Catskills - Buddha's Rules

Day 2 - Morning Meditation
I dream of nothing – or almost nothing.  I recall a man in a dark room swinging a hammer, rhythmically, making a high pitch clang-clang-clang.  The camera moves in closer.  The man is hammering a large silver nail.  With each hit, sparks come off the nail but it doesn’t move.  Clang-clang-clang.  The man hammers harder and harder.  I wake up.



In the hallway outside our room, someone is shuffling by ringing a bell.  Ding-ding-ding.  Pitch dark, 5:30am, cold.  We are due in the zendo by 5:50am for morning service.  Clearly, Buddha is a morning person.  Despite three blankets I’ve just spent eight hours on a cold sidewalk.  I sit up and a rush of pain replaces the numbness of my shoulders and lower back.  Jean yawns, stretches and chirps “Ready Dopey?”  She is Buddha’s smiling administrative assistant.  I double-up my socks and pull on my robe over fleece and jeans.

Chow is in his assigned position, standing outside the entryway to the zendo.  I find my seat and do a mental roll call.  A few people are missing, I imagine them sleeping blissfully.  All the main characters are there: Queen Bee on her folding chair, Cutler kneeling by her side like a lap dog.  Mustache Lip is wearing a hoodie pulled so tightly around her head that only her eyes and nose are showing.  Perfect Pose is sitting upright in a shiny set of black meditation pj’s, legs folded beneath him, bare feet arched.  I have a strong desire to kick him.  By the time I notice Cratchet, she’s staring me down with narrowed eyes.

I borrow a pillow from my absent neighbor’s mat and add it to the one already wedged under my butt.  It doesn’t help, within minutes my knees and ankles are throbbing.  I remind myself of the goal - think of nothing, just focus on your breath.  I don’t work very hard towards this goal – just the opposite.  When a thought arrives, I actively encourage it.  Distraction is my friend, Buddha.
Queen Bee gets up, claps her hands twice and two young female monks run over.  She holds out her arms like a cross and the monks start working the wooden buttons of her robe until it drops to the floor.  She is completely nude.  She slowly lowers her arms to her sides.  She is many large folds of pink flesh on two bony legs - an old, tattered flamingo.  She struts to the middle of the floor, rubbing her bald head with one hand, removes her cat eye glasses and yells “may the orgy begin.”

I shake this thought off.

Just then, the zendo door slowly closes and a lock scrapes and clicks into place.  Chow appears, smiling, holding a tray of colored paper cups.  He takes measured steps, trying not to spill any.  Cutler gets up. He has on dark sunglasses and his robe is cinched with a shiny leather belt.  A handgun is tucked into the belt.  He plucks one of the cups from the tray and looks into my eyes.  “Drink up and accept an invitation into the second plane of existence.”
I notice my thoughts tend to be dark, though entertaining.  They keep me distracted from the feeling that my knees and ankles are being gnawed on by cheetahs.

“Get your hymn book” bellows the Queen Bee, “Page 166.”  Her voice jolts me out of my delusions.  I turn around in my seat and notice a small felt-bound book.  I open it and see there’s no binder, it’s one long piece of paper folded many times.  No matter how I squint in the semi-darkness I cannot make out the numbers or words.  I’m happy that my 49 year-old eyes fail me.  The Queen Bee starts to chant and everyone joins in.  Some don’t open the book - they know it by heart.  I hold the book open at arm’s length, mouth closed.

“Kan ze on, na ma butsu.  Yo butsu u in.  Bup-po so en.  Jo raku ga jo.  Cho nen kan ze on……”

It’s a low rumble of short syllables.  I translate the chant in my head:

“Little porcupine, bite my car tires.  I am grateful for your hunger.  Don’t worry, I’ll hitchhike home from the forest, because you and I are children of the Buddha.”
A woman across from me loses her grip on the chant book and it tumbles away from her like a slinky.  She struggles to fold it back into place, cheeks reddening.  The chanting continues for thirty minutes or thirty hours, it’s hard to know which.

“Retrieve your meal bowl” orders the Queen Bee.  Everyone picks up the cloth-wrapped bundle behind them and places it in front of their mat.  We stand, retrieve it and make our way to the cafeteria in two long single file lines.  I limp as fast as I can, but an unacceptable distance opens up between me and the person ahead of me.  I struggle to catch up.  I am dizzy from hunger.