I Love a Broad Margin to My Life - Maxine Hong Kingston [27]
play kung fu boxing, push and
chase one another unreprimanded
around the table. The floor-sitting adults
get up. With sand and a small pail
of precious water, each cleans his bowl.
No leader tells the newcomer
what to do; no explainer gives
instructions. Under the vow of silence, we
can know we are all equally human.
Can’t tell who’s smarter than who,
whose job is better, who has more
money, more class. Silence, democracy.
Enemies can’t argue; thoughts and feelings
deepen, alter, fade, merge. The monks go
outdoors and meander in the dusk
that shadows into dark night. You
can see the Milky Way, the River of Heaven,
bridge, trail of corn, diadem
made up of individual stars.
It’s not a long wispy cloud as in light-
polluted America. Dok dok dok.
Dok dok dok dok dok.
The sound of wood clapping on wood calls
the community back inside. This monastery
is so poor, it doesn’t own a bell.
They’ve transformed the room where they’d eaten
into a meditation hall. Candlelight
and incense and dok-dok-dok summon
deities. They arrive upon the altar.
There’s Kwan Yin the merciful. And Kwan Yin
the wrathful. She who imprisoned Monkey, and freed
him. And red Gwan Goong on his red horse;
that book he’s reading is The Art of War. The 8
Immortals are here too, and lohans and arhats
and Buddhas and monkeys. We offer this incense
to all Buddhas and bodhisattvas throughout
space and time. The cushion in the middle place
among the monks is empty, for the new brother.
The community is aware of his presence; they look
after him. I will stay and sit until—
satori! Where else but in China?
Breathe in … breathe out … breathe
in … breathe out … breath incoming …
breath outgoing … breath incoming …
These monks don’t have a chanter guiding
their meditation. Peeking at them, you can’t tell
who’s meditating, who’s acting.
Surely, nobody here’s an actor, a spy
in government pay. Why would Commies bother
with a temple in the middle of nowhere?
No one hits Monkey upside the head
for mind-wandering. He tries signaling a need
for a whack, taps himself on a shoulder blade,
taps himself on the head. No minder monk
whacks him with a Zen stick. But Zen is Jap-
anese, and satori is Japanese. The monks
sit on, the kid monks gone,
to play, to do schoolwork, to sleep.
Monkey would leave too but for his sense
of competition and peer pressure.
The usual workings of his mind take him over;
he plays the time game: 29 …
30 … 40 minutes … 1 hour …
2 hours … 3 … real time?
Seeming time? It feels 9 o’clock,
then at length, or shortly, 11 o’clock.
How to be in sync? Whyfor in sync?
Because joy and life exist nowhere but the present.
Dok dok dok dok dok.
At last, the monks stir, wake up,
massage their feet, pound their own shoulders,
walk about, go out, come
back, unroll the cushions, which become beds,
blanket, and pillow. Meditation hall
becomes dorm. Wittman does get tap-
tapped, on the feet. A monk about to bed
down beside him tap-taps him, and makes
a circle motion with his hand: Turn around.
You dis the gods, giving them the underside
of your feet. And your head will benefit
exchanging vibes, chi, dreams with the altar.
Candles burn down. Shadows on the ceiling
fly into night. Snoring, snuffling,
vocalizing—aaahh, oooo, rrrrr—the community
sleeps together. Breath breathing breath.
Dok dok dok. Wake up.
4 a.m. Time to meditate again.
Everybody gets back up to sitting
position, and breathes out, breathes in,
aware of breathing out, aware of breathing in.
When I, Maxine, am worried and can’t sleep,
I remember to remember: at 4 a.m.
the Dalai Lama and William Stafford are awake
with me, and meditating and making up
a poem, and making up the world, preparing
the morning that we can
live as peaceful gentle,
kind human beings. We build the Kaya,
the Body, and the Dharmakaya,
the Buddha-body. Hold our bluegreen
world joyous and vibrant. Mm nn
nn nn nnn mm mmm
I am hearing Heart Sutra in Chinese.
Heart Sutra that won the war for the Vietnamese.
People