The quiet path of Zen began for me around fifteen. Many kind souls would later guide my steps, but the very first arrived unexpectedly, on a beach boardwalk, around 2002. Just a teenager then, I chanced upon an elderly Buddhist in saffron robes – the first monk I’d ever seen. (A local shop owner, I later learned, helped Buddhist refugees.)
I watched, discreetly, as they moved through walking meditation. Then, a sudden shout cut the air: “Come!” Embarrassment flooded me. I’d thought I was unnoticed.
As I approached, the old monk held out a hand. Mine met theirs. Then, the grinding of my knuckles… Hard! Questions tumbled from me, despite them painfully grinding my knuckles in their hand, one query after another, but they were answered only with a smile, and the grinding.
My questions slowed as my attention fell down to our hands. The grinding had stopped. Now, he moved them side to side, up and down, as if testing the weight of them. Slower still. I watched, transfixed, as the movement became a pulse, subtle as a heartbeat. The very moment our hands fell completely still, completely, the monk flung mine away! “Good luck!” they roared. As for me, I was stunned, blank.
Young bashfulness returned in a rush. I bowed deep, not even knowing whether I should or not. They nodded. I thanked them and ran away.
Everything in a handshake.
Josen 静泉
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