remorseless training. Changpa turned his pupils’ eyes inward, the better to see the world within themselves. Yamashita had us focus instead on the world around us, believing that the experience of the flashing strike of an opponent’s sword, a moment white hot with urgency, made you one with everything.
Over the years, I had come to experience some of what Yamashita had promised. It was a revelation that was as breathtaking as it was terrifying. And it held a fascination of its own. By the time you were capable of the insight he sought for you, Yamashita’s training had changed you in subtle ways. It wasn’t just skill or endurance. It was an appalling realization that you were most alive listening to the whirr of the blade’s edge as it razored through the air toward you.
I didn’t think I really fit in too well at the Dharma House. It was another place where I was present, but not connected. We were all walking paths toward the same goal, of course. But my path winds through some rough territory and it leaves marks. Perhaps that intimidates people. Some of Changpa’s more advanced students knew about me. I could see their troubled facial expressions when they thought I wasn’t aware of the scrutiny. They murmured occasionally to each other about me as well. Maybe all that meditation had made them more sensitive to inner states and they sensed my turmoil. More likely, they’d read the stories about me in the papers. Occasionally, I’d catch them looking at my hands, as if there would still be blood on them.
I log the books in and out of the reading room, trying not to let them bug me, enjoying the quiet. I’m grateful for the work. Or maybe it’s that I like the fact that the flow of ki is slowed here, the air so thick with prayer that little can intrude. Sometimes I need a break from the dojo . In the Dharma House’s reading room, the work was monotonous, but your hands stayed clean.
The reading room is tucked away toward the back of the first floor, but you can still hear quite a bit of the comings and goings in the building. People are in and out all day to attend classes or prayer sessions and to use the meditation room. At night, there is even the group of archers training in the Japanese art of kyudo on the lower level, the beauty of the art enhanced by a woman named Sarah Klein.
The sound of footsteps was clear and sharp on the wood floor of the hallway leading back to the reading room. In the Dharma House, people tend to walk softly in a reverent shuffle. It’s the combination of sandals and noodly muscles that does it. But whoever was coming my way was striding, not shuffling, down the hall. I looked up, curious to see who it was.
I thought I was out of place.
He wore what I later learned was the new blue Army service uniform. His black shoes were so highly polished they looked as if they were wet. The left chest of his jacket was crowded with ribbons. They didn’t mean much to me, but I did recognize jump wings and a Combat Infantryman’s Badge pinned to the top of the display. In his military splendor, he looked as out of place in that room as I felt. Their monks wear colored robes, but other than that American Buddhists are a pretty subdued group when it comes to clothing.
“Hello Dr. Burke,” the soldier said to me. He had a pleasant voice, which was a bit of a surprise. I’m a victim of childhood stereotypes created by B movies. I expected him to sound like Aldo Ray.
I stood up from the desk and watched him approach. He wore the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel. His hair was flecked with gray and freshly cut—you could see the white line of skin around the edges of his hairline. His eyes were brown and he had the look of someone who spent a lot of time outside. His cheeks had been scoured by the wind and the skin around his eyes was seamed from squinting into the sun. He smiled as he extended a hand and the lines at the corner of his eyes became creases. “I’m Randall
Over the years, I had come to experience some of what Yamashita had promised. It was a revelation that was as breathtaking as it was terrifying. And it held a fascination of its own. By the time you were capable of the insight he sought for you, Yamashita’s training had changed you in subtle ways. It wasn’t just skill or endurance. It was an appalling realization that you were most alive listening to the whirr of the blade’s edge as it razored through the air toward you.
I didn’t think I really fit in too well at the Dharma House. It was another place where I was present, but not connected. We were all walking paths toward the same goal, of course. But my path winds through some rough territory and it leaves marks. Perhaps that intimidates people. Some of Changpa’s more advanced students knew about me. I could see their troubled facial expressions when they thought I wasn’t aware of the scrutiny. They murmured occasionally to each other about me as well. Maybe all that meditation had made them more sensitive to inner states and they sensed my turmoil. More likely, they’d read the stories about me in the papers. Occasionally, I’d catch them looking at my hands, as if there would still be blood on them.
I log the books in and out of the reading room, trying not to let them bug me, enjoying the quiet. I’m grateful for the work. Or maybe it’s that I like the fact that the flow of ki is slowed here, the air so thick with prayer that little can intrude. Sometimes I need a break from the dojo . In the Dharma House’s reading room, the work was monotonous, but your hands stayed clean.
The reading room is tucked away toward the back of the first floor, but you can still hear quite a bit of the comings and goings in the building. People are in and out all day to attend classes or prayer sessions and to use the meditation room. At night, there is even the group of archers training in the Japanese art of kyudo on the lower level, the beauty of the art enhanced by a woman named Sarah Klein.
The sound of footsteps was clear and sharp on the wood floor of the hallway leading back to the reading room. In the Dharma House, people tend to walk softly in a reverent shuffle. It’s the combination of sandals and noodly muscles that does it. But whoever was coming my way was striding, not shuffling, down the hall. I looked up, curious to see who it was.
I thought I was out of place.
He wore what I later learned was the new blue Army service uniform. His black shoes were so highly polished they looked as if they were wet. The left chest of his jacket was crowded with ribbons. They didn’t mean much to me, but I did recognize jump wings and a Combat Infantryman’s Badge pinned to the top of the display. In his military splendor, he looked as out of place in that room as I felt. Their monks wear colored robes, but other than that American Buddhists are a pretty subdued group when it comes to clothing.
“Hello Dr. Burke,” the soldier said to me. He had a pleasant voice, which was a bit of a surprise. I’m a victim of childhood stereotypes created by B movies. I expected him to sound like Aldo Ray.
I stood up from the desk and watched him approach. He wore the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel. His hair was flecked with gray and freshly cut—you could see the white line of skin around the edges of his hairline. His eyes were brown and he had the look of someone who spent a lot of time outside. His cheeks had been scoured by the wind and the skin around his eyes was seamed from squinting into the sun. He smiled as he extended a hand and the lines at the corner of his eyes became creases. “I’m Randall
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