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ROBINSON THE NOVICE231Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUikqmHXQRk
231Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxNzCgd03UB
Young Robinson stands before the walls of his cubicle in the temple and wonders if he's been betrayed. For the first time in the many months or years that he's been here he has a feeling of doubt and he lets the doubt like a small animal creep around his heart because if he has learned nothing else he knows now that he cannot deny his humanity and everything which that suffering breeds.
His cubicle is dark and small. Only a candle lights it and the candle must be preserved for he is given only one a week and if he leaves it lit continuously in the evenings he will spend the last three days of the week in darkness. He has learned to ration and cherish light. The only furniture in the room is a thin straw mat which serves as a bed and place of meditation. The cubicle is always cold, even in the dead of summer. The walls are dank. It smells of ancient things. Yet it's his only respite from the tasks to which he's been assigned and bitterly, he thinks, it must be for the better part of his life.
For the rest, there is nothing or everything: small, dismal, menial tasks to both try and break his will. At first, he thought that it was merely a test, and when he showed the masters how he could transcend the boredom of servitude they would clap him on the shoulders with acceptance and begin the process of his initiation. Now he is not sure. It seems as if the tasks are eternal and that he will always be----the son of an American father, already half cast out from the inheritors of the temple---merely a lackey. He does not want to feel this way. He does not want hope to shatter. But now, standing in this posture, he thinks that it may.
It is now autumn. In the autumn he sweeps leaves just as in the summer he tends the sparse trees around the monastery. Winter is for the sweeping of snow from the temple steps....he knows the seasons little but only by their demands. He has been sweeping leaves all day, moving one pile of waste into a bigger pile, the leaves scattering in the winds, destroying his work time and again when he thought it was done until finally in tears he had ended the day as he had begun it....endless, purposeless work which will never be done but which he must, nevertheless do. Is this my lot? he cries. Nothing answers him.
He looks through the sole window of his cubicle, a block of emptiness carved from the sod a hundred years ago by someone no doubt as miserable as he. Now he can see the silhouette of a double column of masters and their students, the disciples. They move across the courtyard wearing robes that glow and then, as if they had never been there, they are gone.
Suddenly Robinson is determined. There may be no end to this, not ever, but there must be some end for him. He has done everything which they have demanded and yet he has seen nothing. He walks from his cubicle, merging into the corridor, towards the place of assembly where at this moment, by the ritual he knows, Master Kang awaits the coming of the teachers and disciples. He doesn't let himself think of the audacity of what he's doing for he knows that if he does his tongue will falter, his knees turn to water and he will no longer be able to continue through this corridor, but instead will by some ecstasy of self-revulsion give up on all of it, leave the temple and return to the streets, a wanderer once again. He does not want to do this. More than anything he wants to partake of what the temple can offer him and he knows that it is this and not just doubt and despair that drives him towards the matter....but for whatever reason his heartbeat and respiration is irregular; he forces himself to stop in the shrouded corridor, lean against one of the damp walls to draw breath slowly into himself, willing himself to calm. He must not allow the master to see him in this condition. If nothing else, even if he's denied and cast back into the streets, he will go in possession of his self-respect.
He nearly stumbles when he begins to walk again. The corridor is slippery in a way that only masters and some of the disciples can navigate with grace. Truly, he has so much to learn; he knows nothing. He is lower, in the hierarchy of the knowledge of the temple, than the very leaves which he switches from one side of the courtyard to the next. But he will not be dissuaded. Having gone this far he will go further. Soon he will see the master and then all will be resolved.
In the summer dust, in the winter snow. Spring is for the droppings of winter, and fall is for the leaves. But the corridors through which he walks will stay always the same. The temple is timeless; it will surmount everything. Centuries will pass and his agony too will be as nothing against these walls. This thought gives him the courage to go on. He will think no more. He walks into the great hall where Grand Master Kang himself is standing lightly in a corner awaiting the entrance of the masters and disciples and before he can consider his audacity further, Robinson walks towards him. Kang watches his approach solidly, offering neither encouragement nor reproof. He closes his ground, becoming aware as never before of his clumsiness, of his lack of all those things which Kang seems to have known forever. The broom is still in his hand, he notices. Very well, so be it. Let Kang see what he has become. He bows to the grand master, holding the broom as a badge. The mark of a man is not what he carries but what he is.
Having bowed, he holds a position. He does not know what he will do if Kang does not speak. He cannot, he realizes now, break the protocol of the temple. Easier to leave at once or to impale himself on this very broom. If Kang does not rescue him with recognition, he thinks, he has been destroyed. All right. He has been destroyed then. He prepares himself to turn and leave.
Kang looks upon him and says, even as Robinson begins to turn, "I couldn't help but notice there's something catching your attention. Please enlighten me on what it might be."
Robinson turns back. Now feels focused upon the grand master's eyes, those wells of energy and pain. His fears fall away from him like ash.
"I hesitate to impose upon you....."
"You are here for a reason, and it is not by mere chance," Kang says, "so give me your voice, your ideas, and your perspective. The others will be joining us shortly, and you cannot afford to waste any time. This journey you are about to embark upon requires courage and conviction."
"Yes," Robinson says, understanding, "yes." He pauses. "I have been here for many seasons," he says.
Kang remains silent, forcing Robinson to continue. He does not consider what he says next; it is ripped out of him, a single great cry. "When will I learn?" he says. "Grand Master, when will I learn?"
He looks up then to see that Kang's face is unyielding. He remembers that once he saw or thought he saw kindness in those eyes but there is no hint of that now, there is only a detachment so strong, a disapproval so obvious that it makes Robinson shudder and like a vessel being filled to the top with water, so he now feels himself being overtaken by shame. Shame comes through him, it works through all the crevices of his body, he feels it oozing and rising within, and suddenly, for the first time perhaps, perhaps not, his control breaks, his eyes are with tears and he turns away from Kang, unable for the moment to see him anymore. He has turned. Now he begins the long walk away from him. Shame lies as his carpet as well and his step is heavy.
He is in the corridors again. Their destiny overwhelms him, the very history of the temple implanted within these walls, a hundred generations of suffering and knowledge to bring the temple to this point and he, the humblest figure who has ever walked through these spaces, is trapped by them. Who was he to think that he could ever partake of the teachings of this temple? Who is the son of an American father, and a Korean woman, both miserable, one dead, one missing---to think that in the measurement of the masters of this great temple, he is worthy of any knowledge whatsoever.
He has been a fool, Robinson thinks. He has always been a fool and now nothing has changed; only the years have passed to drain him. He is sixteen years old and all that he can be is a wanderer. And at this thought a kind of insight breaks through to him: the temple has become his life. Bitter and pointless as his labors may have been, they have partaken of him as he of them; he is one with the temple.
There is no other place for him!
He continues walking through the corridor then until near the end he sees a great arched doorway leading to a small grotto at one side of the courtyard. In front of the huge birdcage with its splendid pheasants sits a grand master, his back towards Robinson, now adjusting himself after meditations. All of the monks meditate for hours a day, doing this as easily as Robinson in his exhaustion is able to sleep.
As Robinson resumes his sweeping, the grand master says, "You are the one bestowed with the dubious honor of being our newest student."
Startled, Robinson looks at the old priest. His back is still towards Robinson, yet there is no one else he might have been addressing. Finally, Robinson says, "No, I am not a student," he says, trying to control his bitterness but finding that it emerges anyway. "All I do is sweep."
"But you are a good sweeper," the priest says warmly and inclines his head, "aren't you?"
Robinson thinks about this. Years come back to him in a single rush and with it a single judgment. "Yes," he says, "I believe so."
The priest beckons to him. "Good," he says, his tone soothing yet encouraging. "Come closer to me. I am Kim."
Robinson moves to the side of the seated monk. Kim inclines his head toward Robinson and Robinson sees closely the strange impenetrability, the milky whiteness of the eyes of the blind.
"You cannot see," Robinson says, shocked by his reserve.
Kim turns his eyes towards him and then smiles with some wryness. "I must admit that I find it rather perplexing that you believe I cannot see," he says quietly. There is something timeless about the statement; it could have been phrased by all blind men throughout time. "Are you absolutely certain of that?"
"Of all things," Robinson says without thinking, still overcome by those eyes, "of all things, to live in darkness must be the worst."
"Not so."
"Not so?"
"I want you to understand something crucial," Kim says lightly. "Fear is the only darkness. It can cloud our judgment, hinder our progress, and prevent us from embracing the wonders of things unknown."
Wonderingly, Robinson shakes his head. The stones underneath Kim seem to curl and glitter. "I am trying very hard to understand," he says, "but my understanding is not sufficient for the grand masters."
"Come here for a moment," Kim says again. He gestures toward one of Robinson's brooms which stands now against the wall of the courtyard. "I have something quite fascinating to show you. Take that broom over there and strike me with it."
Robinson says, "I can't...."
"Now!" Kim says firmly. "Do it now."
Unprotesting, Robinson goes to the broom, retrieves it, and lifts the broom high in the air. Once again hesitancy overtakes him; to strike a grand master is unthinkable.
"There is no time left to hesitate or deliberate!" Kim says. "You must act without delay!"
Robinson brings down the broom, directing a blow with sheer force toward Kim's shoulder, the hard, bony part where (he hopes) he will not injure the blind grand master. With a facility so perfect that the motion is almost imperceptible, Kim blocks the broom with one flick of extended palm. The broom trembles in Robinson's hands.
"Again," Kim says.
Robinson thinks he is beginning to understand what Kim is saying to him. But the challenge, the immediate challenge is what involves him and suddenly stripped of fear he turns to the other shoulder of the grand master, raises the broom, and brings it down once again in a slightly different arc. If Kim is going to teach him something, Robinson thinks, then he cannot cheat on the blind man; he must cooperate. He must try to strike. Kim blocks this thrust even more easily than the first, the broom this time skittering out of Robinson's hands, which are deadened by the blow, and falling at some distance from them near one of the opposite walls of the courtyard.
"Retrieve it and try again," Kim says.
Robinson does so. He has the feeling that he is being watched; that the balcony above is filled with grand masters and disciples looking down intently, not with anger but with great curiosity, in fact with a kind of approval. He will not look up to confirm that feeling, however. If this is a lesson it comes from Master Kim; it all depends on what happens between the two of them. Robinson returns with the broom.
Now he tries a scattering of quick thrusts. Here to the side, dead into the belly, feint towards the wrist and then towards the throat, bringing the broom up and down, firing it like an arrow toward Kim's intestines, trying to reach him through the armor of his wrists. And Kim once more blocks everything, his hands now moving so fast that Robinson cannot even deduce the actions, wrists in the air, scattering of fingers, whisk of palm....until once more the broom flies from Robinson's hands against the wall, clatters against the stone and falls. Robinson feels that his arms beneath the elbows have gone totally dead but as he looks at Kim sitting there so imperturbable there is something more alive within him. He stands and watches the grand master. Slowly, circulation returns. It brings pain but the pain is also knowledge.
Kim smiles then. His face breaks open into a smile without guile, without craft or consideration, and Robinson, before he knows what he's doing, realizes that he is smiling back. He stands there that way for a while, utterly at peace, listening to all the sounds of the courtyard, still with that sense that he is being observed. But he will not look up. He does not have to. What matters is inside of him.
"The world is a mysterious place full of wonders that extend far beyond what our eyes can perceive. Never assume that just because someone lacks the ability to see with their physical eyes, they are unable to truly understand or 'see' in other ways," the old priest tells him gently. "Now, close your eyes."
Robinson does so. Behind the lids, he sees light, the imprint of the sun against his eyelids. He looks towards the ground and the light goes away. Of course. Through the inner one sees the outer. There is no difference between the two. One's life is the condition of the world seen from the outside. How could he have not known this before?
"What do you hear?" Kim says.
Robinson listens. Sounds come at him from the silence and he picks at them in the way that a child might pick at little blades of grass in a field.
"I hear the gentle rustling of leaves," he says, a hint of excitement in his voice. "And the distant chirping of birds."
"You see," he hears Kim say, "hearing is not merely a passive act of perceiving sound waves. It is an active process that requires engagement and attentiveness. By opening your eyes, you allow yourself to fully immerse in the present moment, enabling your senses to work together harmoniously." Kim pauses. "Now, concentrate on the sounds around you. Listen not only with your ears but with your entire being. Tune out any distractions and let your mind become one with the symphony of life unfolding before you. Notice how each sound carries its own unique melody and rhythm."
Robinson holds his position. Now he forces himself to disengage the other sounds from consciousness, moving beyond those surface sounds the way a diver would break the surface of a still pond to find another quality of life.
"Please take a moment now to listen to the rhythm of your heart," Kim says. "Can you hear it?"
"Yes," Robinson says after a while when he is sure that the sound is real. "Yes, I can."
"Can you hear the dragonfly that flies by you?"
Robinson stays in position. He listens. Beyond his own heart, however, he can now hear nothing and he cannot lie to the grand master; this would break the point of the lesson. He must tell him only what he knows.
"No," he says. "I do not."
"Open your eyes," Kim says and Robinson does so, sees beside him a small, delicate dragonfly hovering beside his left shoulder. He tries to cup his hands over the insect, hoping to feel the beating of its wings against his palm, but it gets away from him.
"Old man," he says then as the dragonfly blends into the sun-lit sky, "how is it possible for you to hear these things around you?"
Kim has held his smile. He looks at Robinson now in a way that no one, he thinks, has ever looked at him before. "Young man, how is it that you cannot? Even the darkness has its sound," he says.
Robinson nods. He looks towards the ground. He believes that he understands. Kim says nothing, resuming his posture of full mediation. Robinson hears the sounds of the master's breath, the even intake, the little sound of Kim's heart as it collaborates with breath to produce that wonder called life.
A lizard skitters along the grass moving toward him, still twenty feet away. Robinson hears the sound of the lizard. It is heavier than that of the dragonfly, with little empty spaces between the flights. The dragonfly had been a steadier, uninterrupted sound.
Robinson watches the lizard circle and then break off at right angles to him. Before the little animal reaches the wall, Robinson is able to know in which direction it wants to go.231Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCgFZleDnqi
