Sangha

I think I wrote already about my disappearing Sangha.

Not that I was the most diligent member.

Zazen was usually held at 7am or 5:30pm, and if you're a single mom, it's sort of hard to explain to your kids they will have to find an alternate way to school so you can go sit. So I would go when my kids were out of town, but then I started seeing Jay and staying out at the farm when they were away, and, when it really came down to it, I didn't want to crawl out of his warm arms and drive 25 minutes to the zendo, not when sleeping there is so rare.

Oh, sometimes my heart just aches for a normal life and another adult to curl up with.

So, my visits became even rarer. And the last time I went, there was a sign on the door. "Final practice will be May 31 at 7am."

It was June 16th. So I called. No answer. And sent an email. No answer. Then, in Little Dixie fashion, I sent a nice little card through the mail. "Hope all is well." No answer.

What had happened?

The house is on the way to Lilly's best friend's house. So I drive by it frequently. A "for sale" sign appeared.

It's strange, you know, because I almost never went. I usually get up at 5am and sit in the peace room in my basement, or, now that Nick has started sleeping there, I sit on the bijar in front of my bed. I light my incense, sound the bell, but in my heart, I am somehow connected with both New Moon Dharma Zendo and Hokukuan. I sit in both those places, too. And with no Hokukuan, somehow, my practice felt very lonely. And a little crazy. I felt a little bit marooned.

So while I was at the library, I started trolling through the campus calendar, looking for other buddhists. College students are always into buddhism, right? And sure enough! There was a campus buddhist association. Met Wednesday afternoons. It didn't say whether it was Zen or not, but I went anyways. I got there early, sat on a bench outside the room, waiting.

And then I heard people coming up the stairs, I heard Seido's warm Boston voice and with his alcoholic "heh heh" I've always thought he was a bit of an ass, a little arrogant, a little lost. Tarred and feathered with that East coast snobbery that judges before it even knows what it's looking at. And I was so happy to see him.

He looks a little frayed. He's grown himself a little beard and let his hair grow in. He doesn't look as crazy, but he looks a little sad. His eyes are bright and black and have that bemused look my burn patients have when they come back to visit. He looks like he's been through something.

"Are you okay?" I ask him, after we get through our pleasantries.

"I'm okay, I guess." He says, with the 'heh heh'

Afterwards, he walks out with his students. With his cape. A cape! The best of us are fools.

He had a great image in the talk he gave today--that we're only looking at the world through our experience--like using a vanity mirror, holding it front of our faces so we could interact with others, but only peripherally, while keeping our eye on ourselves at all time.

So true. I'm guilty of this. Me who started sitting because I thought it would keep me from getting wrinkles (it has). I try to offset this with service, so at least I'm not doing any harm, but this blog is like that--it's a vanity mirror.

Oh, man. What do you do? Who ever knows anyone? Who ever knows you? I love him anyways, that he is still doing this, keeping this going, sharing himself and his teaching. I sat today and felt I'd accidentally made it home.

That's my 1/2 hour.