The Accidental Buddhist by Dinty W. Moore

Author:Dinty W. Moore
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 1997-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

• • •

SATURDAY

I have learned this much—Buddhists wake up early.

At the Bhavana Society, a large metal gong reverberates through the woods at five A.M., and should you somehow manage to snooze through that, the neighborhood dogs immediately explode into a barking frenzy.

I stumble down the hill in the morning darkness to the meditation hall, where we sit on our cushions from five-thirty to six-thirty. I have learned, by the way, to stop my watch from beeping, so that isn’t a problem here.

Not able to concentrate in the least, I look around, take stock of the place. The room is large—a careful driver could park an even dozen Volkswagen buses here. At the front, a carved-wood table, with an ornate red-and-gold lacquer design, is topped by a larger-than-life Buddha figure, painted bright gold. Below the large Buddha is a smaller one, in black.

A large banner hangs behind the altar, and another hangs from the ceiling above where we sit. Both banners are covered by large orange, white, yellow, and red squares.

For the first hour, I am a squirming, unsettled mess.

This is going to be a debacle, it occurs to me. I never should have come. I am stuck in this eccentric little monastery in rural West Virginia, forced to be silent, with no place to hide. My Monkey Mind continues its gymnastic romp, but thankfully the time passes, and we move on to walking meditation.

We did walking meditation—Zen Buddhists call it kinhin—at Zen Mountain Monastery as well, but here it is much different. On Monkey Mind Mountain, kinhin was a vigorous, heart-pumping sprint. We would circle the meditation hall so fast, in fact, that the monastery staff had taped little arrows to the floor, pointing the way, so we wouldn’t slam into one another.

At the Bhavana Society, we walk with excruciating slowness: on one prolonged inhalation of breath, we lift one foot; on the exhalation, we move it slightly forward and lower it; on the subsequent inhalation, we lift the other foot; and on the next exhalation, we lower that one.

It takes roughly five full minutes to cross the twenty-five foot width of the meditation hall, and another five to get back. We look like big wading birds poking through a swamp.

And I’m still on my high seat, still thinking about the rural neighbors and what they might think if they snuck up through the woods and looked through the window.

“My Gawd Earlene,” I imagine Clem exclaiming. “It’s just like that zombie movie.”

BREAKFAST IS AT seven. We carry benches in from the hallway, line the walls with them, and then sit behind the benches on the floor, facing into the center of the room.

The monastery cook rings a bell, and Bhante G. rises from his cushion, walks slowly—really slowly—across the meditation hall to the doorway that links us to the kitchen. He is followed by the three other resident monks, each as thin and straight as a buckwheat noodle, walking even more slowly than Bhante G. The monks are followed by the two resident nuns.

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