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.