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HENG CH’AU: June 12, 1977. Went to the parking lot of the State Beach to do t’ai chi but the vibes were off. Saturday night’s drinking parties trying to decide if it was time to crash or go another round. 5:00 A.M. Ended doing exercises and meditation in the parking lot of Ted’s Rancho. A couple of wet-suited surfer enthusiasts went through to get the first wave.
A car pulled alongside of Ted’ Rancho as we were bowing. A young woman asked what we were doing. Handed her a release. She read the first sentence and said, "Oh" (flatly). "Well have you heard of Guru Maharaji?"
Me: "Yes."
Woman: reaching to her dashboard whips out this framed picture of him and holds it out the car window up to my face. "Well I just wanted to tell you he reveals the name of God. He reveals the world."
Me: "Excuse me I have to get back and bow."
A barefoot man passes, turns, does a half bow respectfully and walk on.
I watch the ants swarm over a dead moth in the road and off to our left is a half rotted carcass of a dog the worms had been dismantling for a week…
…if someone were to ask right now "What are you trying to accomplish, what are you trying to do?" I could easily answer "You know, I really don’t know." It’s sort of like, if I knew the answer then why do it? All I know is that something is happening and that I don’t know and for sure couldn’t say what it is. Whatever it is, is ok and wonderful and I feel like I’m going crazy and also killing myself. Just like the kid said, "Really dumb" huh?
Heng Sure and I were watching expectantly as this fisherman eagerly reeled in his line. Empty. He’s disappointed. We look at each other and smile. Hooray for the fish! Amitabha!
Chug, chug spurt, gurgle, glunk. A greyhound bus breaks down directly across from us. The quiet so-so-ness of the morning breaks for both of us. As the driver tries to fix the bus, people peer up against the windows and watch. What do they see? All and each of them.
A sense of circles. "See you later" is not just a phrase. It’s literally true. (Einstein called it the Law of Conservation of Matter and Energy--nothing’s produced or destroyed, just keeps changing, coming around in circles in different shapes and forms. Buddhists call it Karma and the Wheel.) The ants, the fisherman, the fish, dog carcass, the bus full of people, the monks--circles upon circles within circles in how many directions and dimensions? The mind reels.
It sounds like rain! Nope. Just a passing flash of bright colors and spokes. A bicycle race. The tires and pedals sound just like rain on the pavement. Looks like a caterpillar on wheels.
All pass by. We keep going. The ocean waves and we are pretty constant. Even if the ocean stopped, we would not. On the other hand, we take breaks, the ocean never rests. Never starts, never ends. Yet it’s said oceans come and go in aeons of time. A blinking of the eye, from the point of view of the vast, limitless Buddhanature within us all. Imagine outlasting an ocean!
We’re doing more bowing--cutting the breaks to only when essential (bathroom, knees, or writing).
Ch’an is very direct. Stop the mad mind and the false "self" and wisdom appears. There’s no attaining this wisdom or losing it. It’s right here inside and no amount of smarts helps the understanding--all have it equally. It’s not hard to fathom. What’s hard is light build; wearing long grey robes and shaved heads. Officers Johnson and Lovick of Unit 100R Days completed a FIR on us, ran an N-W and found AWWS. Which means, wrong guys. They were pretty friendly after they frisked us "patted up down" as they call it.
This is California, the fringe, home of weirdoes, sour flower children, religious cults and who knows? Monks in long robes are suspect right off. This incident in Topanga fuels the image. It’s going to be slightly more difficult bowing through Topanga now with everyone upset and worried about two monks knifing kids. It’s called the Dharma Ending Age when the true is false and what seems stupid has truth, and who can you trust and the "center will not hold."
I’m sitting in the ants and weeds at an intersection of Highway 1 and Canyon Road. Heng Sure is in the van across the street in the lot of a closed service station unraveling the diarrhea knots from his stomach. I’m reading The Vinaya and Rules of Deportment. The traffic is incredible. Bikers, boyscouts, van clans, families and sirening rescue squads--every imaginable combination and then some. The comments are pretty much the same. The horns and hoots pass through and away. Screeching tires still send a shudder, but less and less. It’s very hot and bumper and bumper. Last-day-of-weekend tempers are a little sensitive, raw. We feel it too but the bowing keeps us cool somehow.
We broke down and got some medicine for Heng Sure. He resisted--wanted to win the battle--but he was losing his bowels and a lot of fluids too. We’ll meditate for an hour and go back just in time for rush hour.
On the farm people only move this fast when the hay needs to be cut and stored before a rain, when a barn’s on fire, or when a neighbor’s in trouble. They wouldn’t know what to make of folks doing it every weekend and especially of the fools bowing and praying through it. No Sir!
The Last Hour on a Sunday
Car slows and someone spits in my face. I find a piece of paper on the side of the road and wipe it off.
A VW ahead. When we bow up to it a little beach dirty boy with sand and snot all over his face timidly comes up from around the bus. "Please, you give this?" and hands me a dollar bill. Smiles inside the bus. An arm reaches out the back window of the bus extending a red carnation and a smile.
Two men with too many beers come up from behind spitting and do a mock bow with us. I don’t bother to wipe it off this time.
"Who are you?"
"Buddhist monks."
"You are crazy. You’re out of your minds." (Don’t I wish we were really out of our minds.) Sirens, ambulance speeds past.
…the ants are smaller again, I’m afraid more casualties…
A motorcycle gang passes within inches. The last one revs up and peels off. Deafening.
A woman walks over, "Please, what are your prayers for?" I hand her a release.
The gas fumes are thick. The Detroit river swells. A car of young men pulls alongside yelling and ridiculing. A lone surfer cleaning his board and watching shouts at them, "Shut up. It’s beautiful." They drive off.
A pickup heads out of traffic into the shoulder accelerating straight for us. At the last minute it veers in to traffic again. Peels of laughter.
Two couples run up from behind jumping up and down, running around us kissing the ground and hooting. "Get to work."
"Did you lose something?"
"It’s ok. It’s Sunday."
"Looking for something?"
"What the hell…" the usual comments (harmless).
As we do the transference of merit the intensity pitches up, another car aims for us. More mocking from the two couples--a red cherry whacks my sash. "May all those who hear and see this work soon bring forth the Bodhi heart…" A green VW pulls out of traffic and heads for us "…be born together in the Land of Ultimate Bliss." We step aside, the car ploughs through, just like a bullfight. "Ole Amitabha." I’m beat!