Misty Mountain Hermatige ( a narritive)

For most of his life, he had thought of himself secretly as a monk

And the whole world as his monastery.

But lately he realized that he was more of a pilgrim, a wanderer.

Monks were stable and fixed in their practices and beliefs

He certainly was neither.

One day in the early morning

Walking a mist shrouded hiking trail

He felt particularly at peace with himself

The smell of the pine woods

And the song of the birds delighted him.

He was a man to whom duty and honor were synonymous

He had always tried to do his best for those who depended on him.

But now, that was all in the past and he was alone.

He came to a fork in the trail and noticed a small sign

"Misty Mountain Hermitage" and the sound of a tolling bell.

Curious he followed the path and the bell's call.

Not too far from the main path

He came to a small stone cabin, with a belfry on the roof

And a gently swinging bell.

The door to the cabin was open

And when he entered, he immediately recognized the furnishings

A small stove, a tea pot and cups, and a low table with cushions.

A square black cushion called a zabuton

A smaller round black cushion called a zafu.

This cabin as a zendo, a place for Zen sitting meditation.

And there was another smaller set of sitting cushions

And his old friend Master Pai Chang.

Pai looked great, stocky healthy and perfectly groomed

As he had years ago when they were both in their prime.

He looked as the old man with his piercing Zen eyes

As  if to say "I have been waiting for you for a long time

I'm  glad you are here."

Folded near the zafu, was a formal black sitting robe

And a deer skin bag with his meditation beads.

Real Zen men didn't use beads but he did better with them.

He had never worn a formal sitting robe but this one fit perfectly

Without a word passing between them they knew it was time for zazen

Time to sit.

The old man sat down on the zafu and drew his legs up into a full lotus posture.

It was the only thing in his life that he was really proud of.

That at his age he cold still sit full lotus.

He took out his beads, straightened his back

As he had a thousand times before.

And settled into the gentle rhythm of his breathing.

The only sounds that came to him

Were  the gentle clicking of the beads

As they passed through his fingers

And the purr-like breathing of his companion.

Even the bell had gone silent.

He wasn't aware that the mist

Or was it a cloud had descended

And swirled around he cabin

Obscuring it from the sight of he road

Later, two hikers came to he fork in he trail.

They saw no sigh or heard no bell

They walked up the path a little way

But saw no cabin.

"I wonder why this path is here?" one wondered.

"Maybe we should come back some time and check it out"

 Suggested the other.

July 11, 2001

Pai Chang died July 11 2002