photo by Patricia Koren
Some say the Flower Sermon was the beginning of Zen. Others say Zen has no beginning.
Meiyouren
Meiyouren
Something New Is Coming
by Don Plansky
The smallish young man with light brown skin has been writing in his notebook as I’ve been making the circuit around Todos Santos Plaza. As I pass him, I notice he’s wearing colorful socks and that his toes are pointing inward toward each other. You have to be flexible in the hips to sit comfortably in that position. I’m sure he’d be far more adept at yoga than I’ve managed with my aging body. He’s sitting on the bench near the water fountain across from Peet’s. Directly behind him, on the other side of Salvio Street, is the empty corner retail space with a sign in the window that reads:
WATCH WHAT NEW THIS
FOR IS AT CORNER
FOR IS AT CORNER
But nothing new has come in the more than three years since Suwa’s Japanese restaurant closed.
There used to be a retail store next to the defunct restaurant. I once paid way too much at that store for a brown statue of the Buddha carved in wood. Yet another dessert shop has taken its place.
Others besides the young man are out on this warm Concord evening: a middle-aged Asian man whose thoughtful face is aglow in the reflected light of his laptop; a black man, covered by his coat, sleeping on his back on another bench; a couple hugging and kissing nearby. A group of eight teenagers are picnicking on the other side of the town square. They are sitting around a marble table across from the Mexican restaurant that stays open till midnight. A small boy clambers up the steps onto the nearby stage. But, overall, it’s a quiet Sunday evening.
I look at my pedometer. Five miles. I’ve reached my goal. Now I can think about being social. I take a sip of water at the fountain, hesitate, and then approach the young man.
“What are you writing? Anything interesting?”
He looks up at me in a way that is neither inviting nor disapproving. Maybe there’s a hint of a smile. But he doesn’t answer; instead, he points to his notebook.
“Oh, are you deaf?” I stand a little closer, and, speaking louder, ask, “Do you read lips?”
He writes something in his notebook, and then hands it to me. In pencil, he’s written, “This is the way I communicate.”
I have trouble digesting this bit of information. But I try to keep the conversation going, speaking to him after I’ve read what he’s put down.
“Are you working on anything specific at the moment?”
He writes in his notebook, and hands it back to me: “No particular focus at the moment.”
The conversation moves along at a leisurely pace as I wait for his answers, sometimes taking another sip of water at the fountain as he writes. “I do some writing myself,” I say. “People seem to like what I write, but not enough to pay me for it.”
He writes in his notebook, pointing to the lower right-hand corner: “Not yet.”
“I see that you’re an optimist. I take a darker view of the world. By the way, here’s my name and email address.” After I finish writing, I hand the notebook back to him, and say, “I didn’t catch your name.”
He writes, and then hands the notebook back to me: “Robert.”
“I have an old friend named Robert, but I haven’t seen him in several years.”
Old friend. Strange phrase. When I use it, I don’t mean friends of long standing, but rather, people who used to be my friends, but have disappeared from my life.
“I find writing very difficult,” I continue. “I’m not sure why I do it.”
He writes in his notebook, pointing to the upper left-hand corner, as he hands it back to me: “Sacrifice is a virtue.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. That’s probably a good way of looking at it. But I need to know I have at least one reader or I wouldn’t bother. Writing is, after all, a form of communication. It doesn’t make much sense to write something down and then put it away in a drawer. Since I believe that I’m writing for at least one reader, I feel the need to give it a pleasing shape.”
He writes again in his notebook, pointing at the upper right-hand corner, as he hands it to me.
“An aesthetic monk.”
How did he know that? Does it show? “That’s well said,” I tell him. “Anyway, I do pretty well at the monk part.”
This comment elicits a broader smile from Robert.
“I guess you could say that I’m an aesthetically-inclined quasi-monk. What monks do is very important: they try to live without the endless petty distractions that fill most peoples’ lives so that they may draw nearer to God. I’m not capable of a life of such unwavering devotion.”
We spoke of a few other things I don’t recall. Then he smiled. “You’re very generous to talk with me,” he writes in his last message.
“Oh, no, not at all. I enjoyed our conversation.”
When I arrive back home, I realize that I’m not certain why Robert doesn’t speak. He didn’t write, “I’m unable to speak,” but rather, “This is the way I communicate.” Some monks take a vow of silence on their way to God. In one of his most famous sermons, Buddha never spoke a word; instead, gently smiling, he raised a white flower in his hands.
Only one disciple understood.
There used to be a retail store next to the defunct restaurant. I once paid way too much at that store for a brown statue of the Buddha carved in wood. Yet another dessert shop has taken its place.
Others besides the young man are out on this warm Concord evening: a middle-aged Asian man whose thoughtful face is aglow in the reflected light of his laptop; a black man, covered by his coat, sleeping on his back on another bench; a couple hugging and kissing nearby. A group of eight teenagers are picnicking on the other side of the town square. They are sitting around a marble table across from the Mexican restaurant that stays open till midnight. A small boy clambers up the steps onto the nearby stage. But, overall, it’s a quiet Sunday evening.
I look at my pedometer. Five miles. I’ve reached my goal. Now I can think about being social. I take a sip of water at the fountain, hesitate, and then approach the young man.
“What are you writing? Anything interesting?”
He looks up at me in a way that is neither inviting nor disapproving. Maybe there’s a hint of a smile. But he doesn’t answer; instead, he points to his notebook.
“Oh, are you deaf?” I stand a little closer, and, speaking louder, ask, “Do you read lips?”
He writes something in his notebook, and then hands it to me. In pencil, he’s written, “This is the way I communicate.”
I have trouble digesting this bit of information. But I try to keep the conversation going, speaking to him after I’ve read what he’s put down.
“Are you working on anything specific at the moment?”
He writes in his notebook, and hands it back to me: “No particular focus at the moment.”
The conversation moves along at a leisurely pace as I wait for his answers, sometimes taking another sip of water at the fountain as he writes. “I do some writing myself,” I say. “People seem to like what I write, but not enough to pay me for it.”
He writes in his notebook, pointing to the lower right-hand corner: “Not yet.”
“I see that you’re an optimist. I take a darker view of the world. By the way, here’s my name and email address.” After I finish writing, I hand the notebook back to him, and say, “I didn’t catch your name.”
He writes, and then hands the notebook back to me: “Robert.”
“I have an old friend named Robert, but I haven’t seen him in several years.”
Old friend. Strange phrase. When I use it, I don’t mean friends of long standing, but rather, people who used to be my friends, but have disappeared from my life.
“I find writing very difficult,” I continue. “I’m not sure why I do it.”
He writes in his notebook, pointing to the upper left-hand corner, as he hands it back to me: “Sacrifice is a virtue.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. That’s probably a good way of looking at it. But I need to know I have at least one reader or I wouldn’t bother. Writing is, after all, a form of communication. It doesn’t make much sense to write something down and then put it away in a drawer. Since I believe that I’m writing for at least one reader, I feel the need to give it a pleasing shape.”
He writes again in his notebook, pointing at the upper right-hand corner, as he hands it to me.
“An aesthetic monk.”
How did he know that? Does it show? “That’s well said,” I tell him. “Anyway, I do pretty well at the monk part.”
This comment elicits a broader smile from Robert.
“I guess you could say that I’m an aesthetically-inclined quasi-monk. What monks do is very important: they try to live without the endless petty distractions that fill most peoples’ lives so that they may draw nearer to God. I’m not capable of a life of such unwavering devotion.”
We spoke of a few other things I don’t recall. Then he smiled. “You’re very generous to talk with me,” he writes in his last message.
“Oh, no, not at all. I enjoyed our conversation.”
When I arrive back home, I realize that I’m not certain why Robert doesn’t speak. He didn’t write, “I’m unable to speak,” but rather, “This is the way I communicate.” Some monks take a vow of silence on their way to God. In one of his most famous sermons, Buddha never spoke a word; instead, gently smiling, he raised a white flower in his hands.
Only one disciple understood.