Black Collegian News & Views

The pain was unbearable.  I could neither feel my legs, nor could I move them.  If I cried, it would only show the master and the others that I was weak.  So I pulled the pain deep inside and continued to endure the experience; one that I promised myself I would never repeat.  No, I wasn’t being hazed by some college fraternity.  Far from it.  I was in Japan, at a Buddhist temple, making a fool out of myself trying to meditate.

I had been in Japan for two months already and had never participated in the official art of Buddhist meditation.  Finally, at four in the morning on one chilly November day, I mounted my raggedy, white bicycle and peddled two miles to a Zen Buddhist temple.  On the way there, I felt good about myself.  Here I was, a young college student from America, breaking the sacred rules that my fellow Generation X-ers had so diligently put forth.  For one, I was up at 4:00 a.m. when I didn't have to be.  And to top that off, I was actively seeking discipline.

When I finally found the place where the meditation was to occur, I parked my bicycle near a tree, removed my shoes at the entrance, and tiptoed inside.  Instead of some elaborate sanctuary, the hall was nothing more than a rectangular shaped room with eight pillows lined neatly on each side.  The master, head shaven and dressed in black robes, sat almost camouflaged in the middle of the room.  For a Japanese man, he seemed extraordinarily tall; and the way he sat perfectly still, looking intensely at what appeared to be nothing, intimidated me.  He was like a mannequin, but with an uncanny human capacity for concentration.

I turned my attention away from him and noticed that there were approximately seven other people in the room.  Like me, they were all present for Zen meditation. 

Patiently, we sat in anticipation of the master's signal.  He stood, grabbed a stack of Buddhist prayers, and passed them out along each side of the room.  Then he picked up two wooden bricks and clapped them together.  This was our signal to begin.

I opened my eyes to see what everybody else was doing.  They were all sitting Indian-style with their hands cupped right below their waists.  This posture seemed simple enough for me to imitate.  So I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and assumed the correct posture.

I wasn't used to sitting Indian-style, and it wasn't long after we began meditating that my toes began to tingle.  I thought nothing of it at first and continued to meditate.  After ten minutes, my feet were numb.  This did not bother me much because I could move my feet and the numbness would go away.  Just as I thought that my discomfort was over, my left leg started to tingle.  Soon it was completely numb.  I quickly remedied this situation by shifting my weight to the other leg.  Relief came as I felt the blood circulate through my left leg again.  But now my right leg was starting to get numb.  Suddenly, the master clapped the wooden bricks together, signaling that it was time for a break.  I took this opportunity to stretch my legs and readjust the pillow on which I was sitting.

After about three minutes, the wooden bricks were clapped together again, this time to let us know that the meditation was about to begin once more.  Ten minutes into the meditation, both my legs were numb.  At that same time, I heard the master get up and start walking around the room.  Briefly, I opened my eyes and saw that he was wielding a stick.  My body tensed up as I tried to figure out why he was holding a weapon.  Maybe he was going to whack people who weren't sitting correctly.  Sure enough, I was right!  I heard him hit someone at the front end of the room.  Where the person got hit, I don't know, but it made a sharp sound.  The master must have been crazy, walking around hitting people with that stick.  If he hit me with that stick, we were going to fight.  I was 20 years old, and was not about to let anyone abuse me.  Then I started to think.  If this guy is a Zen master, he probably knows kung fu, too.  I would have to be a complete idiot to fight a kung-fu master.  But this guy was old.  How strong could he be?  Then I started to remember those kung-fu movies where the old people used to wreck shop.  Fighting this guy was now out of the question.

My legs were numb and I couldn't take it any longer.  Maybe if I got up while the master was still at the other end of the room, I could bolt out of the place.  This idea was soon abandoned once I realized that my legs were so numb, that if I tried to run, they would just give way and I would collapse right in the middle of the floor-making myself a perfect target for the master's stick.

I felt hopeless.  The pain in the lower half of my body was killing me, and I was in constant fear of the master's wrath.  As if things couldn't get any worse, I began to feel the presence of someone standing in front of me.  It had to be the master!  I gnashed my teeth and braced myself for the worst.  He must have been surveying my posture the whole time.  There was nothing I could do.  The severe expression of pain was written all over my face.  I was finished!  Then to my surprise, the master moved on.  Slowly, he walked back to his post and clapped the wooden bricks together.  Once I heard that heavenly sound, I tried to stretch my legs, but they were too numb.  I had to then grab them and physically stretch them out with my hands.  Now that it was break time, I figured I could make a run for it.  However, I decided to stay because I had made it that far, and leaving would show that I was a quitter.  And above anything else, I didn't want to be that!

In the remaining half of the meditation, the master, along with everyone else in the room, sat chanting a Buddhist prayer.  Not me!  While they were chanting, I was praying to God to help me survive the meditation.

At last, the ordeal was over.  Wobbling out of the meditation hall, I wondered what, if anything, I had gained from the experience?  Part of me resolved never to drag myself through that hell again.  The other part of me realized that maybe I had to suffer in order to attain my goal, peace.  But, the next time I decide to get up in the morning and meditate, I'll just remember my terrible experience, and go back to bed.

This is being reprinted with the permission of the Xavier Herald.