walking too slowly; people veered around him, or bumped him with their elbows as they tried to get by.
It would be so easy to leave: to buy a ticket for Boston tomorrow, to rent a studio in Central Square, to make a few phone calls, get some small assignments, to start making a life for himself again. She wouldn’t fight the divorce; she would give him a fair settlement, probably more than he needed. A lawyer could finish the paperwork in a few weeks. And she would stay here, getting thinner, smoking more, biding her time until her bosses realized she wasn’t going to be driven away. Whatever inertia it was that gripped her now would swallow her whole.
I can’t do it,
he thought.
I can’t abandon her. I can’t shock her out of it.
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared up at the buildings overhead, looking for a landmark to orient himself.
If I were
home,
he thought bitterly,
someone would stop and ask if I needed
directions. They wouldn’t all stare at me and think, what are you
doing here in the first place?
I have a question, he says to Hae Wol as they are walking through the market, searching for the lightbulb store. What about change?
Change? The monk furrows his eyebrows. Everything is always changing. What kind of change?
Changing yourself. Trying to do better. Not making mistakes.
Mistakes are your mirror, Hae Wol says. They reflect your mind. Don’t try to slip away from them.
Enough with the Zenspeak, Lewis says. Plain English, please.
The monk shrugs, and a look of annoyance crosses his face. You have to understand cause and effect, he says. Watch yourself. When you see the patterns in how you act, you’ll begin to understand your karma. Then you won’t have to be afraid of your feelings, because they won’t control you.
I’ve
been
watching myself, Lewis says. But I keep wondering: even if I understand completely, can’t I still make mistakes? How do I know that when I go back to Hong Kong things will be different?
It isn’t so much a question of conscious effort. You have to give up the idea that coming here is going to
get
you anything.
Lewis looks around him, at the meat vendors carving enormous slabs of beef, the shoe repairmen, the grandmothers carrying babies tied to their backs with blankets. His eyes are watering.
I keep hearing that, he says, and it just sounds like a recipe for standing still.
No one ever said it was easy, Hae Wol says sharply. It’s not like a vacation for losing weight. If you come here looking for some kind of quick fix for all your problems, you’re missing the point.
There’s something different about him,
Lewis thinks.
I’m asking
too many questions.
But it’s not just that; the monk is nervous, unfocused, even a little jumpy. Every few minutes he scratches the same spot behind his right ear, automatically.
I’ll tell you a story, Hae Wol says. Once there was a famous Zen master who visited a temple and asked to see the strongest students there. The abbot said, we’ve got one young monk who does nothing but sit Zen in his room all day. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, and doesn’t work. So the Zen master went to see this student. What are you trying to do by sitting so much? he asked. I’m sitting to become Buddha, the student said. So the famous master picks up a brick and starts rubbing it with his walking stick. What are you doing to that brick? the student asks. I’m trying to turn it into a mirror, the master says. You fool, the student says, that brick will never turn into a mirror, no matter how hard you rub it. Yes, says the master, and neither will you ever become Buddha by sitting this way.
You lost me.
Think of a horse and cart. Your body, your actions—they’re the cart. Your mind is the horse. If you want to move, which one do you whip, the horse or the cart?
Lewis starts to laugh, shaking his head.
I don’t even know why I ask you these questions. You’re no use.
It’s not me, Hae Wol says. The
questions
are
It would be so easy to leave: to buy a ticket for Boston tomorrow, to rent a studio in Central Square, to make a few phone calls, get some small assignments, to start making a life for himself again. She wouldn’t fight the divorce; she would give him a fair settlement, probably more than he needed. A lawyer could finish the paperwork in a few weeks. And she would stay here, getting thinner, smoking more, biding her time until her bosses realized she wasn’t going to be driven away. Whatever inertia it was that gripped her now would swallow her whole.
I can’t do it,
he thought.
I can’t abandon her. I can’t shock her out of it.
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared up at the buildings overhead, looking for a landmark to orient himself.
If I were
home,
he thought bitterly,
someone would stop and ask if I needed
directions. They wouldn’t all stare at me and think, what are you
doing here in the first place?
I have a question, he says to Hae Wol as they are walking through the market, searching for the lightbulb store. What about change?
Change? The monk furrows his eyebrows. Everything is always changing. What kind of change?
Changing yourself. Trying to do better. Not making mistakes.
Mistakes are your mirror, Hae Wol says. They reflect your mind. Don’t try to slip away from them.
Enough with the Zenspeak, Lewis says. Plain English, please.
The monk shrugs, and a look of annoyance crosses his face. You have to understand cause and effect, he says. Watch yourself. When you see the patterns in how you act, you’ll begin to understand your karma. Then you won’t have to be afraid of your feelings, because they won’t control you.
I’ve
been
watching myself, Lewis says. But I keep wondering: even if I understand completely, can’t I still make mistakes? How do I know that when I go back to Hong Kong things will be different?
It isn’t so much a question of conscious effort. You have to give up the idea that coming here is going to
get
you anything.
Lewis looks around him, at the meat vendors carving enormous slabs of beef, the shoe repairmen, the grandmothers carrying babies tied to their backs with blankets. His eyes are watering.
I keep hearing that, he says, and it just sounds like a recipe for standing still.
No one ever said it was easy, Hae Wol says sharply. It’s not like a vacation for losing weight. If you come here looking for some kind of quick fix for all your problems, you’re missing the point.
There’s something different about him,
Lewis thinks.
I’m asking
too many questions.
But it’s not just that; the monk is nervous, unfocused, even a little jumpy. Every few minutes he scratches the same spot behind his right ear, automatically.
I’ll tell you a story, Hae Wol says. Once there was a famous Zen master who visited a temple and asked to see the strongest students there. The abbot said, we’ve got one young monk who does nothing but sit Zen in his room all day. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, and doesn’t work. So the Zen master went to see this student. What are you trying to do by sitting so much? he asked. I’m sitting to become Buddha, the student said. So the famous master picks up a brick and starts rubbing it with his walking stick. What are you doing to that brick? the student asks. I’m trying to turn it into a mirror, the master says. You fool, the student says, that brick will never turn into a mirror, no matter how hard you rub it. Yes, says the master, and neither will you ever become Buddha by sitting this way.
You lost me.
Think of a horse and cart. Your body, your actions—they’re the cart. Your mind is the horse. If you want to move, which one do you whip, the horse or the cart?
Lewis starts to laugh, shaking his head.
I don’t even know why I ask you these questions. You’re no use.
It’s not me, Hae Wol says. The
questions
are
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