Old Man Zen

The lectionary has failed me today. The Old Testament reading today is from Maccabees, which is non-canonical in many traditions, and I’m not even going to go into my troubles with Revelations.

There was one emergent phrase, but it was only a dim flicker: “Judas replied, “It is easy for many to be hemmed in by few, for in the sight of Heaven there is no difference between saving by many or by few.” (1 Maccabees 3:18; RSV)

The Gospel usually comes through for me, but it too was drier than a desert for me today. All it offered was the confusing matter of Elijah’s return still being in the future, but also in the past. “On the one hand, Eliyahu is coming and will restore all things; on the other hand, I tell you that Eliyahu has come already, and people did not recognize him but did whatever they pleased to him.” (Matthew 17:11-12; CJB)

I gave up, and resorted to something I do occasionally when I’m looking for inspiration— I go back and read some of my old blog posts. That’s when I noticed something regarding ‘Old Man Zen’….he hasn’t appeared in my blog in a long time.

Old Man Zen is a sort of accidental literary artifact that I’ve used to put a wry twist on my writing. He usually serves as the knot on the end of my balloon, but frequently he comes armed with a pin instead of a pen— popping my pretensions with a gleeful cackle. He’s sort of an adult version of an imaginary playmate. His origin was truly unintentional: when I made the Facebook page for my blog I needed a username, and I picked “@OldManZen” without attaching any significance to it. I don’t even know when I first started quoting him in my blog, but he gradually came to be a sort of alter ego— not so much a part of me, but rather an alternative voice speaking on behalf of the day-to-day ordinariness that upholds all of human experience.

Here’s another odd thing— I just spent nearly an hour looking for blog posts in which Old Man Zen makes an appearance. Even though I knew there were many such posts, I didn’t have much luck; I only found two. In one, he provides the tag line by asking how to ‘get to the desert from here,’ and in the other one, about three-quarters of the way through, he announces that he’s leaving. At the end he’s disappeared and I can’t find him. The only good thing about this fruitless search through my blog was that I always get some insights whenever I read through old posts. (I did happen to notice a powerful theme that always surfaces around Thanksgiving, which has to do with gratitude, and I found a poem which I plan to take with me to my friend’s house where I always go for Thanksgiving dinner. I’ll probably re-post it on the blog too.)

But, anyway, back to this theme of looking for Old Man Zen. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was just around the corner the whole time. He doesn’t leave tracks, but maybe there’s a tiny disturbance of the air as he passes by just out of sight. Don’t know where he’s been; don’t know where he might be going. (Huh, doesn’t that remind me of something….?)

I just wandered (figuratively) through the hermitage trying to find him. For a moment, he was right there standing in the doorway to my study, scratching his head quizzically, with a mask hanging off one ear. He didn’t say anything, and then he disappeared down the hall.

After a while, I found him again, sitting Zazen on my neglected cushion. At first he was just a shadow-shape, but he got more and more solid as I stood there watching him. It was then that it occurred to me—the whole time he’d been missing, he’d been right there— sitting on that cushion.

 

There sat Old Man Zen— on my cushion, facing the wall.

He didn’t turn around, didn’t look at me, didn’t say a word.

 

It didn’t matter how many cold ghosts crossed back and forth behind him,

he just kept sitting there.

 

It didn’t matter that I wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words,

he just kept sitting there.

 

It didn’t matter what lost wishes and wants curled up like smoke in the still air,

he just kept sitting there.

 

It didn’t matter if Heaven cares how many are hemmed in by how few,

he just kept sitting there.

 

It didn’t matter which primordial prophets were on the way or had already come,

he just kept sitting there.

 

And now,

it doesn’t matter that he’s just a witty accident;

it doesn’t matter that he’s an uncanny echo of all the ancient enlightened ones.

 

He still just sits there,

keeping my cushion warm.