Jake Fades

by David Guy

  “The Buddha taught us to see impermanence not just in a flowing river, or the ruins of a town, or the fleeting nature of love, where poets often find it, but in our own experience. The moment-by-moment life of this fathom-long body. You don’t have to wait for a civilization to crumble. You can just watch your body and mind for a while.

  “You sit down hoping to find enlightenment, and a few seconds later you’re wondering what’s for lunch. You catch a glimpse of the void, then your knee starts to hurt, you get caught up in that. You spend a few moments following the breath and you hear the basketball game outside; suddenly you’re in a game you played thirty years ago, with the guys you went to the playground with, from around the old neighborhood. A simple noise from outside and you’re in another world. It’s uncanny.”

  There was a feeling of immense space in the room. I spoke a sentence and it floated off toward the ceiling. There was a pause, and I’d speak another. I was actually talking at a normal pace, but everything seemed to have slowed down. There were spaces between words, abysses between sentences.

  Maybe I was catatonic.

  “Which of those people is you? The one who wants enlightenment or the one who would settle for a bowl of soup? The one who’s a good meditator, or the one who would give up anything, the whole sesshin, practice itself, if only his knee stops hurting? The one who feels compassion for every soul on earth or the one who would like to kill the person sitting next to you, he’s moving so much? Which is it?”

  I was starting to roll. I could feel the energy.

  “It’s interesting the way one Buddhist teaching leads to another, you’re talking about impermanence and suddenly you’re into no-self, you switch to the fact of suffering and you’re back at impermanence. The teachings lock together, so that you agree in the beginning to a simple proposition, you can’t find anything in your body and mind that’s permanent, and that snowballs into the fact that you don’t have a self. There’s something brilliant about it.”

  I’d been deeply moved by the teachings of the Buddha when I finally found them, near the age of forty. No other religion had held together for me, as much as I tried to find one. Suddenly there was this teaching that seemed simple and profound, also airtight.

  “I remember how terrified I was when I finally saw the concept of no-self. At the same time, it was a huge relief. Whatever I’d thought about myself, whoever I’d thought I was, I could just let go. Even the fear I was feeling at that very moment. Fear is a reaction that arises. I’m afraid of heights; maybe you’re afraid of deep water, or dark streets. It’s not who you are, it arises under conditions. It’s a fact of being human. There’s no such thing as a fearful person.”

  I stopped for a moment, thought about it.

  “So who are you, if you’re none of that? You’re none of the things you’ve been thinking you are all these years?”

  The immensity of that question filled the room, at least for me. It also left me with nothing to say, but a lot more time left, so I doubled back to the Buddha’s life, where the subject started. I began to speak more conventionally.

  What I think is that the legendary story of the Buddha’s encounter with impermanence—that his father kept him from sickness, aging, and death until he was in his late twenties, when the gods intervened—was a fairy tale that pointed to a deeper truth. He had seen those things, as everyone does, but they hadn’t touched him, cushioned as he was by a life of luxury. Finally, in his late twenties, some incident deeply touched him.

  We don’t think of ourselves as princes, but his life didn’t compare to the luxury we have today. Our comforts seem to protect us, but really they dull blows we need to feel. Cultures where life is more primal, death more random, have a deeper understanding. We’re more like the young Buddha.

  But when he did see death, it hit him all the harder.

  All spiritual life begins with that shock of impermanence. We see that our loved ones will die, we will die: nothing in our world lasts forever. What was striking about the Buddha—the most remarkable thing about his life—was that he couldn’t leave that fact alone. He had to face the question of impermanence and left his palace to do it, left a beautiful wife, a newborn son.

  His subsequent experience, though it seems foreign and strange, was actually typical: his early study of meditation, working to achieve deep states, was like what lots of meditators do; his ascetic period, when he blotted out desire with intense effort, reflects another strategy they adopt. We don’t go to the lengths he did, but experience those stages. The Buddha’s life is archetypal and exemplary.

  Finally he discovered that simple, clear awareness—something he’d had all along, but had neglected—was the key to practice. It didn’t answer the question of impermanence (it wasn’t a question), but he saw the fact of it, in every aspect of life. It was that clear seeing, resisting nothing, that opened him to the abundance of life.

  I wandered around in different aspects of this story. By the time I got to his teaching—the moment he saw that truth and went back into the world—my time was up. It was time to expound on impermanence and my talk was over.

  Whatever you do in sesshin, you have lots of time to think about it. The talk was followed by a thirty-minute sitting, then of course we did lunch in silence, so I spent that whole time wondering what I’d said, trying to remember what it was, wondering if I’d phrased things correctly, imagining how I could have done differently, wondering what Jake thought. None of which was any help whatsoever, but my mind kept doing it. I had to go through it.

  After lunch there was a break, and Jake stepped for a moment into my room.

  “I didn’t even get to the teaching,” I said. “I went back too far.”

  “You’ll have another chance. What you said was good.”

  “They didn’t hear the subject of your talk.”

  “They’ve heard me enough.”

  “I wish I could do it over.”

  “You can. You’ll be doing it the rest of your life. It doesn’t matter how you do.”

  That made a hell of a lot of sense—I was sitting there teaching our students; it didn’t matter how I did?

  He touched my chest. “Trust what you come up with,” he said. “It’s all you’ve got.”

  There was a work period after lunch break. I went out and raked leaves on the grounds, did some work in the garden. I’ve always thought a perfect meditation retreat would include an Olympic pool for lap swimming, but I guess you can’t have everything. I did manage to do some simple yoga. The danger, on the first day especially, is that you’ll tighten up. I tried to exercise as much as I could. I had taken a walk at morning break, would do so again in the evening.

  I was doing dokusan that day, the short interview the teacher has with students. We did it in a small room off the front hallway, the same place Jake and I stopped for incense. The first three students who came in were old-timers, just wanted to check their postures, ask some simple questions. Mostly on the first day people were settling in.

  The fourth person was Jess.

  Of all her wardrobe changes, this one seemed the most extreme. She had on a white sweatshirt and blue sweatpants, absolutely no makeup. You could see the various little holes from her piercings. Her hair was combed out over her shoulders. Her eyes looked tired.

  She was supposed to do a floor bow to the altar, various other gestures, but just plopped down on the cushion.

  In an hour or two she’d be pumping beer at the Green Street Grill.

  “Is this where you ask me some impossible question?” she asked. “How to clap one hand?”

  “That’s another kind of Zen,” I said.

  “So what do we do? I assume we still can’t fuck.”

  “Jess,” I said. “You never quit.”

  “If this doesn’t make you want to, nothing ever will. You don’t have any dope back here, do you? Some booze?”

  “We’re clean. It’s just you and me.”

  “I can’t do this. I
’m sorry. I wanted to. I wanted to be like my mother. But I can’t.”

  “Why should you be like your mother?”

  “I was fired up when I came here. I actually came early. Did you see?”

  “I did.”

  “But I swear to God, as God is my witness, if there even is a God in this stupid religion, I haven’t followed a breath all day. Not one.”

  “At least you’re consistent.”

  “I was nervous when I got here, I admit. Jittered up and knew it might take a while. All those bull dykes around. Do you have any idea how many lesbians there are in that room?”

  Jake, for some reason, attracted women followers. He had started out with women and others followed, maybe because they were friends. I hadn’t checked up on their sexual orientation.

  “How many? I asked.

  “A shitload. Not that I mind. Some of my best friends, I’m sure. It’s just surprising. Like it’s dyke night at the bar. I still thought I’d settle down after a while. I haven’t.”

  “You’ve done this for a total of two or three hours.”

  “My mind is like a juke box. Every song I ever heard. I’ve also been over every relationship I’ve had with a guy, and believe me, there have been a few.”

  No doubt.

  “My knees hurt. My back aches. My ass has a cramp the size of a softball. And I’m supposed to do this four more days? I don’t think so.”

  “You’re asking a lot of yourself.”

  “To follow one breath? Not to switch off to every blow job I’ve ever given?”

  “To come here and meditate for a day. Even half a day. Most people start with ten minutes.”

  “I’m telling you I can’t do ten minutes. I can’t do one minute. I can’t do one second. Are you getting this?”

  “You’re meeting yourself, Jess. You’re seeing your mind. It’s not a pretty sight. It never is.”

  “You think all those dykes are out there dreaming of pussy? Do I want to sit next to them?”

  “I don’t know what they’re doing. I don’t know what anyone’s doing. But the experience you’re having is normal.”

  “Normal?”

  “You’re right on track.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Come less tomorrow. Sleep in a little.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. That’s why I came.”

  “Leave early. Leave after the work period. You’ve got to take it easy.”

  “I had no idea what you were saying in that talk. I mean, it was nice. But all this is so new. Why don’t you make jokes, like Padre?”

  Another boost for my confidence. “I’ll try to make some jokes.”

  “You’ve got to start at the beginning. All this stuff about the Buddha. I don’t know what it is.”

  I thought I had started at the beginning. I thought that was the problem.

  “Forget it,” she said. “The problem is me. I’m fucked up.”

  “You’re not fucked up. Just a human being.”

  “It’s the same thing. Anyway. I don’t think you’ll be seeing me tomorrow.”

  “That would be fine.”

  “I’m more like a bar girl. That’s where you can find me.”

  “That’s where I’ll look.”

  “And we should have fucked, by the way. You don’t know what you missed.”

  This had to be one of the more unusual dokusans in the history of Buddhism.

  Jess was getting up, slowly. She did seem a tad sore.

  “By the way, some dyke tried to tell me what to do when I came in here, but I didn’t listen. My brain was on tilt. I apologize.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Say good-bye to Padre. Tell him I love him.”

  “I will.”

  “I love you too. But fuck you in your skinny little ass for ever suggesting I do this.”

  “I didn’t suggest it.”

  “You guys should be shot for promoting this.”

  She opened the door and stepped out, limping.

  What a gal. Jake was right. Most people come in and pretend to be spiritual. That honesty would take her a long way.

  I had been hoping Kevin might come, but he didn’t. I always seemed, in any sesshin, to find a young man to look after. Maybe looking for a second son.

  The last person to come in, at eight fifteen, was Madeleine.

  She was the opposite of Jess. Her face immaculately made up, every hair in place. She looked exactly as she had that morning. She wore a white cotton outfit—blouse and slacks—with a flower pattern on the blouse. She bowed to the altar, sat gingerly in front of me.

  “This is the first time we’ve done this,” she said.

  “It is.”

  “Usually I talk to Jake.”

  To say the least. She never sat a whole sesshin, but talked to him two or three times a day.

  “Nothing against you,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “You’re qualified. Jake told me.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not so sure.”

  “You think I could see him?”

  “You could ask. He wanted me to take the first day. I could ask for you.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll be fine.”

  There was a long pause. She sat there, looking down.

  “This is the first time I’ve sat a whole day,” she said.

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “You must think I’m silly.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Must wonder what’s wrong with me.”

  “I don’t, Madeleine.”

  “I’m just so, I don’t know, afraid. I’m so frightened, of this one thing. But I don’t know what it is.”

  I nodded. It was everything.

  “Even now, I don’t know if I can go back in that room.”

  “I’m frightened too.”

  “Not like this, Henry.”

  “My palms were sweating when I gave that talk. My feet were sweating. If I’d stood up I would have slid to the floor.”

  She laughed. “We’re a mess. We’re both a mess. What are we going to do without him?”

  “I don’t know.” I shook my head.

  We sat a while longer.

  “Do you have any advice?” she asked.

  “Nothing you haven’t heard before. Be with your fear. Let it be. Feel it in your body.”

  She gave a little bow. “That does sound familiar.”

  “It should.”

  “I thought your talk was good. I was surprised.”

  I smiled.

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  She did mean it that way. She just didn’t mean to say it.

  “I was surprised you gave the talk. I thought Jake was fine. He didn’t miss a beat.”

  I’d felt the same way.

  “I wonder what will happen tomorrow.”

  She wasn’t the only one.

  15

  THAT WAS THE WAY the days went, chanting before all the meals and at the end of the day, a talk at midmorning and work period in the afternoon, otherwise just sitting and walking. When you first do it, as Jess could have told you, it can be one of the most hair-raising things you’ve ever done, sitting there staring at your mind by the hour, but once you’ve done it a few times, you see that it doesn’t have much to do with you, it’s a ritual celebration of ordinary life.

  Sitting, standing, walking, lying down. Eating, working, listening. Everything is reduced to its most basic components, so you finally notice them. One of the things I first noticed is how profoundly in touch with the rhythm of the day sesshin is. The whole of life is that way in monasteries. It lets you know the day has a rhythm, that you live better when you’re in synch with it.

  At the beginning of the morning, before we headed down, Jake said, “I think you should do dokusan again today.”

  “People will be disappointed,” I said.

  “They can deal with it.”

  “Madeleine would like to see you.”

  “Sh
e can see me. I’m not saying I won’t see people. But she sat all day yesterday. She’s never done that before.”

  I nodded.

  “She might use me to get her off the hook,” he said.

  The thought had occurred to me.

  Kevin signed up for dokusan first thing, and normally I would have waited until the afternoon, but I’d noticed him so much that I decided to go ahead before the dharma talk.

  He was a tall, good-looking guy, wore four or five days’ growth of beard, though I think that was intentional, the way young guys like that rough look. He was thin and seemed relaxed, but looked terminally sleepy, his head lolling as if he would keel over any minute. He had the same lackadaisical look when he served meals, as if trying to be casual. I had the feeling he wasn’t quite entering into things.

  He did all of the bows in the dokusan room, but when he sat before me started lolling. He almost put me to sleep.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Not bad. I’ve been a little sleepy.”

  No kidding.

  “This isn’t your first sesshin,” I said.

  “My sixth. The third with you guys. The problem is . . .” He smiled a little. “The first one was, like, bliss.”

  “Really?”

  “I keep wanting that again. I know it’s a mistake.”

  “Hard not to.”

  Talk about problems you don’t often run into.

  “I love this group. Just being around them. It’s like a family. A loving family.”

  This bunch of bull dykes?

  “How’s your own family?” I asked.

  “I don’t really have one. My mom died when I was little. Dad tried to be what I needed but wasn’t up to it. He’s a businessman. Nice guy.”

  “He never married again?” “Never.”

  What an upbringing.

  “I thought of that when you talked yesterday,” he said, “about the Buddha’s experience of impermanence. How he went through it. Followed the question to the end. I didn’t do that. Didn’t get too far.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Seven.”

  I shook my head. So sad.

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “I’m the only one.”

  It got worse and worse. Living all those years with a father who himself didn’t get past what happened. It was no wonder he liked sitting with a group of women. Even if they were all silent and got together only a couple of times per year.