When I first arrived at Shasta Abbey, a Zen Monastery in northern California, I was assigned to the goat department. My job was to graze kids (baby goats) on the mountainside every day among the Manzaneta patches (except on the days when it snowed up to three feet at a time!) I also helped a young monk milk the mature goats and assisted in birthing, feeding, and pen repairs. The goat milk and cheese supplied much-needed protein to supplement our vegetarian diet, and the goats themselves provided a lot of fun. They were characters! From the dominant females who would stand like statues on the highest thing they could find, to the bashful ones who would hide under the mangers all day. Especially comical were the frisky males who would regularly crash through stout, barbed wire fences hoping for a shot at the female population.
My young colleague and I got along well; neither of us liked to talk much, and one rainy day he proved himself wise beyond his years. It had been raining hard for three straight days, as it often does at Mt. Shasta, and I was gazing at the dreary landscape from a smeared window of the goat building while filling a sink with cold water to cool the fresh buckets of warm goat milk.
"Another shitty day," I said under my breath (more to myself than to my monk friend).
He turned the water off for a moment and joined me in looking out the window at the rain-drenched forest. "It's the only one I have," he whispered.
Well, I thought that was really cool, so authentic, so indicative of what he was trying to attain and which few experience, and his words have always stuck in my mind. I'll never forget them, and have since tried to spend each day as if it were my last.
One day my young monk friend didn't show up, which was unusual, and I became concerned, wondering if he had fallen ill. The following day, however, he was back at work - but he wasn't the same monk - something had happened, a change in personality that was my first proof-positive that something was definitely going on up here.
I asked around a little and discovered that he had experienced a first "kensho," the initial meditation flash or experience that qualifies a monk as a Roshi, (after he or she spends the required five years at the monastery).
He had definitely changed, and for three days, he just stumbled around looking here and there, and saying things such as, "Wow," or "I can't believe it." He didn't talk to me one-on-one, maybe because I was new, I don't know, but I didn't want to pry either. I could tell, however, that he had definitely gone through a life-altering experience, and he was never the same afterward, as if some old soul had taken over his body.
The monastic schedule was brutal for the first six months. If I "would" have had someone to write to, which I didn't, I wouldn't have had time to scratch out a postcard. When I left my family, I decided not to divide my kids' allegiances between me and their mom, or later between me and their new dad who was soon to arrive on the scene; one of my best friends in high school that lived on a little farm right down the road when we were kids - I couldn't count the times he and I slept in the hay barn or tobogganed together in the pasture. He was the original nice guy. No, I had done enough damage already, and decided not to bother them further.
Although I didn't have any personal spare time, I was permitted to engage in elective activities and became involved with making swastikas. (The "swastika" is an ancient Buddhist symbol called a manji, representing infinity and the seal of the Buddha's heart; a symbol that was reversed, with the points going to the right instead of the left by Hitler's regime, and pirated for their own purposes).
You could find me in the shop working away on copper ones; wooden, plastic, or stainless steel ones, or any material I could get my hands on . . . ones! I became good at it too, with waiting lists of orders from the monks "and" the gift shop.
What almost did me in; however, were the meditation periods in the zendo (meditation hall), only because I was so stubborn and vain. When I first arrived, I figured it would only take a few months to become enlightened; after all, I had the smarts and had always accomplished whatever I wanted in life quickly and with no problems whatsoever. But surprise! Instead of becoming enlightened, I almost killed my knees! Meditation has never turned out to be exactly what I expected!
The first time was the worst. A monk had instructed me that afternoon on how to sit on the meditation cushion with my legs crossed and my knees flat on the ground. It was simple, really, not exactly rocket science.
That evening, I arrived at the crowded zendo and was shown where to sit, which was directly in front of a Roshi (a very accomplished teacher). He sat two feet behind me staring at my head. No problem, I had stared into the eyes of men almost twice my size while playing football, and cut them down. This was going to be easy.
So I sat down and assumed the "perfect" position; I would show Roshi how it was done. I crossed my legs and flattened my knees; I even put one foot on top of my opposite thigh, which is how many of the monks sat. I looked good, I must admit, and sat up really straight. I was a Buddha statue.
The bell rang, and after the many and varied pitches and tones that slowly reside into the cosmos, . . . . nothing but silence. Nobody in the entire zendo moved as much as an eyelid. And neither did I, and I did look good. In about five minutes, however, the pain began, just before both legs fell asleep.
No problem; I was determined not to move. At about ten minutes into the forty-minute period, I began to sweat a little, but still didn't move. I couldn't see my watch without looking down, and since I would rather have died than move, I wouldn't turn my head or lift my arm to see how much time remained, although it had already seemed as if an hour went by.
I was tempted to move my legs v e r y slowly so that "he," the Roshi behind me, wouldn't notice, but they were locked, and dead like two pieces of wood. I was trapped. The pain became unbearable, but still didn't match my stubbornness. (For once in my life, the stubbornness was helping). The pain became so intense that it actually stopped for awhile! That was a surprise. I thought maybe that I had made it. . . . Hah!
The next wave of pain made the first wave seem like a cakewalk. "It must be near the end of the period," I frantically thought, "any moment the bell will ring." But it didn't, and the pain was like hot lightening shooting up every part of my body. It was surreal; it took over my whole being. "Why wasn't the damn bell ringing? Did someone forget?"
Now I was getting angry, but still I didn't move. But finally, I knew that I would have to surrender; I couldn't stand it any longer. And suddenly, just before I moved, the bell rang.
But I still couldn't move, I had to use my hands to straighten out my numb legs and prop them up until the feeling came back. I glanced behind me and noticed that the Roshi was smiling and nodding.
I guess I did good.
E. Raymond Rock of Fort Myers, Florida is cofounder and principal teacher at the Southwest Florida Insight Center, www.SouthwestFloridaInsightCenter.com His twenty-eight years of meditation experience has taken him across four continents, including two stopovers in Thailand where he practiced in the remote northeast forests as an ordained Theravada Buddhist monk. His book, A Year to Enlightenment (Career Press/New Page Books) is now available at major bookstores and online retailers. Visit www.AYearToEnlightenment.com