101

"I'm going home," I said to Juan the Gardener before dinner on the evening of the first day of dathun.


"Why?"

"Because everybody's mean."


"But, everyone is silent."

"I can just tell."

"You're right; they've been laughing at you."

"Now, you're mean!"

"Yeah, but, it's so much fun to torture you!"

Earlier that morning, spine and shoulders afire, I had been caught pawing through the medicine box in the mud room, looking for aspirin or tylenol, but secretly hoping for something stronger, like novacaine or a syringe of steroids.

"Are you all right?" one of the MIs (meditation instructors) asked me.

Indicating my neck and shoulders, I mimed an agony akin to childbirth.

"Try not to take too much," he cautioned. Later he suggested that I might want to gently explore the pain with my mind, to see if I might discover anything about it.

What I discovered was neither fancy nor complicated, just simple, ordinary Resistance 101.


I'll admit, at first I found it auspicious that my cushion in the shrine room is in the second row from the back - close to the door - in case I need to bolt. Unfortuneately, seated right behind me, except when he is at the front of the room generously offering venerable teachings, is the senior teacher.

There's no actual rule saying I can't bolt, and bolting is my default escapist strategem, has been for years. It's been a long time since I've jumped into the car and spun recklessly out of the driveway to avoid confrontation, or powerful feelings. Eventually, I learned from other teachers in my life that my feelings always hitch a ride, no matter where I might think I'm going. Speeding down the road leaving a maelstrom of dusty gravel in my wake used to only fuel the aggression, and was often accompanied by some sort of reactive thought line: Oh, yeah? I'll show him/her/them!

Or a speeding ticket.

What I really wanted was for someone to throw me a velvet lasso, reel me in and mend my broken heart. It's hard to lasso a moving target, especially one spitting small rocks and plumes of exhaust.

After dinner, the oryoki head server stopped me in the hallway, and asked if I was doing okay. He held out his hand and introduced himself.

"Hi, I'm Paul," he said.

His hand was warm.