My dad, Zen master: Zen retirement

My dad was able to retire in his early fifties. This was back in the mid-1980’s when gasoline was relatively cheap, and many retirees bought Recreational Vehicles (RV’s) and traveled around the country. My parents successfully resisted buying an RV. They had an aversion to buying things that cost more than they paid for their house. But they became “campers.”



My father, a suspected Zen master, approached his traveling days in measured stages: a truck with camper shell, a small trailer, a larger trailer, and finally, a 20-somethng-foot trailer. This progression of training for retirement camping took several years, but my dad mastered each level.

Eventually, he learned the art of hooking and unhooking a trailer. He bought a pair of work gloves just for the task. He learned how to work hydraulic levelers. He even learned to listen to my mom as he was maneuvering the trailer in and out of camping sites. He was a Zen master.

But in the course of travel, one occasionally arrives. My parents did this a lot: camp-sites often have “stay” limits – you can't stay there forever. You drive, then you arrive. As a result, my dad had to develop meditations to pass the time at the campsites. He was an artist.



He and my mom did a lot of card playing: they practiced this art form for years. Occasionally, my dad would mix Zen yelling with his card playing. I remember a several favorite chants of his for playing Bridge: “Pull trump, pull trump, pull trump!” And another, “Gross under-bidding!”

Since Bridge involves having a partner, his partner sometimes got the brunt of this chanting aimed at them: I’ve been that partner. With me, he used a form of Zen yelling called “Dripping sarcasm.” It was quieter, but effective.

My dad also knew the Zen of cleanup. My mom would usually cook; my dad would clean up. This meditation was similar to his “Pool Sweeping Meditation.” He never broke a plate: plates never moved fast enough to be put in any danger. My dad was deliberate in his actions; some might call it slow, but he called it “being above average.”




Besides cards and cleanup, my dad’s retired life had several other main activities: golfing, fishing, various games, visiting friends and family, Zen napping, and Zen reading.

Once I caught him Zen reading. I had my own young family on vacation with me in northern California. My dad and mom arranged to be close by for a night. They were on their way to have a visit with my dad’s brother. (My dad and his brother practiced verbal martial arts together.) We arrived at my parent’s campsite a bit after lunch cleanup.

After initial hellos, I asked my mom where dad was. “Over there,” she said, pointing to a pair of chairs under a near-by tree.



I waltzed over and found my dad reading a book. In twenty-five years, I’d never caught my dad reading anything but the newspaper or the TV guide.

“Whatcha reading, Dad?”

“It’s a book, Stu.”

“It looks pretty thick. I’m impressed.”

“I’m enjoying it.”

“How long have you been reading it? I see you’re about half done with it.”

“Three years.”

“Oh.”



That’s how I discovered Zen reading. It must be similar to Zen fishing. It burns a lot of time, you get to be alone, you have the appearance of doing something, and nothing really needs to happen. Catching a fish is just a bonus, like finishing a book.

I’m not a fisherman, and I read books start-to-finish. I am not a Zen master, but my dad was.

My father, Zen master? Zen yelling

After reading The Way of the Peaceful Warrior, I’ve begun to reinterpret my father’s behaviors. I’ve discovered that he was quite possibly a Zen master.

The Zen master in The Way of the Peaceful Warrior did not have a habit of smoking, but he occasionally smoked, and he thoroughly enjoyed it.



My father, the Zen master, did not have a habit of yelling. I cannot remember a time that my father ever yelled at me; however, he did occasionally yell, and he thoroughly enjoyed it.

The usual occasion of my father’s yelling involved sports officials. He came to one of my little league baseball games, but he was asked not to return. The umpires did not appreciate his Zen chants. They found both the content and the volume offensive.

My father complied with their request for his absence, and he instead practiced his art watching sports on TV. His usual invective usually involved the poor eyesight of those officiating the game.



“Are you blind?” was a typical shout, often accompanied with hand movements. He was in the moment!

My mother did not understand this form of Zen. She preferred the quiet pool sweeping meditations that my father performed. Although she thought the Zen of reading the paper took him too long, she never feared for my father’s heart during that exercise. She did seem to think he would give himself a heart attack yelling at the TV.

“You know, honey, that they can’t hear you,” she’d protest. “Don’t give yourself a heart attack.”



Actually, his verbal attacks on the officials were doing just the opposite. He thundered out his protests, and his bosom was still and content afterward. Sometimes he was so calmed after a sporting event that he would move directly into the Zen of napping in a chair.

My mother would protest this too, but he would always provide a retort: “Dear, I’m not sleeping. I’m only resting my eyes.”

And he could do that, because he was a Zen master.

My father, Zen master? -- Jack and Stu

It seems that Zen masters have pet names for their students. The television version of this is the name “Grasshopper.” This was the name given to the student by the Master in the classic adventure TV series Kung Fu.



In the Way of the Peaceful Warrior the student is called “Jack.” This was a shortened version of his longer name: Jackass. Zen masters have a sense of humor and sometimes use what would appear as demeaning ridicule with their pupils. My father did the same.


My nickname was Stu. Sometimes I was called Stuart, but that wasn’t really the long version. My dad was alluding to another version of Stu: Stupid. That was his equivalent of “Grasshopper.”




For example:

“Hey, Stu. Come here.”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Why is the screwdriver stuck in the front lawn?”

“I was working on my bike.”

“Well, Stu, that’s not where the screwdriver belongs.”

“Sorry, Dad.”

“A place for everything, and everything in its place.”

“Sorry, Dad.”

“Don’t be sorry. Go put the screwdriver away.”

“Yes, Dad.”



* * * * *

Napoleon Dynamite is a fictional Zen master. His pet name for his disciples? “Idiot!”

Zen masters are patient, but sometimes they are annoyed by slowness in their pupils.

Besides, screwdrivers will rust, break the mower, or trip Zen masters, but only if Stu is careless and leaves them in the yard.

Eventually, I outgrew the nickname.

My father: Zen master? The Pool

My father may have been a Zen master. He never said so, but having recently read Way of the Peaceful Warrior, I’ve become suspect.

In a previous post, I told of my initiation Zen ivy trimming. Other lessons followed.

When I was in sixth grade, my parents upgraded our family home with a built-in swimming pool. It wasn’t exactly a Zen Koi pond, but it did provide a certain opportunity for meditation.



It was called: Vacuuming the Pool.

To my dad, this activity was an art form. He did it slowly, methodically, almost meditatively. I made the mistake of showing an interest.

“Son.”

“Yeah, Dad.”

“Looks like fun, doesn’t it.”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like to try it?”

“Sure.”

And so the lessons began.



The set-up mechanics involved attaching a forty-five-foot piece of flexible tubing to rectangular device that fit on the end of a twenty-five foot pole. Once the tubing was secured and submerged, the loose end was plugged into the suction-end of the filtering system of the pool via the “skimmer”. Several valves were adjusted to maximize suction, and the meditative process began.

My father, the Zen master, calmly stroked the sides of the pool and its bottom with strong, firm, slow movements. He did not disturb the fine film of silt that lay on the bottom of the pool. He coaxed it quietly, silently, slowly into the vacuum’s head.

I was a poor student. I began well, but my performance deteriorated over time.

When the Master watched, I worked slowly, but soon I was trusted to perform the “meditation” independently, twice a week, unsupervised, after-school.

What took him an hour and a half, I completed in 30 minutes. I’m a fast meditator.

Where he coaxed, I corralled. I combined a brush and vacuum technique that violated the Rule of Slow, but I got the job done. Silly student that I was, I thought it was about the destination, not the journey.

I learned that lesson later.



Never the less, my father was content to let me repeat my twice-weekly attempts... for seven years.

He was very patient with me. Zen masters usually are.

“Did you vacuum the pool, Son?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Thank you, Son.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do it again on Thursday.”

“Yes, Dad.”

And so my lessons continued.

My father: Zen master? Ivy.

I suspect that my dad was a Zen master. He would have denied it. Zen masters always do.

Recently I read a book, The Way of the Peaceful Warrior. It is a semi-autobiographical novel of one man’s journey to Enlightenment. I found it somewhat preposterous, but it got me thinking.




Once of the main characters worked nights performing the mundane tasks associated with working graveyard in a gasoline service station in Berkeley, California in the 1960’s. He was a Zen master.



My dad was a banker. He read numbers during the day and the paper at night after dinner. He was content. He didn’t speak a lot. He enjoyed the moment. Dinner. Paper. TV. Bedtime. Breakfast. Commute. Work. Home for dinner at 5:30. This was the work-a-day cycle of his pilgrimage.

In The Way of the Peaceful Warrior, the Zen master takes on a recruit: the protagonist. My father received his recruit in the form of a son. When I was old enough to enroll in his “monastery,” my training began.



“Today son, we will be trimming the ivy. You will be allowed to help. I will cut. You will fill these 30 grocery bags with the clippings.”

“Okay. When?”

“Now.”

And so my training began. I gradually graduated to advanced ivy trimming.



“Son, today you will be trimming the ivy and crawling under the house to remove the invasive tendrils that are growing there. Look out for spiders.”

“Okay dad.”

“Wear old clothes.”

“Yes, father.”



I didn’t get any spider bites, and I felt the thrill of belly crawling beneath the house, cutting, gathering, and dragging out the 20 foot long pale green vines that lacked the sense to grow outdoors where they belonged.



I was absorbed by the task. I know what the world looks like out of a five inch by eight inch wire screen: it’s the world as seen by a young Zen student trimming ivy under a house in southern California.

More lessons followed.

To be continued…

Q & A: I was tagged!

Saphron "tagged" me via her blog.

Personally, I'm pretty good at ignoring chain e-mails, and I'm sure I could extend my non-conformity to you've-been-tagged blogging, but I thought the questions were good. (The one I didn't like, I got to delete! The one I thought was misssing, I got to add.)

Besides, if you read my blog, you might enjoy my twist on the answers. It's fun to get behind the eyes of another. Sometimes.



Rules: Answer the questions. Replace the one question you dislike the most with one of your own, AND add one question of your liking. Tag five untagged people. Ready? GO!

What is your current obsession?
Jin Shin Do, meridians, and now EFT (Emotional Freedom Techniques).

Do you nap a lot?
Not very often, but twice last week after work. I drained my "sleep bank" the weekend before via a trip to Arizona by car for a family reunion. I can tell when I'm not getting enough sleep, or if I need a little more mental "down" time.

What is under your bed?
Dust. Lot's of dust. It's carpeted, and this summer I'll move the beds and vacuum. Twice a year, whether it needs it or not! ;-)

What would you like to learn to do?
Right now... EFT. (See #1.)

What’s for dinner?
TBD. My wife and I usually go out once or twice a week to our favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant: Mexi-Casa. Tonight may be that night! (Otherwise, I like breakfast for dinner -- eggs, grapes, toast with jam, and coffee with flavored creamer. I'm a simple guy.)

What was the last thing you bought?
I've got a bid on E-bay for a racquetball racket for my son-in-law, but "shhhhh," he doesn't know it. (He's in school, so nice equipment is not in the budget.)


What is your favorite weather?
70's and 80's during the day. 50's and 60's at night. Little or no humidity. Kind of like Southern California. (Oh. That's where I live!)

If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?
"There's no place like home. There's no place like home."
Otherwise, I'd like to visit my older kids and grandkids: British Columbia, and Illinois. (Maybe the Canadian Rockies, or on a road-trip visiting all the National Parks and National Monuments.)

What is your most challenging goal right now?
Making my summer (self-imposed) honey-do list. School's almost over. I'm just on the backside of having accomplished a major goal (1st year: new school), and just yesterday I started looking forward to the summer with its projects, travels, etc.

Do you have a blog you read daily even when there are no updates?
I check my blog reader for updates; although, I do sometimes visit blogs that haven't been updated because it's like re-reading a letter from a friend. That usually brings a smile to my face, and it's like a mini-visit, even if only in my mind.

What would you like to have in your hands right now?
A simple cure for cancer and a medical organization with enough clout (and will) to bring it to market.

What do you want but can’t have right this second?
See above. (It would also be nice to have my wife and I being at our healthy and fit weight and other health goals.)

What languages can you speak?
English and some Spanish. I also speak Troll. (All men can and do. It involves pointing and grunting.)

What language(s) do you want to be able to speak?
Better Spanish. Hey! I know what I need to do: read Spanish books to build my vocabulary. That sounds like a fun summer project. (I'm adding that to my honey-do list!)

What's one thing you're looking forward to?
Summer vacation: 19 working days away. Woo hoo! (Short-sighted? Yes. Smile-inducing: Very.)

What websites do you visit constantly during the day?
I don't. I do that before and after work. Sometimes, I'll Google something with my class, usually to find a definition or illustration. On my own time, I check my Blogger, GoogleNews, e-mail, Rhapsody, YouTube, and Google -- for my "current obsession." See #1.

If you could only listen to one artist for the rest of your life who would it be?
Julia Lane. (Celtic harpist: very soothing.)

If you had all the time in the world, what would you do with it?
Road-trips. Meaningful philanthropy. Family visits. Oh, I do that now. (I am living my dream!)

What is your favorite time period?
Now. It's all we really have. Zen: Be. Here. Now.

+What has been the highlight of 2009 for you?
Getting to know the staff, students, and families of my new school. Plenty of challenges, plenty of growth, very few "oops." It's been a great year.

And who do I tag? You. You. You. You. And yes, you!

Include yourself if you'd like. It's a fun and easy post. Those who read your blog will enjoy the insights, depths, foibles, and frolics that make you you!

Have a great weekend! (I'm playing racquetball at noon! Yeah!)

A Change of Heart

A change of heart is a wonderful thing to behold.




I’m a Resource Specialist in Special Education at an elementary school. Once a year I schedule a set of transitions meetings with the junior high staff. Because Special Education exists due to federal law, we have a lot of paperwork, but the bottom line is that we help kids who need extra help. Transition meetings are about paperwork and levels of help, minutes of service, degree of need.

It’s not always easy being the parent of a student with special needs. It’s also not always easy coming to the realization that your child needs more help than you thought. Some parents fight that reality, and in their denial they can become unreasonable.



My least favorite thing is dealing with militantly unreasonable people. Reason is my friend, my ally, and my main tool for reaching the consensus with others. I need that consensus in order to do my job, and to obtain signatures on the necessary forms.

But it’s not the paperwork that matters: it’s the kids.

Today, at one of my meetings, a parent had a change of heart. She’s been resisting the reality that her child needs more help in school. She finally decided that her child's problems are not all about being lazy. The student has a learning disability. That’s a tough reality for a parent to face, especially as you look into your child’s future.



I had anticipated a difficult meeting. I anticipated unreasonableness, but once again I presented my professional, honest, and caring opinion about levels of help this student would need at the junior high. It was not less than what the student was currently getting: it was more. (Some of my colleagues winced as I made the offer of support that we thought was appropriate because we anticipated she would resist as she had in the past.)




Then I asked the mom, “What do you think?”

She said, “I agree.”

I threw her a kiss, and we went forward from there.

It was the highlight of my day.

Over the course of the last year, I regarded the feelings and fears of this mom. I gave her the gift of time. I continued to help her child despite her misgivings. Her child appreciated the needed help, and eventually the mom had a change of heart.



It was an unexpected miracle in my day, a personal highlight, and a relief.