Untitled chapter
Part 1: Modern Shangri-La
Day 2: 5:30 a.m.
As far as I’m concerned, a remote Zen retreat has few advantages, but if there is one, it’s the utter silence and darkness at night. No streetlights, headlights, car noises, TV sounds, vibrating smart phones; no music, nor any analog or electronic sounds. The reason for this beautiful silence, which enables me to sleep like a rock for the first time in years, is the absence of electric outlets—think: no way to charge your devices—absence of internet and cell phone connections, and very limited electricity, generated by a few solar panels. That’s the idea: unplug, disconnect, relax, sleep, and meditate.
But what’s the purpose of this precious predawn silence if exactly at 5:30 every morning a runner tears through the quiet community vigorously shaking two huge bells, making a gigantic racket? I can’t stand it, but it’s the penance my wife, Vega, imposed on me.
Right in front of my small redwood cabin with the shoji window screens, I see the runner’s flickering headlamp and curse those damned bells shattering my deep sleep. Moaning, I bury my head deeper into the pillow on my futon; but then the runner comes back for a second round on his return through the cluster of huts. Cursing, I consider rolling off my futon onto the tatami mats, when I remember that the 5:30 bell is only one of several calls to morning meditation. I have at least fifteen more minutes to lie here in the dark.
I force myself to review the elaborate etiquette required before entering the Zen-do meditation hall. A lot of rules precede sitting in meditation to do exactly—nothing. Yesterday at my orientation a young, aspiring Buddhist nun explained them to me. The rules include a lot of bowing, but then again not to everybody, only at the right times and places. When entering the Zen-do—first with the foot closer to the doorframe—I have to bow to the Buddha statue, and then approach the Ino. Don’t bow to him. He is just a kind of usher giving out seat assignments, meaning I will be instructed to sit at the spot of a regular monastic who isn’t there. Whisper, whisper, the third spot from the corner on the right. Load up with pillows and black cushions, because my knees don’t bend so well, especially if I have to sit there for an hour before daybreak.
Reaching my empty seat, I have to bow to it and to the white wall behind it. Yes, that’s correct, I have to bow to a wall; don’t ask me why. I didn’t dare ask my pigtailed instructor for fear of a highly abstract, long-winded explanation. I’ll just do it. It’s all part of my penance.
Then I have to put my pillows down on the raised platform, sit down, and swivel around to face the wall without touching the wood with my feet. This is very important, I was told, because during serious practice periods the monastics spend the whole day in the Zen-do and eat off this part of the platform.
I shudder thinking about spending a whole day in meditation. One hour is torture enough. Yesterday my legs fell asleep, my shoulders were screaming with pain, and my back was killing me, not to mention my mind was in an uproar, wanting to get up, get a cup of coffee, go back to bed.
My pigtailed almost-nun (as a real nun she’s going have to shave her head) told me stories of the olden days, when a Zen master—or maybe it was just the Ino—walked around behind students’ backs and hit them with a stick when they slumped over in exhaustion.
Did I remember everything? Here is the next reminder to get up. Not a bell this time, but a wooden peg banging onto a wooden tablet. The banging gets louder and faster with urgency. Only five minutes left.
I roll off the futon and slide into my black sweatpants and long-sleeved T-shirt. Modesty and dark colors. Wouldn’t do to show up at the Zen-do in bright red or neon green. No need to wash or comb my hair. Nobody’s going to see me anyway. They’ll all be facing the wall with their eyes closed. Even if I wanted to spruce up my appearance, there’s no mirror. Now the wooden sticks are banging at a frantic speed.
I step into the cool air outside and slip into my flip-flops deposited in front of the door. I look up at the brilliant, still star-studded sky through the dark branches of an oak tree. The air smells of moist earth and dry leaves. I join other dark and quiet figures on the main path making their way to the meditation hall. As we cross the wooden bridge, I hear the low bubbling of the creek below.
Another perplexing rule of pre-meditation etiquette: once I sit on my pile of cushions hopefully settled down for the duration, the Zen Master walks by behind, inspecting the back of his charges. I am supposed to sense his presence or hear his bare feet on the wooden floor and bow at just the moment when he passes my seat. That bow is meant to move like a wave through the rows of students. Surely a beautiful sight, except no one besides the Master can see it.
I’ve reached the Zen-do and quietly take off my shoes to store them in the shelves provided. I make my way to the front door, modestly covering one hand with the other in front of my belly. The students are stepping, bowing, entering. Most are shorter and either much younger or older than I. I suppose most men my age have neither the time nor the inclination to go on lengthy Zen retreats midweek. They are at work. Where I should be.
But I can do this. I promised Vega. This is my atonement for having a tiny affair—totally insignificant really. Just a one-night encounter at a conference. It wasn’t even good and I regretted it immediately. I love Vega and don’t want to lose her, and her condition for taking me back is this two-week stay at the monastery. To confront my feelings, become aware of my thoughts, and learn how to interact sensitively with women. One day down. Thirteen more to go. I can do this. I step, bow, and shuffle into the dimly lit meditation hall.
Something is wrong. Students are gasping, scattering, moaning in the middle of the Zen-do. You are never supposed to be in the center of the hall, only around the sides. Even I know that. What happened to all the etiquette? I’m completely confused, but apparently so is everybody else.
6:00 a.m.
In the center of the hall on a raised platform reserved for the abbot of the monastery sits a voluptuous, middle-aged African American woman dressed in monastic robes. She is completely motionless.
She shouldn’t be sitting there. Meditation hasn’t started yet. Students are still taking their seats, doing all their elaborate prep work. But nobody is doing that either. They are just milling around in total confusion. I’m getting curious and politely push through the throng of people surrounding the platform.
Holy Christ—sorry, I mean dear Lord Buddha—what happened here? An ugly red line runs around the neck of the woman and an orange rope lies curled on her lap. Her hands are folded and her eyes are slightly bulging. Otherwise she sits peacefully in perfect meditation pose. I can’t tell if she is ghostly pale, because, well, you know, her skin is dark. But I’ve seen plenty of corpses and I know this woman is dead. I feel the rush of adrenaline that always accompanies a crisis. This is the kind of stuff I have to deal with in my normal life. I just didn’t expect it here.
“Okay,” I say to the frightened pigtailed nun-in-training next to me. “She’s dead. Where is the Zen Master? The abbot?”
“She is the Zen Master. She is—was—our abbess,” she hisses back.
Oh shit. I had no idea. When I bowed to the presence passing by behind my meditation seat, I imagined a tall, slim, white man with a stick. Go figure. Goes to tell you that we all have our prejudices, as Vega would say.
Somebody has to take charge of the situation. Now that the Zen mistress is dead, it’s not clear who it’s going to be.
There is only one outside phone line in the monastery office— for emergencies. Clearly this qualifies. Someone has to call the police. The usually calm, composed, and poised Zen community is fluttering around the meditation hall like moths surrounding a flame. They are curious, scared, and horrified all at the same time.
I raise my voice, even though that is completely against etiquette. Lord Buddha will forgive me. “Did someone call the police?”
Everybody stops mid-movement and looks at me.
“I’ll go and do it,” says Brother Jacob, whom I met yesterday when he was manning the office/gift shop. Yes, there is a gift shop selling crystals, T-shirts, and Buddhist literature.
Now that’s decided, everybody settles down. A senior monk in flowing black robes speaks up.
“It will take several hours before the police get here, so let’s all do what we are here for. Let’s meditate for the peaceful transition of Abbess Clarita.”
Chastised, monks, nuns, and students shuffle to their seats. I didn’t even get my seat assignment and cushions yet. I thought I was going to get out of meditation today. No such luck. The Ino irritably points me toward Brother Jacob’s empty seat. I sigh and scramble over to the platform loaded up with pillows.
6:45 a.m.
The room settles down. The senior monk passes behind me and I bow. Finally nobody fidgets anymore, nobody coughs or shifts. We all breathe in and out as one. I hear a bird call outside. The sun must be coming up by now. I admit, it’s nice when this happens, the quieting, the stillness, the comfort of being here with a room full of people devoted to peace. The joint sigh of relief of settling into the present moment.
The peaceful feeling doesn’t last long—not for me. My knees start to hurt. How can I sit here and meditate quietly with a dead body right in our midst? It doesn’t seem to faze the others. They must know something I don’t. At least no one touched the body. The police will be grateful.
