THE ULTIMATE TRUTHS
IF YOU ARE NOT SHOUTING NOW AND WRECKING THE FURNITURE
I
returned to Korea the following winter. It was
Dominik who gave me the idea.
“It’s the second anniversary of the Patriarch’s
death. You have to go… everyone will be there.”
I was nervous about showing my face again, but a lay-
man there is lower than a dog, so there was no need for
this. I arrived too late with one of Kye Soen’s interrup-
tions, an important essay I had to write for her, paying an
old debt.
I stepped out of the taxi to the empty parking lot below
the courtyard. A dark night, there were only a few lights
on, a few old bosalnims in the main hall. Everyone, more
than seventy friends from the old days, had already left
for Gye Ryong San. Zosha waited instead. I got a shock
when she shoved her head through the door! She hadn’t
changed much. She’d settled on her haunches, but still
had the look of a bulldog with that powerful lock-jaw
that could take anyone down. For some reason, perhaps
because I’d put up such a good fight all those years before,
she was misty-eyed.
“Where’ve you been?”
I have to admit I loved her then. So what if she was an-
gry? So was I. The difference was I turned it back into
the work. Her voice, her strong, sad eyes, that damned
sharp tongue! She didn’t need my approval. Her training
had continued uninterrupted while I was away. It made
her unexpectedly soft, reverent. Bowing to me, she was
nearly in tears with all the things she wanted to say.
“I’m sorry for what happened back then. I’ve changed a
lot.”
“I can tell.”
“What happened to you?”
“A lot of trouble, but I haven’t gone hungry. I’ve been
staying in Hermosa Beach. It’s like the new beatnik scene
— there’s a tiny thread of art culture in Los Angeles,
though it’s a desperate, poor scramble on the ground as
you can imagine.”
“Why don’t you come back?”
I couldn’t say I was right to leave the monastery. There
wasn’t anything like a Kye Soen in her life, but she lived far
beneath me, and I was nearly always broke. She had no TV,
no computer of her own, no time off, no late nights with a
bottle of French wine, no bookcase full of classics, or even
a newspaper to glance through, no sense of the march of
time, no smell of cordite, no walking around half-drunk
wearing only boxers and combat boots — there was a lot
missing. More importantly, the practice was made dull. I
got a death chill from the corporate whitewash.
“I love the creative fire and the wilderness too much to
be sweeping the halls of the institution.”
“Then how will the teaching line continue?”
“The teaching? What we really need is a strong new
voice with color and personality, that would appeal to the
independent spirit of the West — a dialogue from outside
the institution.”
“You’re just being antagonistic.”
“OK, but your argument comes from a society that con-
forms to itself six thousand percent. We have to find a
way that takes care of the individual, what the West val-
ues most highly.”
She looked at me for a few moments more, but remained
silent. Life in a box is life in a box: a sheltered life of regular
meals, days divided by the sound of a moktak, everyone
in grey robes, slippers. It wasn’t easy for me. Certainly it’s
difficult, but it is possible to practice while living in soci-
ety. There’s no easy way, as the centers are a mixed bag
of holy, perfect creatures, petty tyrants, socialists, psycho-
paths, degenerates, and today’s narcissistic, drug-addled
strains. The path outside is more treacherous, but the life
is rich and full of deep experiences.
The seat was very bright, nearly white hot. The state of
the previous winter quickly rose again, blotting out ev-
erything. More focused and powerful, it required all of
my resources. If my body was weak I would falter. Not
too much walking, I was careful about how much food I
was taking in, and to let everything wash over me. I let
nature direct what I should do and to what extent — the
wisdom of long practice.
As the schedule began to dominate me, I would often re-
side in the ecstatic core, or else fall briefly into the blank-
ness of sleep. The moments where I lost my hold a door-
way, invisible; I could only sense it by the surge of energy
that rose as I approached. There’s something important
here — in the crossing over the mind is freed. But the
door itself is heavily weighted and not meant to be tam-
pered with, like a heart, lung, or other organ. I’ve worked
on this for many years. I was able, once, to hold my mind
steady all the way to the moment of unconsciousness, then
nothing, but the practice sprang back in place inside the
dream, startling me awake.
It’s a useful tool in going deeper into the stream, as it
takes you along with it down to the depths, but other-
wise fooling around with this is a waste of time. Only
more data to sort through: an ephemeral sort that reflects
the surface, which itself is of no real consequence; a vi-
cious cycle that needs only a modern chemical to unlatch
it. I’m sure we’ll have it on the street before long, some
sort of channel through to the surface that, like Claire in
Wender’s “Until the End of the World,” creates a new
breed of junkie.
There’s another door, infinitely more remote. The wild
energy of the previous winter pushed me toward it, un-
known until the latch was thrown. As the practice con-
tinued to deepen I was able to penetrate farther, with less
effort, to the point that I finally rode all the way through
to the tapering off into nothing. It wasn’t into the abyss of
sleep, but the other end, where the mind is lost in the field
of the Absolute. Here the energy bursts had their own ris-
ing, crests, and receding. There was nothing remarkable
about them, besides the rapture, but what was revealed
there. At the far end I discovered a new door.
I will never forget the night of December 27th. Three
weeks into kyolche, I’d just finished a walk into town and
some editing in the suitcase. It was the last round of sit-
ting, near 9PM. I had no feeling that something would
occur. I wasn’t holding my mind too tight, but easily in
control of it, plenty of energy, when a strong gust of wind
hit the window behind me.
“Are you ready?”
I thought it the same internal dialogue, the same ceaseless
chattering. There was no thing discernible, nothing new,
only the heat and sound and vibration of a concentrated
mind steadily increasing in pitch. Somehow, instinctively,
I held my mind very gently, with a deep feeling of my own
purity and that of all things. My mind was even, with no
concerns. As I continued, the energy field tightened — a
concentration of light and a constant ringing as I neared
the door. The tight-walled blue center pulsed brightly,
ever faster. I latched on to the knife-edge of it, refocusing
every half-second, pressing forward — gently — to the
heated core.
The ringing continued to rise, together with other in-
definable sounds and a rapid fluttering of light, like bird
wings. I saw only a tight glowing mass emanating in
surging pulses, my eyes nearly pressed closed from the
intensity. My vision became more and more broken apart,
with plates of static slamming past patches of pitch black.
I reached a point where I could go no farther and dug
in firmly for a long period of just holding ground. My
body shook uncontrollably, with fits of trembling, until
there was a softening; a dip in the energy field. At once a
surge of rapture rose and enveloped me, and I was pulled
through the door.
The blue core of this state, the thread of consciousness,
is blurry or imperceptible normally, but when the prac-
tice heats up it can become more defined. It tightens as
one nears the edge, what we’re able to perceive. If you’re
able to control the flow of energy out, and keep a gentle
hold on the surface, and stay with it a long time without
getting rattled, the mind will be drawn up in a tremen-
dous surge of energy, and so exit the thread. It’s possible.
I wouldn’t think many have made it through, as difficult
as it was.
When I approached the door I could feel the excitement
of it. It stays with me. But it remained invisible. I was
able to pass through it only when the heavens aligned,
the body and mind were purified, and all concerns far
away. What did I see there? It can’t be described, besides,
I have no idea what it was. The complexity of the human
body alone, not to mention all sentient life, the web of
consciousness must be even more so. A similar case was
noted by Tu-Shun (557-640 A.D.), who labeled it the “Net
of Indra,” but his account seemed as far away and quaint
as someone describing a rocket as “a chariot of fire that
rode across the heavens…” nearly indecipherable unless
you actually saw it.
Since I don’t want to leave you with a historical account
alone, I’ll give you my impression. Imagine an infinite
span of interconnected strands, a very dense, organic web
not all the same color or evenly distributed, but largely
neutral in tone and laid out flat, as if held by some kind
of gravity. There was a great deal of activity; the strands
flashed with some sort of current, a sense of turmoil and
noise running through them: a dull sensation, a convec-
tion nearly boiling with the movement of life. The activ-
ity was greater in the dense areas, where knots formed
from the many interconnected strands; collectives of hu-
man consciousness. I say this because I could hear faint
voices at the nearest knot, all jumbled together in conflict.
Quieter threads branched out from there and down to
depths unknown. It must have included every sort of life,
down to the mineral.
I was locked in, my mind completely clear, still, euphor-
ic, with a feeling of sadness along with the rapture. What
I saw had no glamour to it: life filled to the brink with
suffering and turmoil, everything feeding on each other.
It was hard on me. It changed me. I don’t know how long
I was in, only a few minutes, when my heart began beat-
ing erratically and I was forced to return.
But the world is never the same. How long this story
has gone, and we are still at a formative stage. Be glad I
didn’t start earlier! Here began my descent into cubism:
blocks of light, vivid colors, all with some implication —
if things can be explained with anything approaching ex-
perience. Perhaps it is best left in a poetic language? Since
there was already a breakthrough of some sort, life pulsed
through me in a new way. A tap left on day and night, the
flood couldn’t be managed. What chance did I have to
lead a normal life? Since it came apart on its own, I left it
where it was.
Work stalled with Steve just as my mother received a
hurricane relief check from “A Road Home.” As I finished
jacketing her trailer in 26 gauge steel, I received word
that Steve had received a $10,000,000 lawsuit. Someone
had been injured on the property — so all of the work I
had lined up was cancelled, my art projects put on ice. At
the same time, he’d found a new fiancé that had already
moved in. My LA situation had folded overnight. The
time was ripe. I built a small hermitage on the back of
my mother’s land. The lot was overgrown with myrtle
and tallow, trash trees that come in after a fire. The forest
gave out to a small green pond. I picked a site to the north
of it, just inside the canopy of trees. I built six feet above
ground to avoid the damp conditions. Well insulated to
survive the winter, it was made of hurricane salvage, with
a large window overlooking the pond. It took a month
before everything was nailed down, the night of October
14th — the full moon. The retreat would last more than
one-hundred days, all the way to the new moon of Janu-
ary. The sitting was immense: twelve hour-long rounds
with minimal breaks that only tightened as the day pro-
gressed. I designed the schedule to develop a practice
resonance, spontaneously wrote it down months before.
I knew it was coming. In fact, as the retreat neared I be-
gan sitting bolt-upright at 3AM every morning, my body
primed and ready. I still do this.
The retreat began to glow with the light of practice. It
was easy to give myself to it fully. The light came in differ-
ently after the experience in Korea, more quiet, more con-
stant — enormous. No longer a glowing core but a mind
state emanating everywhere at once. With no distractions
other than my own troubled affairs, it wasn’t long be-
fore I entered deeply into the field of the Absolute. Along
with this immediacy the concerns of the world would find
their way in: all my things hidden in a wine cellar in Los
Angeles, my projects on a thin lifeline, all the old fam-
ily karma that surfaced when I entered the old woods.
Between these two worlds I toiled insolubly, regardless
of what came into view. Hour after hour the two realms
captured me and were left untouched. As I came logically
to loathe the turmoil at the surface, the light of the Abso-
lute became dominant, became more and more accessible,
and each time a new ground, a higher vibration, a deeper
level of rapture. As the way was trammeled back and forth
from the phenomenal world to the Absolute, the gate be-
tween the two was gradually worn through, until it was
dissolved in the fire of practice. I was suddenly aware that
the fabric of life, all aspects of it, were emanations of the
Absolute, all of it cherished, loved, of divine form and
symmetry, every piece of it! Yet I was still caught between
the two, taken by the sound of a kingfisher as it plunged
into the pond, transfixed by the rapture emanating from
the core — each remaining distinct. Not one, not two!
As I acclimated to the new flow of energy I began to see
the teaching words and slogans as misleading — impossi-
ble to understand the way they were presented. I could see
the original intention, but more clearly the quagmire in
which most were trapped, repeating phrases with a fervor
often mistaken for insight. Does anyone understand these
words? All the teachings should be seen as a vast koan —
whatever meaning can be gleaned from them should be
discarded. It is not the real meaning. It will come later,
when all the words are anymore meaningless, worthless
against the brilliance of the original mind. When you’re
bathed in the rapture of the Absolute there will be a con-
siderable amusement and satisfaction at pulling out a
quaint expression of the dharma — so pretty and arcane
and courageous, and nothing like the truth.
Afterward I returned to LA briefly and went to work
tending to Steve’s mother, who was in ICU after suffering
a stroke. Steve had survived one a few weeks before with
only a slight twitch, then his sister died unexpectedly. My
days were spent holding his mother’s hand, visiting her
church to offer prayers, talking to the priests, nurses, doc-
tors, family members. Steve put me up in her house, in
his sister’s old room. It was there, in the middle of the
night, full of wine and the suffering of the world, that I
woke suddenly, sat bolt upright, my mind catapulted into
a blissful state that has never receded. It was such a tiny
moment for what it unleashed, so unexpected. It put me
at the reins of a galloping stallion — a flash of silver in the
night; the wild eyes dazzling, shining with an unbridled
fury.
THE PATRIARCH WOULD NOT APPROVE OF THIS
BUT HE LEFT THE WORLD
BEFORE I HAD ANY DEEP EXPERIENCES
WHAT AM I TO DO?
THERE’S NO ONE LIKE HIM ALIVE TODAY
THE ZEN MASTERS I’VE APPROACHED
HAVE SHOWN NO INTEREST IN WHAT I’VE ENCOUNTERED
THE ABSOLUTE
IT’S NOT SOMETHING THAT CAN BE CAPTURED
IN A CLEVER PHRASE AND PUT ON A SHELF
I’VE TRIED TO CIRCUMVENT THIS
BY GOING INTO THE MEAT AND BONES
OF THE LIFE OF AN ADEPT
BUT MAY HAVE ONLY ADDED TO THE PILE
IF THERE’S SOMETHING HERE THAT INSPIRES YOU TO PRACTICE
ALL OF MY LIFE’S STRUGGLE HAS BEEN WORTHWHILE
twenty-one. EVERYTHING THAT HAS BEEN LOST
IS GAINED
T
he train can be seen from far away, a single light
blazing in front, heavy machinery boiling out
of the horizon — for me alone. Oh, there were
others, but each of us must’ve felt the same as the iron
beast pulled into the station. What an empire we’ve built!
It hangs over us, a hulking infrastructure that seems to lie
dormant for the random days when I escape to the inner
city.
It was a great day, the feeling of going on retreat welling
in me, something like a lovely dream you can never piece
together — only it beckons from the chill in the air. I’d
just finished a long season of work piled from end to end.
Unfortunately, none of it was with a foreign embassy.
The train passed all the familiar causeways and on
through the industrial parks and back lots of indistinct
city after city. Late at night, with nearly everyone asleep,
their jangle of nerves quieted, the miles were left to the
chattering of the wheels. As I walked among them, en-
joying all of their faces, I realized my world view had
changed. I’d always had the conviction that I shouldn’t
interfere with the flow of things, that the Absolute had
control of it. But a monolithic view doesn’t give credit to
the enormous leaps humanity has made, the incredible
complexity of our interactions with each other and our
environment. These two aspects — one does not negate
the other.
or this
Eternal wind
cosmic rays blasting through every door;
a tiny bird tweets from the myrtle forest.
“If, as if in a dream, you see a light brighter than the sun, your
remaining attachments will come to an end and the nature of
reality will be revealed. Such an occurrence serves as the basis
of enlightenment. But this is something only you know. You
can’t explain it to others.”
Bodhidharma (440-528)
_
MEDITATION 4:00 - 7:20 MEDITATION 4-5, 5:10-6:10, 6:20-7:20
( 1 0 M I N U T E WA L K B E T W E E N R O U N D S )
_
BREAKFAST 7:30
2 HRS 40 MIN BREAK
WORK PERIOD
_
8:00
A RESIDENT
OF VARIOUS ZEN CENTERS
FOR TEN YEARS
HE PASSED THE KYORUK
A VERY DIFFICULT TRIAL
REQUIRED OF NOVICE MONKS IN KOREA
ORDAINED IN BOTH THE CHOGYE AND KWAN UM ORDERS
HE SERVED AS A ZEN MONK FOR TWO YEARS
SEVERAL MORE AS A SENIOR DHARMA TEACHER
HE NOW WORKS ON VARIOUS PROJECTS
IN-BETWEEN LONG WINTER RETREATS
BOTH THE 90-DAY KYOLCHE AND 100-DAY SOLO OF THE KOREAN TRADITION
video: http://www.youtube.com/hgrevemberg