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Of Reptiles and Roshis
Walking slowly downhill, I give great care and attention to each step I take. I am barefoot on the tiered gravel path, and my feet are tender. At a weekend meditation retreat, I have decided to spend the next two days without shoes, because I want to feel the earth beneath my feet. It is an exquisitely pleasant experience when I do my walking meditation on velvet smooth grass, less so on gravel. But either way, I appreciate direct contact with Mother Earth.
Standing still for a moment, I survey the path ahead of me, hoping to see a patch of grass or soft dirt. Glancing down, I notice a small lizard a few inches from my left foot. His head is cocked to the side, his right eye facing up, regarding me warily. There is something familiar about him, something in his eyes.
I take another step and land as lightly as possible on the next tier. Looking down again I see that the lizard has moved right along with me. He is still just a few inches from my left foot.
“This lizard is keeping me company!” I applaud myself. “He’s taking a walk with me!” It is an exciting idea. I love the great variety of life on our planet and am reassured when I see living proof that human beings aren’t all that’s left. Also, the lizard makes me think of my Zen master, Suzuki Roshi, who died about 20 years ago. A few years after his death, I visited his shrine at Tassajara Zen mountain Center, near Big Sure in California. Some of the boulders that were once in his beloved garden mark the site.
It must have been 1974 or 1975 when I visited the shrine and saw a lizard sunning himself on one of the boulders. As I approached, he watched me with a familiar look that I interpreted as stern and disapproving. I felt transparent and had the eerie sensation that somehow Suzuki Roshi’s spirit was embodied in that lizard. I wanted to run away, but it seemed that it would be disrespectful to leave before the lizard (Roshi) did, so I waited. Fascinated by the imposing presence of the boulders, I understood why the
Roshi had spent so much time creating and enjoying his rock garden. The boulders emanated composure, peacefulness, and stability. Being near them soothed and grounded me, just as being near the Roshi had soothed and grounded me.
Bringing my attention back to the present, I take another careful step down the gravel path. The lizard is still with me. I am growing quite fond of him and imagine how it might feel to be a lizard. Smiling down at him, I think, “Your ancestors were dinosaurs. They ruled the Earth and terrorized beings my size. Now look at you! The tables are turned, and it is you who feel threatened and afraid.”
Just as I complete my thought, the lizard darts off to the left and disappears into the bushes. His presence has been magic, and in his absence life seems dull and bleak. Worse yet, I am devastated by the thought that somehow I am responsible for his departure. “He probably read my mind and didn’t like what he saw there,” I tell myself.
Taking another step—this time, a lonely one—I miss the lizard, and I miss Suzuki Roshi. I want their company. I wanted their approval. But they are gone.
In trying to understand my experience with the lizard, I recall another encounter with Suzuki Roshi at Tassajara. I used to watch him constantly, hoping to learn the secrets of his enlightenment. One afternoon as I was observing him, he tripped. I immediately concluded that he was trying to teach me some sort of lesson. He looked up at me and quickly said, “I just tripped. That’s all.”
That was a long time ago, and through the years I have progressed from idolizing Suzuki Roshi to recognizing that he was, after all, only human. Sometimes he tripped, figuratively and literally, with no deep purpose in doing so.
I know now (though I sometimes forget it) that lizards and Zen masters don’t do anything special. They are what they are, and they do what they do. There is magic, but it isn’t arranged. It happens. Our lives are intertwined, and a lizard or a Zen master shares our path for a while. Yoga Journal |