A Tale for the Time Being

by Ruth Ozeki

  Jiko felt like that when she learned that her only son was going to be killed in the war. I know, because I told her about the fish in my stomach, and she said she knew exactly what I was talking about, and that she had a fish, too, for many years. In fact, she said she had lots of fishes, some that were small like sardines, some that were medium-sized like carp, and other ones that were as big as a bluefin tuna, but the biggest fish of all belonged to Haruki #1, and it was more like the size of a whale. She also said that after she became a nun and renounced the world, she learned how to open up her heart so that the whale could swim away. I’m trying to learn how to do that, too.

  When Jiko found out that her only son was going to die as a suicide bomber, she wanted to commit suicide, too, but she couldn’t because her youngest daughter, Ema, was only fifteen years old and still needed her. So instead of committing suicide, Jiko decided to wait until Ema was a little older and could be independent, and then she would shave her head and become a nun and devote the rest of her life to teaching people how to live in peace, and that’s pretty much exactly what she did.

  Old Jiko says that nowadays we young Japanese people are heiwaboke.112 I don’t know how to translate it, but basically it means that we’re spaced out and careless because we don’t understand about war. She says we think Japan is a peaceful nation, because we were born after the war ended and peace is all we can remember, and we like it that way, but actually our whole lives are shaped by the war and the past and we should understand that.

  If you ask me, Japan is not so peaceful, and most people don’t really like peace anyway. I believe that in the deepest places in their hearts, people are violent and take pleasure in hurting each other. Old Jiko and I disagree on this point. She says that according to Buddhist philosophy, my point of view is a delusion and that our original nature is to be kind and good, but honestly I think she’s way too optimistic. I happen to know some people, like Reiko, are truly evil, and many of the Great Minds of Western Philosophy back me up on this. But still I’m glad old Jiko believes we’re basically good, because it gives me hope, even if I can’t believe it myself. Maybe someday I will.

  Oh, hang on. Cool. Jiko just texted me back and she said it’s okay if I teach you how to do zazen as long as we’re both serious and not just horsing around. I’m not horsing around, are you? I don’t think you are horsing. At least, I’m going to imagine you’re not, and then maybe you won’t. I’ll just give you the instructions, and if you don’t want to do them, you can skip ahead.

  INSTRUCTIONS FOR ZAZEN

  First of all, you have to sit down, which you’re probably already doing. The traditional way is to sit on a zafu cushion on the floor with your legs crossed, but you can sit on a chair if you want to. The important thing is just to have good posture and not to slouch or lean on anything.

  Now you can put your hands in your lap and kind of stack them up, so that the back of your left hand is on the palm of your right hand, and your thumb tips come around and meet on top, making a little round circle. The place where your thumbs touch should line up with your bellybutton. Jiko says this way of holding your hands is called hokkai jo-in,113 and it symbolizes the whole cosmic universe, which you are holding on your lap like a great big beautiful egg.

  Next you just relax and hold really still and concentrate on your breathing. You don’t have to make a big deal about it. It’s not like you’re thinking about breathing, but you’re not not thinking about it either. It’s kind of like when you’re sitting on the beach and watching the waves lapping up on the sand or some little kids you don’t know playing in the distance. You’re just noticing everything that’s going on, both inside you and outside you, including your breathing and the kids and the waves and the sand. And that’s basically it.

  It sounds pretty simple, but when I first tried to do it, I got totally distracted by all my crazy thoughts and obsessions, and then my body started to itch and it felt like there were millipedes crawling all over me. When I explained this to Jiko, she told me to count my breaths like this:

  Breathe in, breathe out . . . one.

  Breathe in, breathe out . . . two.

  She said I should count like that up to ten, and when I got to ten, I could start over again at one. I’m like, no problem, Jiko! And I’m counting away, when some crazy revenge fantasy against my classmates or a nostalgic memory of Sunnyvale pops into my mind and totally hijacks my attention. As you’ve probably figured out by now, on account of the ADD, my mind is always chattering away like a monkey, and sometimes I can’t even count to three. Can you believe it? No wonder I couldn’t get into a decent high school. But the good news is that it doesn’t matter if you screw up zazen. Jiko says don’t even think of it as screwing up. She says it’s totally natural for a person’s mind to think because that’s what minds are supposed to do, so when your mind wanders and gets tangled up in crazy thoughts, you don’t have to freak out. It’s no big deal. You just notice it’s happened and drop it, like whatever, and start again from the beginning.

  One, two, three, etc. That’s all you have to do. It doesn’t seem like such a great thing, but Jiko is sure that if you do it every day, your mind will wake up and you will develop your SUPAPAWA—! I’ve been pretty diligent so far, and once you get the hang of it, it’s not so hard. What I like is that when you sit on your zafu (or even if you don’t happen to have a zafu handy, for example, if you’re on the train, or on your knees in the middle of a circle of kids who are punching you or getting ready to tear off your clothes . . . in other words no matter where you are) and you return your mind to zazen, it feels like coming home. Maybe this isn’t a big deal for you, because you’ve always had a home, but for me, who never had a home except for Sunnyvale, which I lost, it’s a very big deal. Zazen is better than a home. Zazen is a home that you can’t ever lose, and I keep doing it because I like that feeling, and I trust old Jiko, and it wouldn’t hurt for me to try to see the world a little more optimistically like she does.

  Jiko also says that to do zazen is to enter time completely.

  I really like that.

  Here’s what old Zen Master Dōgen has to say about it:

  Think not-thinking.

  How do you think not-thinking?

  Nonthinking. This is the essential art of zazen.

  I guess it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense unless you just sit down and do it. I’m not saying you have to. I’m just telling you what I think.

  Ruth

  1.

  One. Two. Three. Whenever Ruth tried to sit still and count her breaths, her mind constricted like a slow, dull fist around her cosmic egg and she nodded off.

  Over and over again.

  How could this be her mind awakening? It felt like boredom. It felt like what happened when the power went out. But Nao was right. It also felt like home, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.

  2.

  Over and over she tried. When her head fell forward, she jerked awake and started counting, but over and over she nodded off again. In the interstices between sleeping and waking, she floated in a darkened liminal state that was not quite a dream, but was perpetually on the edge of becoming one. There she hung, submerged and tumbling slowly, like a particle of flotsam just below the crest of a wave that was always just about to break.

  3.

  What if I travel so far away in my dream that I can’t get back in time to wake up?

  Ruth had asked her father this once, when she was little. He used to tuck her into bed, and kiss her on the forehead and bid her sweet dreams, but the exhortation always made her anxious. What if my dream isn’t sweet? What if it’s horrible?

  “Remind yourself it’s just a dream,” he said. “And then wake up.”

  But what if I can’t get back in time?

  “Then I’ll come and get you,” he said, turning out the light.

  4.

  “Maybe you’re trying too hard,” Oliver suggested. “Maybe you should take a break.”

 
He was standing in the doorway to her office, watching her adjust the cushion on the floor.

  “I can’t take a break,” she said, sitting back down and crossing her legs. “My whole life is a break. I really need to do this.”

  She shifted her weight forward and arched her spine. Maybe she was too comfortable. Maybe she should be more uncomfortable. She reached around and gave the cushion a punch and then tried it again.

  “Maybe you’re just tired,” Oliver said. “Maybe you should stop trying to meditate and take a nap.”

  “My whole life is a nap. I need to wake up.” She closed her eyes and exhaled. Immediately she felt the dull shimmer of fatigue, pressing from somewhere deep inside her, dragging her down. She shook herself and opened her eyes again.

  “Listen,” she said. “You’re the one who said the universe provides. Well, the universe provided Nao, and she says this is the way to wake up. Maybe she’s right. Anyway, I want to try. I need something. I need a supapawa.” She closed her eyes again. Her mind was her power. She wanted her mind back.

  “Okay,” he said. “Do you want to go get some clams and oysters after you finish? The rain’s stopped and it’s a nice low tide.”

  “Sure,” she said, keeping her eyes closed.

  The cat, who had been sharpening his claws on the doorjamb, now squeezed between Oliver’s legs and went straight for her, thrusting his head into her mudra.

  “Pest,” she said, breaking the circle of her cosmic egg to scratch his ear. “Oliver, will you please come get your cat and close the door on your way out.”

  “That’s his superpower,” Oliver said, as he scooped him up. “He knows how to be annoying.”

  He paused at the doorway again, still holding the cat. “We should go get clams soon, though, while the tide’s still low. How long are you going to sit there for? Do you want me to come wake you up?”

  5.

  The clam garden they liked best was a secret one that Muriel had shown them. Islanders kept a lot of secrets: secret clam gardens and oyster beds, secret pine mushroom and chanterelle patches, secret underwater rocks where sea urchins grew, secret marijuana grow-ops, secret telephone lists for salmon and halibut, meat and cheese and unpasteurized dairy. In recent years, the three small grocery stores had upgraded their stock and you could now buy most foods, but in the old days, if you were a newcomer, you could starve if an old-timer didn’t take pity on you and let you in on some of the secrets.

  The clam garden was on the western edge of the island, facing the deep cold waters of the passage. The oysters there were small and sweet, and the clams were bountiful. Muriel said that the garden was ancient and had been cultivated by the Salish for generations, but now few people harvested there, which was a pity because the gardens benefited by frequent harvesting. Still, every forkful of sand turned up a dozen or more fat clams, and in about twenty minutes they had their combined daily limit of a hundred and fifty littlenecks and thirty oysters.

  They sat on a smooth rock just above the sandy flat, looking west across the ocean toward the jagged silhouette of the mountains. The dark indigo sky was streaked with pale clouds, reflecting the dying glow of the day. Overhead, the first stars dotted the sky. Small waves licked the rock at their feet.

  Oliver took a can of beer out of his coat pocket, popped it open, and handed it to Ruth. He took out an oyster knife and a lime. His knife flashed, and the top half of the oyster shell arced and sank in the dark water. He held out the bottom half to her. The flayed mollusk glistened on the pearly shell; plump grey meat, dark frill. She thought she saw it flinch when he sprayed it with lime.

  She accepted the offering, tipping the shell to her lips and letting the oyster slip into her mouth. It was cold and fresh-tasting. He pulled another from the bucket, shucked it, and sucked it back.

  “Ahhh,” he sighed. “Crassostrea gigas. The essence of the sea.” He washed it down with a swig of beer.

  He looked so happy. And healthy, too. He’d lost weight when he was sick. It was good to see him looking well again. She thought about what the oysterman, Blake, had said about radiation, what Muriel had said about drift.

  “Some of the oyster guys are worried about nuclear contamination,” she said. “From Fukushima. What do you think?”

  “The Pacific is a pretty big place,” he said. “You want another?

  She shook her head.

  “It’s kind of ironic,” Oliver said, shucking one for himself. “This Pacific oyster isn’t native.”

  She knew this. Everybody knew this. It was impossible to live on the island and not know this. Oyster farming was the closest thing they had to an industry, now that the salmon run was depleted and the big trees had been cut.

  “They were introduced in 1912 or ’13,” he said, “but didn’t really acclimate until the thirties. But once they did, they took over. Crowded out the smaller native species.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know.”

  “You used to be able to walk barefoot on the beaches. That’s what the old-timers say.”

  She’d heard this, too. Now the local beaches were covered with razor-sharp oyster shells, so it was hard to imagine walking barefoot. “And why is this ironic?”

  “Well, maybe ironic is the wrong word. It’s just that Crassostrea gigas originally came from Japan. From Miyagi, actually. In fact, the other name for them is the Miyagi oyster. Isn’t that where your nun is from?”

  “Yes,” she said, feeling the wide Pacific Ocean suddenly shrink just a little. “I didn’t know that.”

  The cold from the rock had seeped through the seat of her jeans. She stood and jumped up and down to get warm. It was still too cold to be sitting on rocks, drinking beer, but she didn’t mind. The sea air was fresh and felt good in her lungs, dissolving the sleepiness and the murky claustrophobic feeling that overwhelmed her after a day in front of the computer. Here, she felt awake again.

  “Do you know how lucky we are?” Oliver was saying. “To live in a place where the water is still clean? Where we can still eat the shellfish?”

  She thought about the Salish who used to tend these gardens. She wondered when the last oyster was harvested in the beds around Manhattan. She thought about the leak in Fukushima. She thought about old Jiko’s temple, clinging to the side of the mountain in Miyagi. Or was it?

  “I wonder how much longer we have . . . ,” she said.

  “Who knows?” he said. “Better enjoy it while you can.” He held out an oyster. His fingers were wet and raw. “You want another?”

  “Okay.” The sharp-edged shell was rough against her lips, the cold flesh soft on her tongue. She swallowed and savored the brine. The tide was rising around their rock, lapping at her toes. “I’m cold,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

  Nao

  1.

  Have you ever tried to bully a wave? Punch it? Kick it? Pinch it? Hit it? Beat it to death with a stick?

  Stupid.

  After old Jiko found my scars, she took me on an errand into town. On the way back, she wanted to stop and buy some rice balls and soft drinks and some chocolate treats. She had this idea that we could take the bus to the seaside and have a picnic there. I didn’t particularly care, but she seemed to think it would be a big treat for me to eat store-bought food and play by the ocean, so I was like, whatever, you know, willing to go along because it’s hard to disappoint someone who’s a hundred and four years old.

  Because of her cataracts, Jiko can’t really walk very well, and she always carries a stick, but what she really likes is when you hold hands with her. I think holding hands makes her feel more confident, and so I got into the habit of holding her hand when I was next to her, and to tell you the truth, I liked it, too. I liked the feeling of her thin little fingers in mine. I liked being the strong one, and keeping her tiny body close to me. It made me feel useful. When I wasn’t there, she used her stick. I liked feeling more useful than a stick.

  Before getting on the bus to the seaside, Jiko wanted to stop
at the Family Mart in town to buy our picnic, but there happened to be a gang of yanki114 girls hanging out in the parking lot in front, so I lied and said I wasn’t hungry. They were speed-tribe biker chicks, with bleached orange and yellow shaggy hair and baggy construction-worker pants and big flapping lab coats that looked like the kind that doctors and scientists wear, only they weren’t white. They were neon bright and graffitied all over with giant black kanji.

  The girls were squatting on the pavement by the door, chewing gum and smoking. A couple of them were leaning on wooden swords, the kind you use for kendo, and I was like, No way, Grandma, I’m really not hungry, but old Jiko had her heart set on making a picnic for me, so what could I do? I held her little hand real tight, and when we got near the girls, one of them spat and it landed at our feet, and then they started to say stuff. It was nothing I hadn’t heard at school before, but it shocked me because of Jiko being so old, and how can you say rude stuff about manko115 and chinchin116 to an old lady who is a nun? It took us forever to get past them because Jiko walks so slow and they were kind of blocking our way. They kept on shouting out and spitting, and I could feel my heart racing and my face growing hot, even if old Jiko didn’t bat an eyelid.

  Finally we made it into the Family Mart. The whole time we were looking for rice balls and drinks and deciding whether to buy chocolate or sweet bean cakes or both for dessert, I kept looking through the window at the girls squatting outside the store. I knew that when we left they would say more stuff to us. Maybe they would throw things at us or trip us. Maybe they would follow us to the beach and get their boyfriends to rape us and beat us and throw our dead bodies into the ocean, or maybe they would just do the business themselves with their wooden swords. I’d gotten plenty of practice at school imagining this kind of thing happening to my own body so it didn’t bother me that much, but the idea of someone hurting my old Jiko was brand new to my mind, and it made me feel like throwing up.