Fortunes

My mind is a whrilwind. Little bits of images flit through my mind, seemingly at random. A mountain of bills sit on the counter. Dirty dishes in the sink. A hard-used sedan. A man's pleading eyes in the courtroom. The odd stares I sometimes get from the people I work with. My teacher's fist, neatly and infuriatingly in my face despite my best efforts. All silent little tableaus of the sloppy things I've helped create.

There was a time in my life when my identity was a solid and easily grasped.

That time is most firmly in the past.

All sorts of labels float around in my head, looming and unfamiliar. A little boy with an angelic face murmurs, "Dada, dada, dada..." A kind woman with glasses says, "trauma survivor". A flinty-eyed judge calls me "counsel", though I certainly don't feel like I am properly fit to counsel anybody. I often feel as if I am still the callow boy that I was, only I've learned to imitate a fairly large amount of competent men and women, and wear their demeanor like a skin when I have to. I am continually amazed that more people don't spot me for the charlatan that I am.

My back aches as I haul myself off the floor and stand. I'm somewhere in-between. I'm not young and strong, but I'm definitely not old and cunning, either. I take a deep breath and step into the right place. To call it a drawn bow would denote the sense of readiness, but would suggest tension. To call it flowing water would create a picture of relaxation, but rob the same picture of its intensity. It is standing, and nothing more. But within nothing lives everything.

The trick is reaching into all that chaos and pulling out the right thing. I find myself too often reaching into that void and pulling out the same tired junk that I don't need.

My knee bends and it begins. My movements are at times pleasing, and more often jerky. The little hitches and small shifts mirror the little jolts in my mind. All of the little emotional rills and roils of the current are coming to the surface. Life has pushed my buttons, and all the little contours of my subconscious, which have spent so much time covered by cheap window dressing, are starting to snake their way free into the daylight. The experience is at times liberating, but just as often, deeply harrowing.

My feet continue to whisper across the carpet. Half an hour passes without notice. By the time I take a break, I am covered with sweat, but I am not breathing hard. I ruefully note that I'm not breathing enough, and the breath that comes often isn't in the right places. I firmly remind myself that I can only fix one thing at a time. It's a hard thing, because I am not at peace with my imperfections.

I walk around the living room and pick up toys and blankets. I think of the very nice and tidy living rooms that some of my friends have. Mine is a confused welter of humanity, stacked high with law books and toys. Laundry is draped over the chairs, and a sword is neatly tucked into the corner.

I reflect on my training and my teacher. I search for some profound piece of wisdom from our most recent interaction. The sort of inspirational thing you could write down, for others to read and nod towards. All my mind can come to is a fortune cookie that I got a couple years ago at my favorite Chinese restaurant.

"Just keep on keepin' on!"

Despite the chaos, I can't help but chuckle. The laugh is genuine, gentle, and more than a bit rueful. At the time I thought it was the lamest fortune I'd ever gotten, but there is something powerful in it. In our fantasies, life's deep truths are always poetic and pleasingly phrased. In reality, despite their awesome gravity, they are often as plain as the writing in a truck stop.

I resume my movements. Unbidden, quiet words seep into my mind as I move. "Your problem is that you are always stopping and disengaging. Good, bad, or indifferent, just keep going. Don't stop moving."

So I don't. And while I don't end the practice with my mind or my living room in perfect order, they are both tidy enough, and quite enjoyable to occupy.

Bullshit!

Hard not to write an essay. Keep starting, then stopping myself. Written too many essays. Most of them bad, though I was wise enough to pitch them to audiences that would give the praise my ego craved. I start writing now, and most of the time there are these polished turns of phrase. Prayer, summary, point-by-point, conclusion, repetition of prayer. A nice, tidy, neat little package.

That is what I am trained to give people.

But it profoundly isn't me. When I started doing this, I promised myself I wouldn't put any essays here. This is meant to be the truth in its weird beautiful/ugly/gritty hodge-podge.

WHAM!

"Bullshit!"

His kind gray eyes pierce me. For a moment, I see past the abbot of a Kwan Um Zen monastery to what is really there; a hard, hard career infantry man. A wolf desperately trying to be a sheep. Also one of the most decent men I've ever met. The wounded souls usually are. His gray tee shirt and jeans are worn from daily use. They are cheap and threadbare.

His palm strikes the polished floor in his challenge. It is loud. Uncomfortably loud. Everyone jumps. He had asked me a question. My stomach turns to lead. I knew where this is going. Third fucking week of this; I try to give him an essay, and he lops it off with the clarity of a drill sergeant.

"Bullshit!"

Always that particular word. Brings a flush to my face. Heart starts to race. Room seems warm. Fear and anger war.

This particular time, silence seems to expand and fill the room. Tension is almost palpable. My mind races. The rain outside seems thunderous. The college couple who had come in for the experiment of sitting meditation starts looking at the door, but don't dare get up.

This had turned from a quiet dharma talk into shiai. My honeyed words, for once in my entire life, were totally useless.

Frustration boiled under the surface. I thought of the brown haired girl I wasn't sure about back at home; the scary things she wanted. My own insecurities. The judgmental eyes of my father under their shaggy brows. The anger at the chaos in my own life; my inability to control it and my lack of desire to try.

Suddenly I had lost my bookstore buddhism. All that drivel about ego, peace, and right everything seemed dry and meaningless. I came here for peace and all I had was anger at a man who was acting like an asshole.

Anger scored a rare victory over fear.

"Fuck, man!" I shouted, trying to be just as explosive as he was, "I don't have the right answer for you! I don't know what to say! Every time I say anything you jump my ass!"

I got up to leave. Fear started winning. I had to get the hell out of there. Wherever the my inner peace could be found, it sure as fuck wasn't here.

"If that's true and you don't know what to say," he said, getting up as well, "Why do you keep talking?"

We made eye contact for a long moment. Something clicked into place. He smiled. I smiled back.

I didn't say anything.

I sat down, and we went on as if nothing had ever happened.

Went home that night, talked to the brown haired girl, took a shower, and went to bed. Slept through the night for the first time in a long time. The rain sounded comforting as I drifted off. The noise didn't mean anything in particular. That is what was so nice about it.

Quiet

The sword sits in the corner dutifully, carefully placed outside the reach of little hands. I grab it and start cutting. The same set of motions, again and again. My mind is awash with too many things. Whock, whik, whik... the cuts don't sound right. Images and feelings flutter through me. I keep cutting... distraction helps. Maybe I'll get my mind settled down enough to get some sleep.

It's those brown eyes that won't leave me alone.

I keep cutting. Even my tee shirt had starts to feel heavy. I feel as if my arms are going to fall off. That shoulder that got trashed in college gloomily reminds me that it still doesn't approve of my actions. I take a short break to strip to the waist. Lines of sweat run down my body. The anger and frustration are flickering embers, a shadow of the large blaze from earlier.

Somewhere around 400 cuts, something changes in my movement. I'm made of liquid. I feel like I am poured from stance to stance. Whoosh. One cut sounds right. Then two, three, four. Finally ten in a row, and I know I am in my groove. I take pleasure at watching the dull arc of light created by the weapon as it flashes in front of the gentle lamp. The movement feels really good... ruefully, a little part of me laughs that this type of movement is decades (plural) away from being the norm for me.

But then, that's the journey. Destinations don't matter over much.

For a brief period, I stop counting and start to simply enjoy the sensation. It ain't good, it ain't bad... it's just cutting. The quality of the movement becomes second to its necessity. I need it because it is the only thing that makes sense in a chaotic world.

Relieved, I slowly return the weapon to its sheathe, and tuck it away in its childless corner. I've got a wooden sword that would work just as good... but I know that I'm never quite happy unless I've got the noise. Hard to explain.

For a few minutes, I just sit on my floor and feel relaxed for the first time all day.

But it doesn't last. I see the lady's eyes again, and feel that confused welter of emotions. I think of the case she was connected with. If you'd peruse the docket for that case, nothing remarkable would jump out at you. Everything in the paperwork would stare back at you, orderly and reassuring.

But I know different. The burden of people who do my work is to see past the orderly paperwork into the humans that dwell within. Today, I witnessed a lady demonstrate absolute courage. In a cold courtroom, surrounded by strangers, she admitted her own failures as a parent.

The baby monitor sitting next to me on the floor suddenly sounds a lot louder. My own child is very young, and I am constantly brimming with all the things I'll "never" do as a parent, and quietly filled with fear for the things that I might. I witnessed a lot of ugly things as a child, and I'd be a fool to think that I'm beyond their influence.

This lady, with her totally honest brown eyes, connected with me. And it wasn't because she had the courage to admit her failures (though most don't). What made her truly extraordinary is how she turned her failures into her strength; used the burning sting of that past wound to totally transform her life. Her words were so plain, so intimate in their sincerity that they were painful. I recall fighting the urge to turn away as she tearfully recounted her tale... it hit home.

At the end of this day in court, she didn't get what she asked for. She didn't get a second chance as a parent... or, at least, not the one she wanted. Was what happened appropriate? Was it fair? Was it justice?

I'm not wise enough to know. Strangely, none of those questions were what bothered me.

What bothered me the most was that very sanitary paper file that would not reflect any of that splendid, inspiring humanity. Her courage was such that it deserved a monument in stone, and not the quiet hour in the court room that she got.

But then, perhaps the only monuments that matter are the ones that get engraved upon the heart of one's fellow man; forged by adversity and defined only in actions. She certainly left an indelable mark on mine. These feeble words, largely for my own comfort, are a poor monument.

But it's better than nothing.

Changes

I sit on my porch and stare at the running water in the little brook outside my house. I find myself wanting a cigarette. It isn't the nicotine so much. Don't think that was ever it. What I fell in love with was the ritual. Fish in a pocket, shake out a smoke (I adamantly avoided hard packs), fumble a lighter (always an old bronzed zippo-an homage to the first person I ever wanted to be), and quietly enjoy the flare as the flame danced amongst the tobacco, creating a unique little performance with every breath.

The tea ritual for someone without enough sense to drink tea.

Those were the younger days, the more deluded days... sometimes the memories get hazy, like a dream I can't quite remember.

As I sit on the tidy little porch that is attached to my responsible house and want a cigarette, I think about changes. A man threatened to stab me today. I remember my weight shifting to the balls of my feet. I remember taking care not to let my intentions show on my face. I remember what I said to disarm him with my words, and what I'd been willing to do with my hands if the need arose. I remember being scared shitless, but not going anywhere. Honestly couldn't say whether I used the words because it was the right thing or because I was scared of the alternative.

The condensation from the beer in my hand glints in the faint lamp light. I take a long sip and enjoy its taste. It tastes like fall, even though the hot, wet evening air doesn't. That peculiar restlessness creeps into me... my body starts to strain for the first feelings of cool air that have not yet arrived to herald my favorite season. Comes late in wet, sticky Florida... if it comes at all.

At one point in my life, I harbored fantasies about being in dangerous places and doing dangerous, maybe exciting things. I created scenarios in my mind where the training I did in a little padded room was validated by my demonstrated, always witnessed prowess in the face of threats. It was an adolescent power fantasy that afflicted someone old enough to know better.

Now I just want to get home and play on the floor with my kid. Don't over much care about how I get there. Don't really want a war story. Not good at telling them; most everyone I am surrounded with has better ones about real wars.

Victory was sharing the incident with my wife, and if I needed any vindication, I got it when she joked about it and handed me the beer and gave me some space. Proof that I chose the right woman. I guess that means a hell of a lot more to me these days than impressing people by throwing some poor bastard on his can. Takes a lot more intelligence to choose the right woman. More guts to stay with her as time passes.

As I grab the laptop and start clacking away at the keys, I can't help but chuckle. I've since learned how to talk to people when I feel isolated like this, but somehow putting these thoughts and feelings onto a glowing terminal is comforting... a ritual older than the cigarettes and infinitely more meaningful.

I slowly get up. There's dishes to do, bottles to make... the laundry won't do itself. Not terribly exciting, but I'm at peace with it.