Life in a cult is not so bad. The food's good, the people are reasonably nice--friendly and helpful--and if they'd just let you sleep in instead of waking you up at 5am every day (but Sunday), it would be a lot like a spa.
I like it. I like sweeping out front during morning soji. It's at about 7am. The air is fresh and clean, and morning sky is gray and somehow tender. The idea with soji, or work period, is that it's not so much how much you get done, it's how you do it. You sweep as if you're polishing your grandmother's priceless silver. You concentrate, you feel the broom, and you look at the leaves and seed pods and focus on "just sweeping." It's interesting. People walk by us, a small army of sweepers in black, on their way to work. Some walk their dogs. And then there's us, daubing at the cement with little straw brooms. If you come by 300 page St. at Laguna, you can see us there.
Some of my friends have reservations about my being here. It was okay as a summer thing -- 3 weeks, meditate, find yourself. It's not that unusual. But when I told folks I was coming back, and for 10 weeks, there were noises. I can guess at what worries folks: that I'm losing it, can't cope with the real world, am hiding from my unemployment, will turn into a mush-brained drone that spouts dogma (or, in this case, dharma) and is no fun at all at dinner parties. I don't really have anything to say about all that, except, well, anything is possible.
And I guess that's what appeals to me about Zen Buddhism, loosely translated as "just sitting" -- you start to find the reins of your mind and can develop yourself. In my case, I lack discipline, so I am frustrated in my attempts to write fiction. I've brought a stack of stories, workshop feedback, and my laptop. The deadline to apply to the Iowa Writer's Workshop is early January. I'm not expecting to get accepted, but I would like very much to complete three stories that are the bulk of my application. Bug me about it. I could really use the hassling.
My living situation has changed. Last week I moved into the main building with my old roommate Abi. She's great -- a retired schoolteacher who's just entered a chaplaincy program. Last night she was on night watch, which means she had to camp out in the Buddha Hall, looking, I suppose, for signs of trouble. We are in a relatively shitty neighborhood. The projects are a block away, and the foot traffic downtown is not cosmopolitan. When she finally wakes up, I'll have to ask her if anything untoward went on.
That's it. I was offered a seasonal job at Sur La Table, which I am still debating about accepting. Did you know retail only pays $10 an hour? I was shocked. The discount, however, is 40 percent. That means a springform pan and mandolin for Judy, maybe a nut grinder, and/or a food mill. And all my Christmas presents. Don't want any more cloth napkins? Tough, here they are. Merry Christmas.
I am going to owe this company so much money. Because why should anyone have to live without a Le Creuset stock pan? Or the All Clad 2-quart sauce pan, which is actually the right size for oatmeal, not the 3-quart one, like I thought. And then there's knives. The discount applies to knives. Like a Global boner. (Get your mind out of the gutter.) Because you never know when you're going to learn to bone a duck. And perhaps a little paring knife that you never have to sharpen.
I'm in big trouble.
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