Oceans of Self-Absorption

For anyone who thinks sitting meditation for hundreds of hours a day for the benefit of all sentient beings is a vacation, I say: Just try it. Little irritations develop, shoulders muscles burn and throb as if they're being gripped by vultures, the spine screams. Loud popping sounds issue forth from the jaw. The knees crackle, the ankles cramp. Rebelling against it only makes it worse. In my quest for relief, I've more moves on a 2x3 foot zabuton than a contortionist.Whenever I relax into a pain-free second or two, a new spasm attacks my central nervous system like an electric volt from a stun gun. But, I get it now: it's just like life. There aren't any safe, cozy little corners to hunker down in; something edgy is always arising, and then it dissolves.

Sometimes, though, major irritations develop. I wasn't in any sort of a mood to hear the word fat voiced in my presence, even in jest. I simply mentioned that I seemed to have gained some weight over the first few days of the retreat, more to myself than anyone else who happened to be in the room.

"Yeah, you look kinda fat to me," Juan the Gardener said.

"What?"

"I'm kidding. It's how we play," he said.

Let me add that I had kindly offered to wash his oryoki cloths in the basement washing machine while he was busy being important and eating chocolate in a meeting with the other MIs.

"You're being aggressive," I said.

"Oh, now I don't get that at all. I mean I hear what you're saying, but I'm just not getting where you're coming from."Then he gave me his best bewildered look.

"Did you wash my cloths?" he asked. There are four oryoki cloths of varying sizes, in which the bowls and utensils are folded and tied in an efficient picnic-like bundle.

"YOU can go down and get the laundry," I hissed.

"But, I don't even know what dryer it's in, and I need my cloths."

"It's in the first dryer."

When he trundled off, I followed.

I met him at the dryer, and before he could open the door I snarled, "From now on you do your dathun and I'll do mine."

 I headed up the Tiger Trail into the woods to sulk and throw some imaginary kerosene on my resentment. I sat on a stump and listened to the clickity-clatter of dry leaves and discovered how soft and intricate certain mushroomy fungus was. I thought about my father and how much I missed him. He would be 97. Next, I realized it was close to tea time and I wondered if we'd be having scones with lemon curd again.

I saw Juan a little later during walking meditation. He looked rumpled and familiar and when our eyes met, we did something unexpected: we winked.