Monk-y Business

Many of you know my deep and abiding ambivalence towards on-camera acting (what? being in front of the camera is not an ideal career for an introvert? Imagine!), as opposed to the almost-constant pleasure of voiceover acting. I say no a vast number of times more than I say yes to TV auditions. And yet, there is sometimes the case where I've got to go. There is a kind of role that I have a particular affinity for: Buddhist monks. I played one for "Family Law" about seventy years ago and have always hankered to put on the saffron robes once again. I maintain that it's because it puts me in touch with an inner stillness; Doug insists it's because it gives me license to shave my head. Both, I must admit, are correct.

This monk was of the Shaolin variety, for a  tween TV sitcom (rather foreboding non-disclosure rules prevents me from being more specific). You know, one of those after-school shows, ubiquitous on the Cartoon Network, Disney and Nickelodeon featuring a uniformly pretty and/or geeky cast genetically designed to make you feel REALLY REALLY OLD. Luckily, I was auditioning for one of the higher-up, senior monks, which on this show meant I was over thirty.

I had a good laugh at myself driving to the audition because of a particularly egregious oversight I had made. I was going over my sides— I had a really good voice for this elder, all gravelly and crusty— when I happened to look into the rear-view mirror. Ten blocks from the studio, I remembered: this isn't a voiceover audition. You can't sound like a 65 -year-old wizened sensei when you look like you're in your 40's. Oops. I adjusted accordingly. Ten years younger!

When I got there, there was the usual panoply of Asian men, all shapes and sizes. A few  of them were wearing full martial arts regalia, some had on the traditional Chinese frog-buttoned jackets. I had opted for a simple T-shirt and white pants because, well, Doug had made me change out of a more character-driven yoga pants and peasant-brown sweatshirt. I have to admit (yes, get out your scorecard, Doug) that he was right: if you get too costume-y in these general auditions, it tends too look a little... desperate. I don't know where everyone else stands on this issue; certainly I've known some experienced people to pull on a lab coat when making the "CSI" rounds...

The auditions were run by kids who I swear were not much younger than my son Benjamin. They seemed amused by my character, or, to put it more exactly, they liked my eyebrow-arching, which pretty much sums up my character. It was silly, and it was fun.

And I got the part. 

I'm going Telly Savalas, Doug! Who loves ya?

Speaking of monks, here's my contemplation of the Buddhist precept on gossip:

Precept #6: Do not Talk about Other's Errors and Faults

Gossip—

so sweet.

The tastiest morsels dripped

into eager mouths

gaping like baby birds. 

Huddled groups

of two, or three adults

on the school playground

after the kids have left

the playing field.

We're wide-eyed, listening 

to the latest parental downfall: who 

has slipped down the slope this time?

Heads shaking, frown-smiles

like we were saddened,

not delighted, by the news. 

A sharp intake of breath:

"Did you hear?—"

and onto another round. 

"Can you believe it?" we ask,

feeling better about Ourselves, 

for not being Them.

With a friend, I recount

the latest bulletin from Crazytown:

"Wait til you hear WHAT

my mother did THIS time!" 

We bond over the sad state

of affairs known as Family.

I'd like to think it helps,

this sharing, to make sense

of chaos, to make us feel less

alone. 

Our small coffeehouse table

affords a space to release 

woes, make them manageable—

humorous even— with a chance to hear 

a different perspective, lovingly laid out, 

a lesson learned, together. 

Sometimes, though, 

I feel like Homer, trotting out

the same epic saga, again

and again, for entertainment,

never letting it go. 

In the Meditation Hall

we learn mostly by mistakes.

What to chant, how to walk,

where to bow and when.

There's a lot to remember.

In the beginning, I was like

the new dancer, always two steps 

behind the rest of the chorus.

I'd get a lot of corrections:

a tap on the shoulder;

a finger pointing to the spot

I should be standing in;

sometimes a quiet voice

from across the room

cutting through the silence :

"Wait to stand!"

These directions were given,

never sweetly, never angrily,

just given.

At first, I would feel shame rising, 

I thought it was a black mark

against me; now I see it

for what it is:

a correction of a mistake,

a teaching given in the moment,

and then dispersed, 

allowing me to better join

                  the wholeness of the sangha, 

                  contemplating a formless field 

                  of benefaction. 

Next: On the set!

Birthdays and Buddhists

Here I am, past midnight. No bells have tolled, no visitations from spirits; just Doug softly snoring in bed beside me. That's not entirely true (about the spirits, that is, the snoring part is absolutely accurate). I do feel ghosts of the past rising up around me, conjured up not only from the Facebook greetings sprouting up in my email box, but by the constant self-reflection that the occasion seems to inspire. Must birthdays always be a yearly reckoning of where one is, and where one has come from?

"Bore, bore bore," says my inner Katharine Hepburn.

Me at Benjamin's age.

In Buddhism, we're constantly reminded of how our days are quickly ticking off, one after another after another. We are not about to step off a cliff, we are already in the air, plummeting. We have been that way since the day we were born. This sentiment is not supposed to depress, but to inspire. What will we do with the time left on this earth? We are gently encouraged to not squander our actions, to "practice eagerly and diligently, as though extinguishing a fire upon our heads."

We Buddhists sure know how to have a good time.

I am looking forward to the coming year. Doing my animated work, getting my book out into the world, watching Benjamin discover his independence, but still being allowed to hold his hand while crossing the street. Finding the stillness within and the wonder of every day. And eating the Peking Duck that Doug has ordered from the restaurant we're going to tonight. Life is good.

Happy Birthday.

Some people have asked to see something of the book I'm writing. Here are the first pages—enjoy.

Emily. Wisconsin.

She drove the blue Volvo station wagon away from Vee’s house with a somber determination, like it was a lame horse she was leading out of the barn. She was going to drive both the car and herself over the nearest cliff, or, rather, it being Wisconsin, the nearest steep embankment. But sailing south along I-94, in the early morning before rush hour, she found she couldn’t let go of the Volvo and she couldn’t let go of the road, and the highway racing before her seemed to offer a faster route to oblivion than sailing off into some moderately inclined culvert. All might still be lost, in time. There were other opportunities up ahead to smash into and through some guardrail on her journey. Colorado, now there were some cliffs worth driving over.

But she needed speed, more speed, and the ballast in the car was too heavy to let her fly down the highway, no matter what the speedometer was registering. So she twisted her upper body like a contortionist and managed to snake her right arm around and under the baby car seat behind her in order to unshackle it from the upholstery, and with a desperate, sudden yank which would cause her a good deal of shoulder pain later that night, she managed to hoist the seat over the gear shift and partly into her lap. Moments later it was pushed clumsily (understandable at 95 miles an hour), out the passenger side window. It bounced twice along the highway like a skipping stone before skidding to rest on the side of the road. 

Three minutes later the second car seat, toddler-sized, followed. 

(The two abandoned car seats were accounted for later that day; the second one landed in the middle of a lane, causing the rush-hour traffic delay which Owen heard on the clock radio as he was trying to will himself awake; the other was discovered and identified by Vee in her car, just outside Racine. Neither was saved.)

And for a time after, Emily did feel lighter, her mind clear, even excited, and her breathing deepened for the first time in almost five weeks. This continued until just past Madison. Approaching the slowdown that was inbound Chicago traffic, she began noticing through her rear view mirror the imprints of the baby seats in the upholstery. Also, a small teething ring, a scattering of Cheerios, and a grimy diaper rag.

The back seat, the entire back seat, was gone by the time she hit Iowa.

Zen and the Art of Eating Drowned Sailors

I remember when I was a child a particular punishment my father used to mete out to my sisters and me. It involved kneeling. That was it— just kneeling, for prolonged periods of time, straight up, head down, like you were at Mass but you weren’t in a church you were in your living room, paying the price for some transgression or in order for you to confess to one. Hours passed (probably minutes) while I knelt on the powder blue rug in the room just off the foyer, people entering the front door, pausing, then passing by. I would pretend to be at prayers, just to mitigate the humiliation. I don’t know the provenance of this particular penance (was it Chinese? Catholic?) but I remember it being agony.

It’s interesting that, four decades later, I find myself in the same position. Willingly.

Just got back from a meditation retreat at the Zen Center of Los Angeles. It was an all-day session, from 5:45 AM to 5 PM. There was walking in a circle meditations (kinhin), mindful work, chanting, and silent meals, but mostly just sitting/kneeling. LOTS of sitting/kneeling. It may sound simple, but in reality all that sitting absolutely still is pretty rigorous. The last time I did a retreat (2-day) sitting cross-legged on a cushion I paid for it with six months of rehab for a bulging lumbar disc. This time I swallowed my ego and alternated kneeling on said cushion and sitting in a chair. Big difference.

The purpose of all of this silent sitting (zazen) is to cultivate Samadhi, an intense state of concentration. The whole day is designed for this purpose. We go the entire day observing a Great Silence, at meals, in between sessions, even in our rooms. No text messages. No ipods. Normal civil interactions are dropped. Our gaze is always lowered, to avoid intruding into the Samadhi of another. The day is minutely structured, guided by the chime of bells, the clack of wooden blocks, the strike of a drum, so that few words of instruction are ever needed.

Those who look fondly upon Catholic rituals would be right at home here. Ever action you take during the day is according to ritual. The idea, in theory, is that if every move is according to a plan, you don’t have to think about what you’re going to do next, what kind of interaction you’re going to have. And this opens up space in your mind. It eliminates some of the chatter that typically occupies your brain.

And what does one do with all that wide-open, new-found retail space? Well, nothing, really. Or, No-thing. According to my limited understanding, all of this Silence gives you a chance to simply abide in the present, without having to worry about what will become or what just happened. You’re not trying to eliminate, or stop, thoughts; you’re just trying not to become enmeshed in them. You observe the thoughts that arise and let them pass, without becoming attached. You strive for non-reaction.

That’s the theory, anyway. In practice, I attached myself to plenty of thoughts.

Meal were particularly challenging. We ate according to the tradition of Oryoki, the three-bowl eating practice of Zen Buddhist monasteries. It’s a fascinating ritual but maddeningly complex if you’re wanting to, you know, actually just eat something. Every move is orchestrated, from the precise laying out of your place setting to serving the food to the length of the eating itself. Everyone starts and finishes eating at the same time and, an everything in your bowl must be finished. No waste. Even the hot water we use to clean our bowls at the table is ceremoniously poured into a large bowl and used to water the garden. You eat to simply nourish your body for the sitting to come. Everything is done swiftly, efficiently, and, except for the prayers, in total silence.

A video of the laying out of the bowls.

What to do, then, when a giant bowl of tofu comes hurtling down the long table in your direction?

As some of you may know, I have had a lifelong aversion to tofu AKA bean curd AKA that-slimy-mushy-stuff-always-found-at-family-banquets. I find it similar, in look and texture, to what I imagine the flesh of drowned sailors to be. Nausea-inducing. And here was tofu, huge squares dotted with minced green onion and bathed in soy and sesame, that was the main offering for lunch. I was pretty sure that I couldn’t simply refuse it; I had to put something in my main Buddha bowl. According to tradition, the person on the opposite side of the table serves me. How to tell her to go easy on the serving? During the chanting of the names of the Buddhas I’m desperately trying to figure out a way to signal to the woman across from me that I only want a token portion. I know the hand gesture for “no more,” but what’s the hand gesture for “more than one cube and I’m gonna puke”?

The bowl nears. We bow to those passing it to us. My server digs the serving spoon in. I raise my Buddha bowl… and in a last-minute gambit, I try to signal “just a little bit” with my thumb and forefinger, realizing belatedly that that is also the signal for “just a little more.” SHE PLUNGES THE SPOON DEEPER. The spoon emerges from the bowl, mounded high with glistening cubes. About nine of them plop into my Buddha Bowl. I almost flinch. Nine! Buddha bowl very unhappy. I was sitting next to the Sensei’s assistant, so no hiding it in the napkin (which had to be folded perfectly at the end of the meal anyway). I managed to get it all down by pretending I was in “The Amazing Race” finishing an eating challenge. Do it for the million bucks! Do it for the million bucks! Hmm… not really cultivating a Buddha mind, exactly…

One day is almost too short a period for this kind of practice; by the end of the day I felt like I was ready to begin. I did have some moments of clarity, though, enough to jump-start my daily practice. And though I never got to talk to my fellow black-garbed participants or even get a good look at their faces until after the day was over, I really felt like I had shared an Experience with them all. It was an Inward Bound.

My favorite moment was in the early morning. It was so quiet; even the birds hadn’t woken. The distant drone of traffic could have been waves on a far-off shore. At this first sitting of the day we face each other in the meditation hall instead of the usual wall-gazing. We’re all perfectly still, frozen in our postures, like statuary in the dim light. Our shared dharma stretches between us like a sheet. We are Buddhas, patient and serene, awaiting the coming of the day.

The thought manifests as the word,

The word manifests as the deed,

The deed develops into habit,

And habit hardens in character,

So watch the thought and its ways with care,

And let it spring from love,

Born out of concern for all beings…

As the shadow follows the body,

As we think, so we become.

—The Dhammapada