When I sit down to write, I am always looking forward to it, but this time, it feels like there is so much going on that I am either going to put together a disjointed piece of shit, or it likely deserves a part 2, which is what I’m thinking. Tomorrow, Sunday, is predicted to be a lousy weather day, which means there won’t be a motorcycle ride for me. I will end up with far too much time on my hands and writing is what I usually do on that day anyway.
So, I sit down this afternoon, relieved of the pressure to tell too much in too little space. I have a birthday in a little over a week and beginning my 75th year is kind of preemptive in terms of anything else going on at the moment. On those occasions when I tell people my age, never at my urging, I am always greeted with shocked looks. I am not exactly sure what it means to act your age, but I have never been governed by the expectations of others in that regard.
I figure if I’m incredibly lucky, I’ve got ten years left before I am relegated to the world of drool. Hopefully, most of you are not my age and the idea of such a limited future is foreign to you, which is probably a good thing. This ten year thing is now the yardstick I use to measure what I should give a shit about or not. Let me tell you, it is fascinating and something you can’t possibly understand until you are up here with me.
Frankly, I can’t say I am sure about life after death. Even though the Buddha came out of the world of karma, I think he answered he didn’t know for certain what happens after death and how could he? The western idea of heaven and hell is a pill many of us swallow to keep the bogeyman at bay. In fairness to Zen, there is this idea that there is an energy that finds us at birth and we embody it until it moves on. One of the great questions in this practice is, what was your face before birth?, implying a kind of continuum. Honestly, I don’t know, but I do know that the rest of my time here matters in a way I never imagined before now.
In the past, it feels like I hit age milestones and then dropped them away as soon as I got there. I didn’t feel like I carried them forward, rather they were hit and put behind me. Now, there is no running away. This is not meant to be a tale of woe. I’ll bet you didn’t know how to spell woe, because I just looked it up. Who uses the word woe?
At the beginning of the year, I re-injured my left leg pretty badly. Years before, I had a canoeing accident in the ever filthy Hanamaulu Bay and suffered a life threatening infection, compounded by the royal incompetence of several medical practitioners on the island. I nearly lost my leg and my possible demise was fairly close at hand. I survived a series of surgeries, followed by a month of pain purgatory at home, crowned by a skin graft and the worst recovery imaginable.
Foolishly, I forgot about my leg and how badly compromised it actually was. Pain is a funny thing and our memories don’t hold onto to it very long, because it fries our minds and sensory amnesia allows us to leave it behind. I injured that same leg again and it was its way of telling me I didn’t show it the respect it deserved. I was bedridden and immobilized for a couple of weeks. The first time around, rehab became my religion and I fought hard to get my leg back.
The second time around, while lying on my back in bed, unable to walk more than a few steps without crucifying pain, I was afraid I didn’t have it within me to do it again. Now, if you think my whole dance with mortality had left the building, you’d be wrong. Slowly, I began to do my decades old yoga practice again, incredibly abbreviated to avoid straining my delicate left leg. I was completely unable to do my Zen sitting practice, a part of my life for thirty years. I wasn’t worried I’d ever do it again, but I waited for my body and my mind to give me permission.
Every morning, I’d get out of bed and do whatever part of my yoga practice my body’d allow. It took a couple of months and when I was finally able to do back bends without being afraid my leg would scream for help, I sat on my cushion, just as if I had done it the day before.
I have tried very hard to be an unschooled Zen practitioner, never wanting to read much about it. I think it has to do with how too many writers address it, because I never viewed it as an intellectual process, something to understand. I do start each morning at the computer with a quote from the world of Zen, but I am never inclined to go any deeper, because I don’t think that is what the Buddha had in mind. I loved the idea that all I had to do was sit and breathe, which seemed right to me.
After I got back to my cushion, feeling altered by my recent painful experience, filtered through the light of my growing years, I actually enjoyed it. My closest friend gave me a book by Thich Nhat Hanh, called How To Sit. I’ve known about this fellow for many years and he is just one of those special people, who sees the world in such a perfect way. The book is filled with little thoughtful ideas, but I grabbed a hold of his writing about smiling when you sit. I realized that I was doing it now, after returning to the practice.
I do think a great deal about my time left, because I’d be a moron to ignore the years. Now, starting each morning with my sit and an almost undetectable smile is the perfect reset for each day for the balance of my days.