Chasing the Monk
Sex, chanting, and polishing wood
“The root of suffering is attachment.” – Buddha
My first exposure to Buddhism was during a weekend in a monastery in upstate New York, a gorgeous place with gleaming wood and a literary pedigree, albeit one that had been tarnished by some shady behavior (no, it's not just the Catholics). The weekend was offered as a sober retreat, and I was willing to go mainly because I had a major crush on an angry Jewish guy who had signed up. We had been flirting, and the four-hour drive sealed the deal enough that we snuck into what later proved to be a private sanctuary for the students and monks and made love in the hot tub on arrival. Then there were noises in the adjacent room, and the only way to access the exit was through a space that was clearly filled with better-behaved retreatants and Buddhists attending a meditation class. My companion decided to depart fast while people lay out their mats, but I was horrified by the idea of a walk of shame through a meditation class. But there was no alternative, so I opened the door and was greeted by a dozen prone bodies and a monk who sat in zazen but made eye contact and winked. He knew. Soon, he would know everything.
photo by Sage Friedman
I was grieving. I had been grieving off and on for years, both the sudden death of my beloved oldest sister and the earlier death, also an accident, of my best friend. I was sober for over five years but still unable to move forward. I felt stuck in an endless loop of regret and remorse. After dinner, there was a yoga class. While we were in savasana, that same monk placed his hands on my shoulders, shoulders that had absorbed every painful moment in my life, and pushed them down and back. At that point, I burst into tears, gut-wrenching sobs that emerged and broke to the point I was humiliated but unable to stop. I fled from the room, determined to avoid any more encounters with this monk who turned out to be the head of the monastery, a western man with a shaved head I nearly left civilian life for, but instead, with his help, I found a way to embrace the awful beauty of existence.
I mainly wanted to sleep with him but also to sit at his feet and learn. He offered me a made-up job as a writer who would help the sangha communicate with various news organizations; the place had recently been profiled in The New York Times. The job came with free room and board and an agreement to commute between my life in Manhattan and the monastery. This was an unhinged decision. I was teaching creative writing at a vast University in northern New Jersey, trying to write another novel, and living on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. So, I bought a car, a huge old beater that I could leave in the college parking lot after my last class on Thursday when I would roar up to the Catskills, put on my robe, and join the others sitting zazen in the zendo. By Monday, I would have sat for many hours, seen the roshi for dokusan, been sent to bowl orientation (again), and polished lots of wood. Also, I baked bread. I didn't write, but I also didn't feel depressed, maybe because I was so madly, deeply, and hopelessly in love with my teacher, the head monk.
Dokusan, audience with the roshi, was offered after a very long sit. When the bell rang, you were expected to claw your way to the front of the line because he would only speak with a limited number. Once he hit the gong, several steps were required to enter his room, including crawling, bowing, crawling, and more bowing until you were sitting across from him. At one point, I had written these steps on the inside of my arm: bow, crawl, bow, stand, walk, crawl, etc. Roshi, wearing his ceremonial robes, resembled a giant beetle. It was hard not to burst into hysterical giggles. I was usually so freaked out by the dark and the candles and the fact I had checked a diminutive sangha member into a wall trying to make the line I mostly whined about bowl orientation. That was another thing; meals were taken communally, silently, and followed a strict protocol of wrapping and unwrapping bowls, taking food without making eye contact, cleaning your bowl, and wrapping it in a way that befitted a Japanese still life. You had to finish all your food in the time allotted and expected to pick up things like almonds and rice with chopsticks. At the end of every meal, a monk patted me on the shoulder and told me to repeat bowl orientation.
Meanwhile, I discovered that when you meditate for a long time, your mind becomes an endless loop of soft porn featuring the object of your desire, in this case, the monk. One night, on my way to bed, he stopped me.
"Are you watching porn?" he asked.
"What? Of course not!"
"I meant while you're sitting."
"Oh, yes, well, sort of." About you, I didn't say.
"What do you do after meditation?" This felt like a trick question. The truth was I'd smuggled a coffee maker into my room and had a cache of fashion magazines and chocolate. "You should read Buddhist literature or sleep," he said, twinkling down at me.
I shrugged. "I drink coffee, eat chocolate, and read Vogue," I said.
The months passed. When I came directly from the monastery, I sometimes brought my cushion into the classroom. My students found this fascinating. My parents, staunch ex-Catholic intellectuals, were less salutatory.
"What kind of name is Junpo?" my mother asked.
"His real name is Dennis Kelly," I said. "He used to manufacture LSD in California."
"A criminal Irishman," my mother said. "Why aren't I surprised?"
The winter passed. We made maple syrup by tapping the trees around the monastery. Despite hours and hours of labor, there was barely enough to let us have a small personal jug. I wasn't writing anything except silly poems about my love for the monk. I made cookies, took yoga, and occasionally visited my teacher in his house, where he played me the Zen flute and suggested I devote my life to serving him as an inji, defined as the master's personal attendant. Apparently, I would sleep at the foot of his bed, but he didn't want me to cut my hair. I have really nice hair.
My sister told me she thought my posture had greatly improved. My mother made noises at the end of every phone call, suggesting she was not pleased with my life choices. My father found the whole thing amusing. One day, I told the monk that Buddhism reminded me of Catholicism with all the incense and rules and men wearing dresses. He was not amused.
I received a note from a friend that said something terrible had happened. When I called her, she told me a man from our high school, who was another friend's best friend, had been murdered by his lover in Beirut. He was a distinguished journalist who spoke Arabic fluently and was also the sweetest, most intelligent person in our school. I told the monk, and he said, "See, it's time to leave the world." He suggested we chant for him after that night's zazen. After the chanting, I went to my room and packed everything. There wasn't very much to bring back to New York City. I put the stuff in my car and stopped at his house on my way down the mountain.
"I'm leaving," I said. I can't leave the world. I'm a writer, and all I do here is polish wood and wish you'd kiss me." He indicated that was a possible development, but it was too late. I didn't love him anymore.
On the drive back, there was a massive thunderstorm with lightning and thunder. When I finally reached my apartment, the phone was ringing. It was three o’clock in the morning and my friend who lived in Spain had just heard that her best friend had been murdered. She was heartbroken. I was home.
—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach