The Empty Chair

by Bruce Wagner

  By most standards I’m a wealthy man. I could buy a house tomorrow if I wanted. A nice house. Which surprises people. Not that I go around saying that because I don’t. When you live the way I do, you can’t be flashy. That’s asking for trouble. You know, Bruce, I don’t own a home or property by choice. Aside from the van and my books, I really don’t have any personal possessions. Nothing to speak of. I’m unencumbered and I think that’s what saved me. The one thing I sometimes yearn for is companionship. A human touch that isn’t lurid. All and all, I’m at peace. I won’t lie, there are days and nights when I feel alone, almost insanely alone—I don’t think that’s too strong a word—times when I feel abandoned by God and man. Not, incidentally, such a wonderful feeling! I’ve had to face certain truths. I can whine about not having a partner to share my itinerant life but the simple truth is I don’t think I’m capable emotionally, maybe even spiritually, of a committed relationship. Not the happiest of insights but that’s what hundreds of hours of therapy’ll get you. (Most of it back in the ’80s.) The last committed relationship I had and will ever have was with my son. Ryder. I’ll never get resolution on that one, never have closure. After he died, a lot of friends told me I should return to therapy. But guess what—I already know the source of my supreme fucked-up-ness. It’s called the Catholic Church. Whoop-dee friggin’ doo.

  Whenever I start to feel that alone thing, I look back over the last 24 hours to see what I’ve eaten because sometimes food’ll make you crazy. I know I’m really in a bad place when I personify the Lord our God—play the blame game—because I happen to subscribe to the opinion of those Christian mystics, their elegant assertion being that God or the idea of God is beyond our ability to grasp. To speak of “atheists” and “believers” in relation to God is roughly the same as believing you can convince an ant that it might enjoy a cartoon in The New Yorker. Or getting a rat to read an illuminated text—

  “Who has known the mind of the Lord?”

  That’s Job . . .

  He splashed water on his face at the kitchen sink, then sat down and rolled a joint.

  I come here to get centered. I call it Herman’s Hermitage. It’s lovely, isn’t it? People pass by on the highway completely unaware . . . bit of a secret treasure. I was going to say no one knows about it but apparently that fellow Pico stays here, though I’ve never had a sighting. (A marvelous writer and dear friend of the Dalai Lama—lives near Kyoto but I believe Mum makes her home in Santa Barbara.) The place has been here since the ’50s—can you imagine what this property is worth now? Oh boy! The woodcarving monk from Tassajara clued me in about it. And cheap too. Well, relatively. The oblates are Camaldolese Benedictine. St. Romuald, an 11th-century ascetic, founded the order. And here they are in Big Sur! Don’t you just love “Camaldolese”? Like some kind of amazing candy or ice cream—“I’ll have a scoop of Camaldolese Benedictine with my violet crumble.” The monks live according to their founder’s “Brief Rule” [he quickly finds a scrap of paper on the bureau, reads aloud]:

  Sit in your cell as in paradise. Put the whole world behind you—try to forget it. Watch your thoughts, like a fisherman watching fish. The path you must follow is in the Psalms. Never leave it. Realize above all else that you are in God’s presence. Stand there as one who stands before an Emperor. Empty yourself. Sit and wait, at peace with the grace of God—like the chick who tastes nothing and eats nothing but what his mother gives him.

  Tough to adhere to but the world would definitely be a better place. The services are just superb. I was in the rotunda this morning before it began to storm, gathering strength for our time together today. A group of visitors, casually dressed, tourists I think, were in the pews waiting for the hermits to arrive, which of course they always do, on the hour. They wore simple white robes with bunched-up collars, like cats taking naps on their shoulders. Before chanting began, the oblates made time for praying aloud, in counterpoint.

  The visitors began, “Lord, hear our prayers!”

  The monks said, “Let us pray for those in prison and for those who are hospitalized, and for those who are marginalized by our society.”

  “Lord, hear our prayers!”

  “Let us pray for the children who are lost, for they abide.”

  “Lord, hear our prayers!”

  Hildegard of Bingen is a rock star here, I think I mentioned that. I’ve always loved the woman myself. I went through a period of intense searching; it wasn’t by accident that I was drawn toward the female mystics. I’d had enough of the men, thank you very much. I just adored the visions of Hildegard and the “showings” of Julian of Norwich—Julian was a woman—that’s what they call them, “showings,” like a new collection from Chanel! How can you not love divas having visions? How can you not love a reclusive anchoress and medieval feminist? They even referred to God as “our Mother” and I really took to that. Julian had a vision of God putting a sphere in her hand no bigger than a hazelnut. She asked God what it was and He said—She said!—“It is everything that is made. It lasts and always will, because God loves it.” How glorious is that? And “the Three Nothings” . . . I can’t remember what they are just now, which somehow seems appropriate. But I do recall one of these gals being of the mind that, when in the name of love, the soul becomes nothing—I’m not sure I understand exactly what that means—well, that was the moment it might at last rejoin She who made it. I’m telling you, Bruce, these gals would give any Buddhist a run for his money.

  Nothingness . . .

  For a while I was actually a bit obsessed with what they call negative theology. It’s obvious only now what attracted me—I wanted to tear down the scaffolding of the macabre God Organization, I wanted to undecorate the “interior castle,” to raze the diabolical diocese that terrorized me so. I loved the concept of being separated from God by divine darkness, better yet by a cloud of unknowing. I thought “Cloud of Unknowing”—the name of a famous anonymous work—was intensely poetic, even erotic . . .

  Lead us up beyond unknowing and light to where His mysteries lie simple, absolute and unchangeable in the brilliant darkness of a hidden silence.

  (I know I’m riffing, but hang in. Something’s telling me to ride this out.)

  During the time I speak of, my 20s and early 30s, I was more interested in the devil than I was angels, with good reason. After all, the devil was family! See, I really believed in Hildegard’s visions, had to. She had, what, twenty-six of them? Twenty-six “showings”! Julian only had sixteen but who’s counting! I was channeling the whole gang. I guess it was my way of staying loyal to the Church by becoming an avenging anchoress, a superhero in penitential drag. I had showings of my own, enhanced by mushrooms and speed. I too saw the devil as a black and bristly worm, trolling for souls at the farmers’ market of samsara. “Some ran through without buying while others browsed at leisure, stopping to sell and to buy.” That’s Hildegard. “And around its neck a chain is riveted, his hands bound like a thief who deserves to be hanged in Hell”—Walter Hilton, The Scale of Perfection. (I was born in the wrong time, that’s all, my friend. O, to be middle-aged in the Middle Ages! Though their middle age was 18, 19 and 20, so better to be old—somewhere in your 40s.) Richard Rolle said the devil could put you in a cage whose bars were invisible, and it wasn’t just the avaricious or the lustful that went to Hell, no ma’am. If you were an ascetic in the name of Christ but flaunted it, you know, arranged it so folks would get the tiniest peek at you mortifying your own flesh—off to Hell you go! (The Buddhists say that too.) I was just reading a marvelous book called Liberation in the Palm of Your Hand. The rinpoche refers to the Eight Human or “worldly” Concerns. The toughest one of all to shake, even tougher than the desire for comfort or the acquisition of material things, is the craving for fame and reputation. The hermit who secretly yearns to be the most self-deprived, so that he may become legend . . . Do you know Francisco de Osuna? These aren’t trick questions, I swear. Franci
sco de Osuna said the devil whispers in our ear while we pray or meditate. The longer the prayer, the greater the danger. He was a Carmelite—doesn’t that sound like a diet candy? (I’ve got sugar on the brain.) Osuna warned that Hell slumbered in a too-avid gaze or too-attentive ear . . . in other words, anything touched by pride is insidious and if you aren’t careful your heart will fly off like little boys after butterflies. He actually said that, isn’t that so awesome? “Like little boys after butterflies”! Very Suddenly Last Summer. His heart followed his eyes . . . that’s Job again.

  Our Miss Julian said that a person who doubts is like a storm-tossed sea and the only thing that tormented the devil was human tears. Then why can’t the sea itself be made of tears? That’s what I’d like to know.

  Kelly was a frustrated artist.

  (Join the club.)

  I think her idea was she’d somehow come into her artistic self during that six-month recess. Which may have been too ambitous. Kelly was deeply afraid of failure. What if in the end she had nothing to show for her efforts but a painting or two or a shelf of unfired ceramic pots or a notebook of mediocre koan responses and haikus?

  Her resentment toward me was palpable. I totally understood. There she was having a dark sabbatical-sabbath of the soul, and there I was, the housebound blob who bore witness. She was naked and vulnerable, hard-bodied and weary from too much desperation-yoga, waiting like a trembling innocent for the cosmos to provide order and direction—who wants to do that in front of the Pillsbury Couchboy? I became the court stenographer (I was already the jester) charged with meticulously keeping the minutes of her myriad creative miscarriages. Ideally, Kelly’s struggle was of the sort best played out on Walden Pond or in a converted Nova Scotian lighthouse. Or maybe one of those forest lookouts on Desolation Peak that Kerouac and Snyder used to favor. I stayed as far out of her way as humanly possible, even pulling a teenage disappearing act whenever she was home—we kept separate bedrooms for years—and she was home a lot. It only made things worse. To her, my conspicuous absence felt like a surveillance camera.

  That isn’t to say we weren’t civil. We shared meals together—my wife believed dinner with place mats and cloth napkins was the last bastion of family life—and put up a unified front for Ryder as best we could. But subtle and not so subtle indications of household friction couldn’t be avoided. At table, she was spikey. She gossiped about friends and acquaintances, the anecdotes always featuring what the boyfriends and well-off husbands did for a living. X was a workaholic—“He spent three months researching conjoint therapists!”—and Y traveled to far-flung places yet always managed to bring his significant other. “He goes to Europe every month for business and takes her with him.” I listened, friendly and wide-eyed, with the dumb, vicarious smile of a freeloading younger brother fallen on hard times.

  My only value was playing Mr. Mom, a role I happened to relish. Finally, something I didn’t have to apologize for. I just loved being Ryder’s dad. During holidays and school vacations we spent hours playing board games of our own invention, creating miniature worlds whose domains stretched from hardwood floor to backyard grass and beyond. We rented Cukor films and provided scatological commentary. I adored taking him for bacon and eggs at the local greasy spoon and he was thrilled when I allowed him a sip of coffee. Of course, I couldn’t resist dragging him to bookstores. The more rare a book was—the more expensive, the more exquisite—the greater his interest.

  I look back now and see that time with him as an extraordinary blessing.

  The result being that Kelly was free—to do, go, be whatever. I know that she used that opportunity to flush a few trysts from her system, consummate a few flirtations. But it wasn’t enough to be, Kelly needed to become. She got deeper into her practice. Went on retreats to gain esoteric knowledge from visiting tulkus. She was of dedicated service to the sangha, spearheading a fundraiser to repair the zendo’s leaky roof. She taught incarcerated women how to meditate and got certified in Ashtanga. Began chanting and singing—kirtan. (Everyone said, “That voice. Where did it come from?”) I watched her body continue to grow lithe, long, sculpted. Her yoga for underprivileged women class became so popular it was written up in The Chronicle. Ryder squealed with delight when he saw the above-the-fold photo of his mom.

  But still, she languished. She complained that everything was busywork—everything a distraction. She thought she’d had lift-off from the lip of the void but there she was again. Then, in the middle of her leave, something shifted. A friend of hers from the Zen Center visited elementary schools, teaching Buddhist fundamentals to kids from Richmond, Larkspur, Millbrae, Palo Alto, San Rafael. He was a very sweet guy—Kelly had once introduced us at a Metta Hospice lecture—very hyper, very personable. His shtick was to make Buddhism accessible, to spread the dharma and make it fun. The gig he created for himself filled a niche. When Kelly asked if she could tag along, he was delighted.

  She was captivated from Day One. She couldn’t believe how these kids were getting it. They were jacked up, dancing around and playing music, shouting “Impermanence Rocks!” and generally strutting their crazy kid-wisdom stuff. Toward the end of each class, her “dharmabud” led them in guided meditation, which they took to like ducks to water. They even got the concept of Nothingness and the death of the ego, sitting like little fortune cookies in perfect lotus position. The guy would play “Nothing Compares 2 U,” remember that? Well, Kelly just bawled like a baby. She said the experience put her in touch again with that feeling she’d almost forgotten, the joyful spirit of beginner’s mind. She got blown back to those early days of study and devotion, when the magnificent, irrefutable logic of the Four Noble Truths cracked open her head. (I always tell people in AA that once you work the Steps, move on to the Truths.) See, Buddhism’s like anything man puts his hand to; one day you wake up and everything’s turned to shit. The magic’s been replaced by cliques of assholes with policies, slogans and gibberish, empty rituals. I think Kelly might have been feeling some of that, the emptiness of it, the is-that-all-there-is-ness of her practice (though not in a good way), and the kids reset her clock. God bless the children. [sings] “God bless the child who’s got his own! Who’s got his own . . .”

  Still, I wondered how this fellow managed to slip Buddhism into the curriculum. Wasn’t that a violation of church and state? As liberal as folks tend to be around this part of the country, you’d have to be naïve not to expect resistance from some of the parents, right? But Kelly said that Dharmabud was very careful not to push Buddhist doctrine, at least not directly. He wasn’t converting anyone. He just wanted to share the concept of compassion, to convey the preciousness of life. He covered his bases: meditation equaled nothing more than the traditionally vaunted “quiet time.” Probably his strongest message was how Mother Earth needed respect and taking care of. (I suppose a Republican might have a problem with that.) He made the Buddha into a generic but dignified cartoon character who carried the message.

  The pediatric Magical Mystery Tour—which suited this Namaste-at-home dad just fine!—came along at the perfect time, giving my wife some much-needed juice. As the licensed in-house observer, I sensed the groundwork for something being laid. Suddenly, Kelly got very busy. (Which was great, in that she was no longer crawling up my ass on an hourly basis.) When she wasn’t “managing” the zendo, teaching yoga or doing her jail thing, she tagged along with Dharmabud, auditing his classes. She started missing our mandatory suppers and made up for it by “intensives” with Ryder just before bed. Whenever I stood by the door to listen, it was all bell, book and Buddhism. She even gave pop quizzes. It reminded me of those awful movies she used to watch over and over—Little Buddha and Kundun—starring the once and future Dalai Lama and his tutors.

  I don’t want to sound bitchy. The truth is, she was completely devoted to our son. Things were chugging along famously until I learned that Kelly was keeping something from me—my codependent, beleaguered,
overachieving wife had been tutoring at the women’s prison for months, and now was poised to continue the work.

  At San Quentin.

  The next day he was late for our session, and entered hurriedly.

  Sorry—ran into the Gossiping Monk. We had an exchange of information . . . please omit from final transcript! I don’t want people identifying him.

  Oh, before I forget, something popped into my head when I was up the hill that is weirdly amazing. You’ve read Gary Snyder, the poet? He’s extraordinary, far better for my money than Jeffers. He’s still alive—Snyder not Jeffers. (Jeffers had a place up here in Carmel, Hawk Tower. Built it himself. A real he-man. And I understand Ferlinghetti still owns the cabin Jack wrote about in Big Sur.) Snyder and Ferlinghetti are pretty much the last of the living Beats, at least the ones I consider to be of any pivotal importance. You know, historically. Ginsberg and Burroughs died just a few months of each other, back in ’97; Huncke went the year before. I would have loved to have met Lucien Carr1, the one who killed the teacher that was stalking him. Carr and Burroughs were friends from St. Louis, I think—the tangled web of all these folks, the genealogy of it blows the mind. You knew that Kerouac helped cover up the murder? There’s supposedly a book about it that Burroughs and Jack wrote back in the forties, but no one’ll publish it.2 Now that would make a wonderful addition to the bookmobile! I would’ve wanted to meet Carr before Neal Cassady . . . Friggin’ Ferlinghetti’s outlived ’em all, he’s older than these hills, but’ll probably go to Snyder’s memorial. Tough old buzzard. And no estimable talent whatsoever! When I think about the Beats—Lamantia, McClure, Corso, Whalen,