One Last Stick of Incense

 

When I left the big city for small town life some years ago, I had the distinct sense that my relationship with “formal” Zen practice would never be the same. Sure, there was a temple not too far away from my new home that I’d already visited with some regularity for retreats and special events. It was still too far away to attend with any great frequency, though. And so I set my sights on diligently maintaining a solitary practice still guided by the bodhisattva ideal.

During one of my last visits to that big city temple where I used to practice I purchased a couple boxes of the incense that we used there. I rationed out that stock over the ensuing years, first using a stick every now and again, then a half stick, and, finally, a third. It was surely quite diminished of its finer essence by the time I lit the last partial stick not too long ago. Nonetheless, it still had the power to take me back to that zendo where I first experienced its rich scent.

I’ll never forget my first visit there almost a quarter of a century ago. Though I was not new to meditation, I was then new to formal Zen practice. It was a weekday evening and there was nobody else there except for me and the doan – the person who prepared the altar, lit the candles and incense, and rang the bell to begin and end meditation. Todd was a short, squat man whose soft-spokenness was colored by an interesting accent due to his hearing impairment. He was “just another student,” so to speak, but he gave me my first lessons in formal Zen practice: how to enter the zendo, how to bow before taking my seat, how to maintain a proper meditation posture. They were lessons that, even in the absence of any other Zen training, could have held me in good stead for a lifetime. 

Now, if you’re in the habit of reading books by Buddhist teachers, you’ve likely encountered the admonition that you must find a good teacher. Often enough what is meant by this is that you must find a teacher who can guide you all the way to enlightenment, whatever that might be. Others, however, myself included, consider a teacher to be a good one if they impart to the student what is necessary in order for them to continue practicing on their own with the confidence that they are doing so in accord with a time-tested tradition. In that regard, Todd was one of the best teachers I’ve ever had, and I’ve had many over the years. Few have been as kind and modest as Todd was. Few have listened as well as that hearing-impaired man could listen. And few have taught me precisely what I needed to know, precisely when I needed to know it, as he did.

I went on to be in Todd’s position on many occasions – teaching people Zen meditation and “showing them the ropes” of formal Zen practice. I enjoyed the “smells and bells,” the camaraderie, the sutra study with our teacher in the evening, the Sunday service and the Dharma discussion afterwards, and the long weekend practice days punctuated by work in the yard and quiet tea on the porch. During the best of those days, I thought of becoming a monastic. I thought of maybe even becoming a Zen teacher. At other times, though, I pondered why so many practitioners arrived at the temple full of wonder and praise for the practice and their newfound Zen Master, only to leave a short time later disillusioned or downright angry. It troubled me. It troubled me as well as I strove to remain free of the scheming of some of my fellow students, maneuvering under the cover of silence to gain favor with our teacher. And, with increasing frequency, I noticed our teacher’s presence and personality growing larger and larger until it finally became quite literally impossible for me to experience the silence and stillness that had attracted me to practice there in the first place. By the end of my tenure there all I could see was a pitiful human being, overcome by paranoid grandiosity, lashing out at his students, and ultimately driving most of them away, myself included.

Now, some will say that it’s all grist for the mill – that everything that happens provides insight into the workings of our egoic minds, if only we receive it. Yes, there is truth in those words. Some will say that all of our judgements are merely aspects of our own negative karma projected out onto the world and other people. Indeed. Did not many of my experiences of formal Zen training mirror those that I’d had while growing up in a dysfunctional and harshly authoritarian family? They did. And some may even  suggest that I should have stayed with that teacher in order to work through all of those issues. However, I now recognize as mere religious belief the opinion that every teacher has the ability and inclination to work with students in a healthy and positive way. And so the path disappeared beneath my feet.

I felt many things as I lit that last bit of incense, and smelled what remained of its essence. Of course I felt sadness for all of the many positive experiences with good people who, with the exception of a few, are mostly memories to me now. I felt the disillusionment of seeing this practice of awakening that I hold in such regard being desecrated by delusion and patriarchal dysfunction. And though I’m grateful for the training, and for having seen first-hand all the potential and pitfalls of “formal” Zen practice, I’m also grateful to be free – liberated in much the same sense that Buddhism promises is possible. This wilderness, to be sure, is not without difficulties of its own, but the spaciousness and openness that I awaken to each day smell of truth. 

 

Copyright 2021 by Mark Robert Frank