Storm Crows

Waiting for the bank to open. I can't find my roll of quarters. I've parked in my usual spot by the library, but I don't want to get another ticket. No money! I'm already close to my budget limit and it's only 6 days into the month.

It's just going to get worse. Nick hit a car yesterday in the parking lot at Gerbes. He called me. "Mom, I just hit a car."
"Are you okay?"
"The guy's really nice. He says he thinks it'll only cost $2,000."
"Was he driving?"
"No, he was coming out of the liquor store."
"Nick, give him our phone number and the insurance information and get out of there."
"But he's being really nice..."
"Did he call the police?"
"No! He was so nice, Mom, he refused to let me call the police. He said it just wasn't that big a deal."
"Ok. That's nice. Just do what I say."
The kids get home.
"I think you're not being fair to this guy," Nick says, as I dial the phone. "He was really nice."
I call the number Nick's handed me. A man answers. Young voice. 30's? 40's? "Oh, Hi!" he says, I can hear ice rattling in a cup. He's clearly drunk. "Your kids are so sweet."
"Thank you. I'm so sorry about this..."
"No worries...listen, if you want to keep insurance out of this, I'll just take the car to the shop, get an estimate, I know all about insurance..."
I bet you do, I think. No wonder he didn't want Nick to call the cops. Either that or there's a warrant out.
"Listen--I'm semi retired, so I don't get going til 1 or 2 in the afternoon sometimes, can I call you then and we can talk about this some more?"
"That's fine."
"You've got some sweet kids, there."
"Thank you. Thank you for being so kind. Nick was really rattled."
Big sigh. "Oh, I could see that, honey. I could. I remember being a teenager, runnin into stuff."
I feel immensely irritated with Nick. Nothing gets me hotter than seeing my children's naivete. Like lambs to the slaughter. Nick especially. He often misses what I can see so clearly. Here's a chance for practice, I remind myself, as I feel the rage rising. But, you know, sometimes when you expect the best out of someone, that is what you get--even if that is not who they are. People really respond to non-judgment. And people who are basically good, even if they're a little screwy, respond to trust. Maybe not in the long term. But in the short term. For example, you might not be able to trust them with a blank check, but you could trust them with a twenty.
Sat yesterday. I am so happy I found my sangha. I need sangha. I need community. While I sat, I tried to focus on my breath, with the usual indifferent success, and I also tried to think of everyone in the room with me. Not block them out, but be there with them. Breathe together. Seido, that old crow, looks like he's been through a hurricane. Robes tattered around his ankles. I wondered what happened. I walk back with him to his office, helped to carry one of the bags of zafus, prattling on about umbrellas. The sun is almost down, and the wind is blowing with the scent of storm on it. As we walk across the plaza, people stare at us a bit--the robes, I realize. I hardly think twice about them.
"You doing okay?" I ask. We're not close. Occasional bouts of confessional conversations over rum tonics in his basement when I was the only one there and he couldn't face sitting, but always with this weird, strangers-on-a-train formality.
"I'm restless," he tells me. "I feel like something's missing. I feel a void. I don't know what my next step is. I'm thinking about moving to Mount Baldi permanently. Becoming a resident monk. Or staying here. Buying a house. Turning it into a zendo. They're some people who would fund it."
I just nod. I don't know what to say. I think that Seido's void would be filled if he rolled his sleeves up and really got dirty. But maybe not. My solution isn't everyone's. I think going to Mount Baldi is probably the wrong thing for him to do. But what do I know? I can't even remember when to bow, and I've been doing this crap for 26 years now. 26 years! Almost every damn day.
His office is in the old law school. I know the building well. My mother went to law school for a year and a half. She is was in the first class that admitted women. She would take me with her (I was three) and she would sit in the far left corner of the classroom and I would hide under the table (they all sat at these long tables) and color. I was absolutely quiet. Hours. (Jesus, my kids would have NEVER behaved that well--shows how terrified I was of my mother). She flunked out. It was a different time then, and it wasn't okay for the wife to let the dishes pile up while she studied. Too much pressure.
I tell Seido a little bit about this. We go up to his office, which is painted the same color as my bedroom, periwinkle. And filled with books and his paintings and a nice old chintz couch. Great place.
"You should live here." I tell him.
"I do. I take naps on the couch."
Naps. Seido lives in a world where naps are possible. What is he complaining about? He starts to take off his zen gear, I say goodnight and go.
That's my 1/2 hour.