Zen And The Art Of Faking It Part 2

I had about twenty minutes to kill before everybody started pulling in, so I swayed back and forth until I was comfortable like the Sitting Zen Sitting Zen book said you're supposed to. Then I tried to breathe deeply and evenly until I forgot about breathing. Do you know how hard that is? I tried counting breaths, then I tried NOT counting breaths. But when you're purposely NOT counting, your brain wants to count. book said you're supposed to. Then I tried to breathe deeply and evenly until I forgot about breathing. Do you know how hard that is? I tried counting breaths, then I tried NOT counting breaths. But when you're purposely NOT counting, your brain wants to count.

It crossed my mind that if the goal of sitting zazen was to forget about all conscious thought and just be, counting and purposely not counting were equally counterproductive. It also crossed my mind that the followers of Zen might not be enlightened; maybe they were just really, really sleepy.

After a while I did manage to stop thinking about breathing by a clever trick: I concentrated on feeling all the individual molecules of my b.u.t.t freezing solid, one by one. When my whole b.u.t.t was completely numb-and I mean novocaine numb-I focused on the numbness. But numbness isn't the same as not thinking; it's just thinking about how you have no feeling in your tushy.

Just when I thought my whole backside might actually crack off and tumble away from my body in a solid block, Woody popped into my peripheral vision. She was getting out of a minivan in front of the school. Jones popped out right behind her. She must have seen me, although I couldn't turn my neck to look without blowing the whole pose. Then she started walking my way. So did Jones. Yikes!

Wait. I was way too Zen-or at least too numb-to say "Yikes!" I was in the zone, or at least I was supposed to be. Let the boy-mountain come to me.

Woody stepped right in front of me, guitar case in one gloved hand. Jones was wearing gloves too. Ha! I spit on gloves. Gloves are for those who have not mastered their inner soul force. Or for those whose moms have money-one or the other. Woody gently laid the case down on the ice-crusted gra.s.s, and said, "Good morning, San! How are you today? You were amazing in cla.s.s yesterday. I can't believe how much you know about Buddhism!"

"Neither can I," I replied.

She giggled, and Jones grimaced. "So, uh, Peter and I were wondering: What are you doing?"

Ah, it was time for the Zen Show. "Sitting."

"But why?"

"The sun is up."

"What?"

Half grin maneuver: activated. "I like the morning."

Jones-Peter Jones-said, "I like the morning too, but you don't see me squatting on a rock. I mean, no offense, but what's the point?" Jones-said, "I like the morning too, but you don't see me squatting on a rock. I mean, no offense, but what's the point?"

"Sitting."

Jones was getting frustrated. Goo-ood. "Well, what were you thinking about?"

"I was thinking about not thinking."

I smiled warmly-well, frozenly, but with happy emotion-at Woody. She blew her bangs away from her face-I loved that-and said, "How do you think about not thinking?"

"Without thinking."

Peter Jones rolled his eyes behind Woody's back, and said to her, "Come on, we don't have time for this. We're going to be late. Are you coming, Buddha?"

Woody said, "We'll be in in a minute, Peter. I want to talk with San for a minute."

Peter didn't move, although I think his jaw clenched up.

Woody looked at him with slight scorn: "Alone, Peter." Oh, yeah, baby. That's what I'm talking about. Go, Buddha Boy!

Peter stomped away, kicking up little puffs of sparkling frost. Woody locked eyes with me. "You're so...different from everybody else here."

"How do you know? We've only known each other for a day."

She nodded her head toward the crowd that was slowly filtering its way into the two main doors of the building. "Look at them. They're sheep. Small-town sheep!"

Bitterness was not the way to enlightenment. I think I had heard that on a beer commercial once. It was a pretty clever commercial. "Woody, I have only one answer to that."

"What?"

"Baaaaaaaa!"

She looked puzzled, then smiled. "See? You're just so-I don't know-real. Now let's go to school!" Now let's go to school!"

I tried to get up, but my b.u.t.t was both frozen and asleep. I was thinking, If it's frozen, how can I tell it's asleep? And yet, if it's asleep, how can I tell it's frozen? Hey, that's a Zen riddle! I am getting GOOD! But seriously, I think I am stuck here. I cannot move! If it's frozen, how can I tell it's asleep? And yet, if it's asleep, how can I tell it's frozen? Hey, that's a Zen riddle! I am getting GOOD! But seriously, I think I am stuck here. I cannot move! I half smiled half-dazzlingly at Woody and said, "Woody, would you mind helping me up?" I half smiled half-dazzlingly at Woody and said, "Woody, would you mind helping me up?"

"Sure," she said. "Why else are we put here on this miserable spinning mudball if not to help each other up?"

See why I loved her? See?

She grabbed my right hand and pulled me gently, yet with some oomph, down from the rock. I slid forward and somehow managed to unfold my legs just enough to get them under me so that I only crashed into her a little. "Zen," I gasped through the riot of pins and needles that was suddenly wreaking havoc throughout my lower body, "is not for the faint of heart."

"Neither am I," she purred, and into the school we went. Not a bad start for Day Three, right?

the right path

In English cla.s.s, the teacher put this quote on the board for journal time: PARENTS CAN ONLY GIVE GOOD ADVICE OR PUT THEM ON THE RIGHT PATH, BUT THE FINAL FORMING OF A PERSON'S CHARACTER LIES IN THEIR OWN HANDS.-ANNE FRANK. As usual, we were supposed to spend fifteen minutes jotting down our deep and cosmic thoughts about the quote while the teacher checked her deep and cosmic e-mail.

What was I supposed to write about this one? My dad didn't give good advice, he gave evil advice. And my mom gave good advice, but she had wound up as a poor single parent with a felon for a husband, so how much wisdom was I supposed to get from her? And finally, how was I going to form my own character when my role models were total cras.h.i.+ng failures? I remember this one time in Alabama, my dad and I were grocery shopping and the cas.h.i.+er was this really nice teenage girl that had always been kind to me. I used to steer our cart to her line every time, because she sometimes even gave me a lollipop. Anyway, my dad let me pay, and she accidentally gave me change for a twenty when I'd given her a five. I realized the mistake when I counted out the fifteen extra bucks in the parking lot, and asked my dad if I could run back in and give the money back. My dad said, "Are you kidding me, Sanny? People are dishonest, and they'll screw you nine times out of ten. So when you get a break, you take it. You don't owe anybody anything." I asked what would happen to the cas.h.i.+er when she didn't have the right amount of money at the end of the day. He said, "What do we care? She was probably dipping into the till anyway. They all are. And if the boss does ask about it, she'll bat her pretty little eyelashes and they'll forgive her. Because people are chumps." I thought about it all the way home, and turned to look out the window so my dad wouldn't see me cry. The next time we went to that store, there was a new cas.h.i.+er. And no lollipop.

"People are chumps. They'll screw you nine times out of ten." My dad was like a satanic Doctor Phil. My mom was the warm one, like Oprah. She was always saying, "You have to give people a chance." When my dad first got busted, she was like, "It's a mistake. Your father is innocent. You'll see. Your dad isn't the type of person who would cheat anybody. We'll get this cleared up in no time." I was thinking, Mom, are you nuts? Dad is exactly the type of person who would cheat everybody. He lies just for fun. Mom, are you nuts? Dad is exactly the type of person who would cheat everybody. He lies just for fun. Throughout the horrible pretrial period, when Mom had to work double nursing s.h.i.+fts at the M. D. Anderson Cancer Center, and we still had to sell off almost everything we owned just to pay for the hotshot lawyer dad insisted on, Mom said it was all a mistake. When the trial began and witnesses started flying in from all the places we'd lived with hundreds of pages of evidence-that my dad had sold fake t.i.tle insurance in Alabama, performed home inspections without a license in California, sold spoiled meat to restaurants off the back of a truck in Dallas while he was supposed to be away for the weekend at a Bible retreat-Mom said it was just a series of misunderstandings. Until the police actually came and padlocked our apartment door shut Throughout the horrible pretrial period, when Mom had to work double nursing s.h.i.+fts at the M. D. Anderson Cancer Center, and we still had to sell off almost everything we owned just to pay for the hotshot lawyer dad insisted on, Mom said it was all a mistake. When the trial began and witnesses started flying in from all the places we'd lived with hundreds of pages of evidence-that my dad had sold fake t.i.tle insurance in Alabama, performed home inspections without a license in California, sold spoiled meat to restaurants off the back of a truck in Dallas while he was supposed to be away for the weekend at a Bible retreat-Mom said it was just a series of misunderstandings. Until the police actually came and padlocked our apartment door shut with my cat, Sparky, inside with my cat, Sparky, inside, Mom insisted everything would be OK. But we lost everything. Dad went to prison until at least my twentieth birthday, I never saw Sparky again, and Mom and I wound up in Nowheresville, Pennsylvania, for no apparent reason.

I guess I could have written all of that into journal form, but it might have cast some doubt on my whole Zen image. So instead I wrote:

This quote by Anne Frank is definitely true. According to the traditions of my heritage, karma, or the luck you put into the world through your own actions, is the only thing that determines your fate in this or future lifetimes. So even though my father, for example, might tell me to be kind to those who are less fortunate than I am, ultimately I can do whatever I want with that advice. And then I will have to carry around the results of my actions pretty much forever. Also, a great Zen thinker named Yamada Ros.h.i.+ said, "The purpose of Zen is the perfection of character." And if your parents' values just automatically made you a good person, n.o.body would need to meditate in order to perfect his own character. As Basho said, "Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the masters. Seek what they sought." You need to find your own way in the world. automatically made you a good person, n.o.body would need to meditate in order to perfect his own character. As Basho said, "Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the masters. Seek what they sought." You need to find your own way in the world.

English Teacher stood behind me for a while when I'd finished writing, then leaned across me and wrote, THOUGHTFUL ENTRY. KEEP IT UP! under my last sentence. I must say, you can learn a lot from a short little book. I was now looking smart in two different cla.s.ses. And I could even feel parts of my legs again.

At lunch, Woody only played one song on the guitar before packing up. Then she came over to sit with me at my little leper table. "Hey, San. Are you defrosted yet?"

"I don't feel the cold when I'm meditating." Yeah, right.

"Huh. Uhh, how was your morning? You have Starsky for English first period, right? I do too, third period. What did you write about that quote?"

So I told her the whole thing, and she looked at me all googly-eyed, like I was some kind of Zen master.

D'oh. I asked Woody what she'd written about, and she told me: "I wrote about how my parents are greedy capitalists, and how I'm totally different from them. Like, we have all this money, and other people have so much less. It doesn't seem right that we don't do more to even things out. My dad...oh, never mind. You don't want to hear about this."

I leaned toward her and said, "Sure I do. I want to know all about you."

She smiled uncertainly, but started talking again. "My dad's a dentist, so we're basically rolling in it. And one day last year, I asked him if I could donate my allowance to the soup kitchen downtown. He got really mad, and said that if 'those people down there would just get off their b.u.t.ts, they could get themselves a job, no problem. We're living in the land of opportunity, for Christ's sake!' Then he said that since I seemed to feel we have too much for our own good, he would take away half of my allowance until my next birthday. So that's why I collect money at lunch-so I can donate to the soup kitchen without my dad finding out."

And she thought I was the real deal. I wasn't worthy to wash this girl's feet. Fortunately she didn't know that. Which got me thinkin'. "Hey, I've been looking for someplace to volunteer. I miss helping out. Do you ever serve food at the soup kitchen or anything?"

She looked almost scared for a second, and I wondered if maybe she was one of those rich girls who want to help the poor without having to get anywhere near them. "I haven't so far, but I'd love to start."

Do I move fast or what? Before I even opened my delicious Snack Pack pudding (this week's nearly expired sale item at the local supermarket), I had set up my first date. And my first experience of helping people. I wasn't sure if the good karma of volunteering would make up for the bad karma of being a complete liar.

Oh, well. Zen is supposed to be about living in the moment, and for one s.h.i.+ning moment, I had pudding to eat and a girl by my side. Which reminded me: "Hey, Woody. Do you take requests?"

"What do you mean? Like, will I carry your books to cla.s.s? Because I'm not into being subservient."

"No, do you take requests? take requests? You know, when you're singing at lunch. Like, can I ask you to play a certain song?" You know, when you're singing at lunch. Like, can I ask you to play a certain song?"

"Uh, I don't know-n.o.body's ever asked me that before. Most kids our age don't like the same kind of music I like, so...well, what did you have in mind?"

"There's this great song called 'Hard Travelin',' by Woody Guthrie. I thought since you're named after him, and you played 'I Ain't Got No Home in This World,' you might-"

Her face was glowing as she cut me off in mid-explanation. Wow, I had never made any girl's face glow before. "I love that song! It's the first Woody Guthrie song I ever learned to play. It has this really cool guitar pattern called a Travis pick in it. My guitar teacher says..."

And she was off on a happy tear until the lunch bell rang. She was so ecstatic that she never even asked me how I knew about Woody Guthrie. Of course, I never asked her how she she knew about him either-which would have been a great move on my part. But I suppose I have no regrets about that conversation; I figure if you could take back the past, my mom wouldn't have worn those hideous polyester argyle sweaters in all of her school pictures, right? knew about him either-which would have been a great move on my part. But I suppose I have no regrets about that conversation; I figure if you could take back the past, my mom wouldn't have worn those hideous polyester argyle sweaters in all of her school pictures, right?

In social studies that day, I was the star of the homework review show. Then we did a lovely work sheet that I totally aced. And next came the best part: Dowd announced that we would be doing a special project on any aspect of Eastern religious tradition we wanted. And when he a.s.signed partners, I found out Woody's last name: Long. Which happened to come right after Lee and before Petrucci in alphabetical order on the cla.s.s list. So, I WAS GOING TO BE WOODY'S PARTNER IN CLa.s.s FOR TWO WEEKS! Dowd gave out a big sheet of criteria for the project, and then told us to meet with our partners and brainstorm. He didn't have to tell me twice. As I was attempting to appear nonchalant and rush to Woody's side at the same time, I noticed that Peter was off in a corner with some girl named Abby. She was pretty and seemed very nice and friendly, but he was sulking like he'd been sentenced to work for the next ten years with a hunchbacked n.a.z.i.

Whatev. I had some brainstorming to do. Woody said, "Isn't this great? I'm so lucky-I get to work with the expert! We're going to do something about Zen, right?"

"Uh, I don't know. There are so many other fascinating aspects of Eastern relig-"

"You're kidding, right? You have the edge here, San! We have to capitalize on that."

Whoa, this was a new side of Woody's personality: a compet.i.tive streak. But then again, I'd only known her for two days. Plus, I had only been me for two days, so how picky could I be about her quirks?

"Uh, sure. I guess that's true. Gotta play to our strengths, right?"

"That's right," she said, blowing on her bangs. "So start giving me ideas, OK?"

Why not? She was certainly giving me me some ideas. "How about I teach you to meditate?" some ideas. "How about I teach you to meditate?"

"That sounds like fun, but it won't make much of a presentation. No offense."

"Of course not. OK, what if we do a poster project on Zen gardening?"

"What's Zen gardening?"

This girl asked some great questions. And I would even have been able to answer this one if I had just read the fat book instead of the thin book. "Well, it's kind of complicated to explain to the...uh...Western mind. No offense."

"Try me."

I'd love to. "Uh, maybe when we have more time."

She frowned.

"Wait!" I exclaimed. I mean, I exclaimed it quietly and calmly. Sort of. "I've got it! You want to play to our strengths, right?"

"Well, I want to play to your strengths. I don't have any strengths, San."

Was she kidding me? How could someone so completely beautiful and individual not know about the strengths she had? "Of course you do: music!"

"All right, music. But how is me playing the guitar and singing going to help us with a Zen project?"

"That's for you to figure out."

"OK, then what are you going to do for your half of the deal?"

I had no freaking clue, so I half smiled inscrutably at her. "You'll see."

"When?"

"Tomorrow, Woody. You'll see tomorrow."

Which meant I'd be spending tonight with my good friend Mildred.

not the true tao

Did you know it's possible to read a book about gardening for two straight hours? Unfortunately, it's not very very possible. I had two hours to kill after school before my mom would be home from the hospital and I could drag her to the library, so I decided to read the Zen gardening book really fast. After about ten minutes of grappling desperately with the introduction, I took a break. In true Zen fas.h.i.+on, I made myself a nice big mug of tea. In somewhat untrue Zen fas.h.i.+on, I dumped about three tablespoons of sugar in there and then chugged the whole thing. I was just sitting down for Round Two of my battle with the introduction when the caffeine-and-sugar rush hit. Then I was way too fidgety to pore through the whole intro, so I started just flipping my way around the diagrams and pictures. The concept was pretty simple. A Zen garden was a gigantic sandbox with some gravel and maybe three rocks in it-and, often, no plants whatsoever. So really, calling it a "garden" made about as much sense as calling my sandal a "chocolate factory." I guess it was an possible. I had two hours to kill after school before my mom would be home from the hospital and I could drag her to the library, so I decided to read the Zen gardening book really fast. After about ten minutes of grappling desperately with the introduction, I took a break. In true Zen fas.h.i.+on, I made myself a nice big mug of tea. In somewhat untrue Zen fas.h.i.+on, I dumped about three tablespoons of sugar in there and then chugged the whole thing. I was just sitting down for Round Two of my battle with the introduction when the caffeine-and-sugar rush hit. Then I was way too fidgety to pore through the whole intro, so I started just flipping my way around the diagrams and pictures. The concept was pretty simple. A Zen garden was a gigantic sandbox with some gravel and maybe three rocks in it-and, often, no plants whatsoever. So really, calling it a "garden" made about as much sense as calling my sandal a "chocolate factory." I guess it was an ironic ironic kind of garden. What you did was rake the sand into lines and patterns around the rocks without trying to make any particular picture or shape. If you succeeded in getting yourself into the Zen state of "no-mind"-sort of focused without being focused-your garden would flow naturally and perfectly from your unconscious and you would become one with nature. Also, it would look really pretty. kind of garden. What you did was rake the sand into lines and patterns around the rocks without trying to make any particular picture or shape. If you succeeded in getting yourself into the Zen state of "no-mind"-sort of focused without being focused-your garden would flow naturally and perfectly from your unconscious and you would become one with nature. Also, it would look really pretty.

I had to pee.

Then I needed another mug of tea. The first one had been so sweet and good.

When I got back to the table, I looked under one of the garden pictures and found this quote from the Book of Tao Book of Tao: "The Tao which can be spoken of is not the true Tao." I remembered from Houston that Tao had about five different definitions, but basically meant either "true reality" or "the Way." If this meant I couldn't understand the Way of Zen gardening just by reading words, then it was time for some field research. I grabbed a s...o...b..x, cut the sides down until they were only about an inch and a half high, and put on my windbreaker and sandals. Then I ran to the bathroom to pee again. When I finally got out of the apartment, I headed over to the d.i.n.ky and dilapidated little playground across the street, which had a sandbox. I looked around to make sure n.o.body was looking, and, sure enough, I was the only idiot out playing in the sandbox in freezing weather. So I scooped up about an inch of sand into my s...o...b..x and jogged back across the street, not much enjoying the feeling of icy sand between my toes. Then I realized my garden wasn't complete yet, and bent down to grab a couple of little stones. This made me spill my sand, so I had to run back to the sandbox and get some more sand. Some old biddy came creaking around the corner of the playground with her walker, saw me, and said, "Excuse me! What do you think you're doing?"

I felt like saying, A fascinating philosophical query! What do A fascinating philosophical query! What do you you think I'm doing? think I'm doing? or or I'm stealing sand. Don't you know it's the new craze among people who I'm stealing sand. Don't you know it's the new craze among people who still have teeth nowadays? still have teeth nowadays? But that would have prolonged the encounter, and I had to get back into the apartment. And pee some more. So I just said, "School project," and darted away, trying to balance my handful of pebbles, my box of sand, and the needs of my screaming bladder. She shouted after me, "What ever happened to reading and writing?" but I was already halfway across the street. But that would have prolonged the encounter, and I had to get back into the apartment. And pee some more. So I just said, "School project," and darted away, trying to balance my handful of pebbles, my box of sand, and the needs of my screaming bladder. She shouted after me, "What ever happened to reading and writing?" but I was already halfway across the street.

Note to self: It's hard to attain a state of no-mind when you're incredibly pumped up on tea and sugar and have to urinate every three and a half minutes. The Zen garden was kind of intriguing, though. When my mom got home, she found me raking patterns in it with four sharpened pencils taped together side by side. And walking in little circles around the kitchen and living room. And making the occasional beeline for the plumbing facilities. When I showed her what I'd been doing-my garden masterpiece-she looked at me and laughed. "This isn't like you, San. You're taking the initiative. I don't think I've ever seen you jump into schoolwork like this before. Not that I'm complaining, but why the change?" She c.o.c.ked her head to one side. "Is this about...a girl?"

I paced and snorted, snorted and paced. "Yeah, right. A girl! Like girls are just swarming to scrawny new kids who like to play with sand. Like I'm some irresistible only-minority-kid-in-whiteville superstud. Like-"

"Oh, come on, San! I was just wondering," she said as she walked out of the room to change out of her work clothes. She hated her work clothes, especially those clunky rubber-soled nurse shoes. "Whatever is motivating you, keep it up, OK?"

What's with the "keep it up" thing? Was it, like, the town motto of Harrisonville? I couldn't think about it too hard, because we had a library to visit. I went to put the lid on my garden, and screamed an embarra.s.singly shrill scream. There was a spider-a brown and hairy spider-upside down inside the lid. I started smacking the lid against the garden in a panic. Any second the spider might skitter around from below and bite my hand. Yikes! My mom came running, but stopped and sighed when she saw the cause of my horror.