THE MASTER

PUMPKIN

The master was lost in thought when a woman's voice interrupted his ruminations.

"O Venerable One, how are you?"

She was the daughter of one of his students from many years ago.

"I am fine, young lady. How is your mother?"

"She is fine. She says that you were her favorite teacher."

"She was certainly one of my favorite students."

The mother had a bohemian nature. She wrote poetry and played the guitar. A free spirit with a love for Portuguese and born into wealth, she would travel to the most exotic locales: Brazil, Cape Verde, Angola, Macau, Goa.

"I was remembering my Pumpkin," she confessed one day when they were eating in the academy's cafeteria.

"Pumpkin?" replied the master, slightly confused.

"He was my boyfriend."

"And why did you call him Pumpkin?"

"I know that it is a cliché that lovers often use to address each other, but calling him Pumpkin seemed like the most natural expression of affection for me."

"What happened to Pumpkin?"

"The candle suddenly extinguished and the round eyes, the triangular nose and the jagged mouth went dark."

"I'm sorry, my daughter."

"There's no reason to feel sorry, O Venerable One. When I revisit the dark chambers of my memories, his candle still burns."

OPPOSITES

The master was pondering that opposites comprise reality and lead to enlightenment:

I am, but I'm not.

I was, but I wasn't.

I will be, but I won't be.

By understanding, I don't understand.

When I open something, something closes.

I am here, but I'm not here.

I tremble at the thought of death, yet I quiver living life.

There is not there.

The master rose and walked down the corridor to the bathroom. As he urinated, he noticed that his stream was a dark yellow.

THE HAPPY HUSBAND

The master greeted an old friend. He had been married for many years.

"How are you, brother?"

"Nothing changes, O Venerable One."

"I learned many years ago that change is the one constant. Most sages agree that we live in a constant state of change."

"Not me, O Venerable One."

"How so, my brother?"

"My wife and I have a relationship that never changes. We fight and then we reconcile. We fight and then we reconcile. As is our custom, we are fighting once again. Why can't we live a peaceful life like other couples we know?"

"Because both of you are at your happiest when you are reconciling. You are lucky, my brother. Not many people experience true happiness."

RAINDROPS

The master lay in his bed and looked out the window. He had a partial view of the eaves against a gray sky.

As he stared heavenward, he noticed a drop forming at the edge of the roof and then falling to the ground.

"I wonder if another will follow?" he asked himself. And soon enough another did followed by another and another.

"It must have rained last night," he said to himself, content that knowledge was so easily attained.

101 ZEN STORIES

The master opened his laptop. Many of his fellow towns people thought he was opposed to modernity. They found it unfathomable that someone could live without an automobile.

"How do you get back and forth to work with no car?"

"I don't work," he would reply. He did work, but his pupils came to him.

The master was blessed with few materialistic desires. He hadn't been converted to this belief. He had learned it watching others work themselves to the bone in order to buy "stuff" as people qualified these purchases.

The master was not a rich man, but the money he needed he preferred spending on a good pair of sandals or a hot cup of tea. He wasn't against modern conveniences. If someone stopped to give him a ride, he gladly accepted.

The master punched in 101 Zen Stories on the keyboard. These writings were a classic collection of Zen insights and observations.

The master felt a weight had been lifted from his psyche when he read, "This website has been reported unsafe."

THE SLOW DEATH

The master wandered around the plaza. For him, every day was the same. Sometimes he had to think twice to remember the exact day.

It was the holiday season. The faces of the children emanated excitement. People greeted each other warmly, but there was a subtle preoccupation in the countenances of the adults. Maybe it was the memories of more innocent times. He had rested his weary bones on a bench when the man known to his townfolk as the writer joined him. He wrote a column in the daily with which most the community began their day. His political commentary often decided elections and issues.

But he also had a creative side. He liked to mix reality with fiction to create the scenario and characters he needed in order to communicate his message. He liked to speculate about a side of humanity that most people preferred to ignore or keep hidden. The master loved the writer for his abject honesty. After sharing embraces and exchanging seasonal greetings, the writer told him a story:

"Why don't you kiss me anymore, son?" asked my father with a resigned sadness in his face.

"Dad!" I stammered. "Dad!"

Didn't he understand? I was 15. I was too old to be kissing my father. He looked at me with his sympathetic demeanor. I didn't have to explain. He understood. He always understood. He was a man of great patience and discipline.

As I passed through adolescence into adulthood, I never forgot to kiss him on the cheek and hug him if we had been separated for any period of time. What I would give to kiss and hug him now, but he departed for parts unknown seven years ago.

I have three sons and a step-son. I coached soccer for many years as you know. Most people don't know that I began my career covering sports. I know something about boys. A Jewish friend of mine with all the knowledge of the patriarchs has four sons.

"They are beautiful when they are children, but then they grow up," he told me with a wistfulness in his voice.

My youngest is 15. He, like my other sons, has been affectionate with me. Since he is my baby, he occupies a special place in my heart. For the record, all my sons occupy a special place in my heart. My mother had eight children, but she had the gift of making each feel like an only child. I inherited that talent from her.

"Where is my beautiful boy?" I would call when I went to collect him at school. He would come bounding to me as children do when they see the parents they love. Rather than hooking up with the buddies--who chided me for being too old to be raising a child--for Happy Hour, I would spend my afternoons teaching him everything from kicking a ball to riding a bike. It was pure joy.

I have never been able to satisfy my desire for him because from the knowledge gained experiencing the passing of time via my older sons, I literally visualize the sand pouring like a huge waterfall through an hour glass. Next year I will be 65. Soon I will be dead. Time is an incomprehensible phenomenon for me.

Meanwhile, he is going through puberty and I'm paying the price for his passage. He doesn't want to hang with me as he once did. He stays in his room when he isn't in the streets with his friends. When I ask him a question, he answers in a gruff syllable or two. He pushes me away when I try to hug him. The tenderness has vanished.

There are photos of him throughout the house that capture the innocence I worshipped. Regrettably, that little boy is gone, gone forever. We have moments at the stadium watching a game when he will return to his former self and sling his arm around my shoulder, but those intimate exchanges are few and far between.

This Christmas I will have all four boys. There will be one day that we will spend together at a favorite establishment. We will eat well and drink well and our spirits will be high. They appreciate their old man. For all the bad that I have done in my life--not enough to spend eternity in hell, I hope--I will go to my grave with the satisfaction that I have been a good father.

But I can't escape my melancholic nostalgia. Since I don't believe in Santa Claus anymore, I can't count on ol' St. Nick bringing back my baby. When you live a long life, you die a slow death.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

The master was celebrating his 70th birthday. It was neither here nor there for him. He had risen earlier than usual. He drank several glasses of water and embarked on a long walk that took him along several streams, through wooden areas, past fields of corn interspersed by stretches of green and finally over a knoll that dropped down onto the monastery's grounds.

He ate a large bowl of chicken soup filled with vegetables. He drank several more glasses of water and retired to the garden where he sheltered himself under a large hat.

He wasn't sure about the knowledge that he had gained from several decades on this orb except that he had been lucky. He had been blessed with loving parents, a strong body, a good education and a healthy curiosity. A smile creased his still youthful face as he quietly sang "Happy Birthday" to himself.

A BLUE NORTHER

The master was wandering through the woods in late fall admiring the trees adorned in their many colors when a blue norther surprised him. He sought refuge behind a huge trunk as the cold wind swept the land.

He huddled in self-protection. He thought the skies had opened also, but when he opened his eyes, leaves and not rain were showering him. For two hours he didn't move until the wind slackened.

He rose and looked around him. He was stunned by the change in the panorama. Nothing but bare branches hung over him. He pulled his coat closer. Soon an Arctic zephyr would sweep his world, reducing the master to little more than skin and bones.

THE DRUNK

The master received news that someone was waiting to talk to him in garden. It was a young widow. Her husband had recently passed. He embraced her.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"He was a good man, but he drank too much and it finally killed him."

The master sympathetically nodded his head.

"Everyone loved him and he treated everyone with great affection," she continued. "I don't think I can ever love another man. His children, his family and his friends loved him. But I would tell him that he loved drinking more than any of us. I wish things could have been different."

"Don't destroy yourself drowning in negatives," counseled the master. "I would occasionally pass him on the road when he was returning from a tavern. Alcohol put him in good spirits. Maybe if it hadn't been for his drinking, he wouldn't have capable of so much loving."

THE APPLE AND THE ORANGE

The master rested on a bench in the park. The fountain attracted youngsters who ran their hands through the water.

One of his ex-students, now an adult, took a place next to him.

"How are you, O Venerable One?" he inquired.

"I am fine, but by your expression I discern that you are troubled. What is the problem?"

"I find myself in a dilemma. I love two beautiful and intelligent women and they love me."

"I congratulate you on your surfeit of riches, my son."

"But I know that I can't have both. What do I do?"

"If I showed you a ripe apple and a juicy orange and asked you to choose one, would you savor the fruit you were eating or would you be craving for the fruit you had rejected?"

"I would savor the fruit I was eating."

"Then pick and relish."

WINE

The master gazed toward the horizon from the window in his cell. In the distance he could see the spires that overlooked the plaza. On foot from the monastery it was an hour journey to the city's center.

On his table was a glass, an uncorked bottle of wine and a plate of salami, cheese and crackers. The sun was disappearing behind the mountains.

Three hours later a full moon filled the sky. The bottle was empty. The plate was empty.

The master asked himself: "Have I attained a temporary state of nirvana or am I slightly inebriated?"
He relished the passing euphoria.

"Not every question has an answer," he thought to himself. "And not every question requires an answer."

THE LION TAMER

The master walked to the edge of town where the Circus Olympia was erecting its big tent. The circus had been coming to the master's town for decades. Through the years the master had become friendly with many of the performers and their descendants who had replaced their parents in the various acts.

The lion tamer was snapping his whip as he smoked a cigarette. The master approached the cages that held the lions and tigers. He noticed that the animals were undernourished. Their ribs protruded from their flanks although when they yawned, their teeth were as sharp as ever.

A few months later he was perusing the newspaper when he read this headline: TIGER DECAPITATES LION TAMER'S HEAD. The story related the tragedy that the lion tamer for the Circus Olympia had stuck his head inside the tiger's mouth and the cat had bitten it off.

The master shook his head. He wished now that he had passed along his father's advice to the lion tamer when he had last seen him: "Never stick your head into the mouth of a wild beast unless it has a full stomach."

THE JOKE

The master was a light-hearted soul.

"Did you hear about the comedian whose autobiography was released after his death?" asked the master.

"No, I didn't," answered the friend."

"The critics are saying that it was published post-humorously," chuckled the master.

DOGS

The master barked: "Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!"

The people gathered around him exchanged perplexed looks.

The master continued: "Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!"

The people began to murmur among themselves: "Has the Venerable One gone crazy?"

"Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!"

"Why are you barking, O Venerable One? We are not dogs."

"I know, my brothers and sisters. Forgive me, but I was speaking a truth that only dogs could understand. We should never underestimate the intelligence of our fellow animals."

THE CHILD

The master watched the children play.

"Does it make you sad that you have elected a calling that precludes children?" asked a young woman.

"Not at all," said the master. "A child should never have children."

"But you are no longer a child, O Venerable One."

"You are wrong, my sister. I was born a child and I will die a child."

THE LIE

The master spoke to a multitude. He had no fish nor bread. He could only feed them with words.

"We are only capable of the truth when we are no longer capable of the behavior that precipitated the lie," he said before waving good-bye.

THE CROW

The master was tramping through the woods when he felt something soft hit his head. He ran his hand through his hair only to discover that something had defecated on him. He peered into a tree and scoured the branches. A crow was perched on a limb. He defecated again on the master's head.

"I hope you feel better," said the master.

The crow flapped its wings and flew away.

THE TWO LABORERS

The master approached two laborers lying on their backs alongside a field.

"Why aren't you working?

"We don't like working."

"Then don't work."

"Then we won't be able to eat."

"Then don't eat."

The two laborers looked at each other. They rose, returned to the fields and worked until sundown.

THE BLIND MAN

The master was strolling along the beach when he saw a monk sitting in the sand staring at the sun.

"Be careful, brother, or the sun will blind you."

"I am blind."

"I am sorry," said the master.

"Why are you sorry," replied the monk. "I feel sorry for you."

"Why?" asked the master.

"Because I can see things you can't."

THE DEAD MAN

The master spotted a man in the high grass next to the path. He was dead.

"How are you?" asked the master who often had long conversations with rocks and trees.

The dead man didn't answer.

The master bent over and closed the man's eyes.

"Sleep well, my friend."

THE CARROT AND THE TOMATO

The master was shopping for vegetables at the market when a vendor asked him, " O Venerable One, what are you going to prepare with your purchases?"

"I am cooking a stew for my fellow communicants."

"But doesn't a stew require meat?"

The master extracted a bunch of carrots and said, "Here is my meat?"

"That isn't meat," asserted the vendor.

"Do you see with my eyes?" asked the master. "Do you smell with my nose? Do you taste with my mouth?"

"No."

He next pulled a tomato from his basket.

"This makes a wonderful roast," chuckled the master.

THE MUSE

The master sat in a café sipping tea by the side of a river when he saw a woman whom he had known in his youth before he entered the monastery. She looked at him and they smiled.

He observed her fingers from the distance. They were long and lithe, slender and supple, just as he had remembered them from those many years ago.

They resembled the wings of a swan.

He recalled them dancing across the keys of a piano and plucking the strings of a guitar. Like Midas, everything she touched turned to gold.

He had loved her. He still loved her, but the wind had changed and had blown them apart.

The master looked skyward. A flock of geese were flying south.

THE CATHEDRAL

The master entered the cathedral. When he left, a priest was waiting for him outside the vestibule.

"I know that you are not a Catholic, O Venerable One, but I noticed that you blessed yourself after you had dipped your fingers in holy water, that you genuflected in front of the altar, that you lit a candle at the foot of the statue of St. Jude Thaddeus and that you knelt in a pew and opened a bible. What were you reading?"

"I was reading the Psalms?"

"Why?" asked the befuddled father.

"Why not?" answered the master.

THE STICK

The master took his stick and swatted the student across the head.

"Why did you hit me, O Venerable One?"

"Because you aren't listening," replied the master.

He took his stick and swatted the student a second time.

"Why did you hit me again, O Venerable One?"

"Because you aren't listening," repeated the master.

He took his stick and swatted the student a third time.

The student said nothing.

The master placed his stick against a wall and the lesson continued.

LANGUAGES

The master spent long hours learning many languages, yet he never traveled to foreign countries. In fact, he seldom strayed outside his village except to wander through the countryside.

His ardor for languages mystified his disciples. The master was ambling through the corridors when one of his disciples found the courage to stop him and ask:

"O Venerable One, forgive me for my impertinence, but why do you learn these languages? You never talk to anyone in these foreign tongues?

"You are wrong, my son."

"With whom do you speak, O Venerable One?"

"I converse with myself, my son."

THE FISH

The master spent many hours fishing, but he inevitably cast his catches back into the water.

A little boy was puzzled by the master's actions. He could no longer contain his curiosity.

"O Venerable One, why do you return the fish to the water?"

The master had a deep appreciation for the honesty of a child.

"Because I wish that they be as merciful with me."

"I don't understand," said the child.

"If one day I am drowning, I hope they will return me to land."

FLOWERS

The master sat in the garden filling his vision with flowers. The many colorful petals spoke to the glory of existence. A fellow monk began to pick some of the most beautiful flowers.

"My brother," called the master. "Would you cut off the heads of children and display them in a decorative bowl?"

"What horrible words you speak, O Venerable One. What are you saying?"

"Then why are you killing these flowers? No vase is worth filling at such a terrible price."

WRITING

The master spent a part of each day writing. He would reread his words, then close his notebook.

"What do you write about?" asked a monk.

"I write about you," answered the master.

"Me? What do you write about me?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"And when you write about yourself, what do you write?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

The master embraced the monk. They shared much in common."

STRAWBERRIES

The master was sitting on a bench eating strawberries when a rich merchant approached him and told him a story about a woman he loved with whom he had reconciled after a long separation.

"She said she was always thinking of me.

"Was she thinking of me when her lover first kissed her?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was biting her neck, her shoulders and her back?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was fondling her tits?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was sucking her nipples?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was fingering her?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was eating her pussy?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was sliding his cock into her mouth?

"Was  she thinking of me when her lover was fucking her?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was ejaculating inside her?

"Was she thinking of me when she was wiping his sperm out of her cunt?

"Maybe he hopes she's still thinking of him as I kiss her, as I bite her neck, her shoulders and her back, as I fondle her tits, as I suck her nipples, as I finger her, as I eat her pussy, as I slide my cock into her mouth, as I fuck her, as I ejaculate inside her and as I watch her wipe my sperm from her cunt.

"I am thinking of all the things that he did to her then that I am doing to her now. No amount of pleasure she gives me can ever erase the pain of him possessing her. I am an animal. I cannot escape my instincts."

"Let me help you escape your cage with these strawberries," laughed the master. "Eat them. They are delicious."

MEMORY

The master was walking through the city's center when he stopped and purchased a corn cob. He was leaning against a building near a busy intersection savoring his snack when a harried businessman stopped.

"May I bother you for a few minutes of your time, O Venerable One?"

"You can have my entire day if you so desire."

"Thank-you for your generosity O Venerable One, but I am late for a meeting that had escaped my mind."

"If your meeting is important, I do not wish to detain you, my son."

"I have a problem that I must resolve or I will go crazy. I am suffering from forgetfulness. Last week I forgot it was my wife's birthday. I forgot to pay the monthly rent on time and the landlord charged me a late fee. Yesterday I forgot about my daughter's violin recital and couldn't understand the reason the house was empty when I arrived home from work. Can you help me, O Venerable One?"

"Stop remembering."

"Stop remembering?"

"If you stop remembering, then you won't have anything to forget."

THE EXECUTIONER

The master watched the soccer game from the sidelines. He had learned to walk and kick a ball at the same time. He was a capable midfielder in his prime. He understood the art of sharing the ball. Offensive players wanted him on their team because he evenly distributed the ball and had an innate skill to make the perfect pass at the most opportune moment.

In his youth nobody electrified the crowd like The Executioner. He was a swift athlete who could dribble and shoot with both feet. He earned his nickname because he never pardoned a goalie by squandering a scoring chance.

It had been several months since the master had seen The Executioner. He was old and hobbled by age, but he never failed to take his evening walk even though each step he took hardly evoked the legend he once was.

"Don't you miss those days, Executioner, when nobody was your equal on the pitch?" the master asked his enfeebled idol after crossing his path by chance.

"I have been inspired by challenges since I was a child," answered the fabled star with a wry smile.

"And nothing inspires me more than my daily stroll. I have never been more excited because my saunter through our city's streets is the greatest challenge of my life.

"I have never faced a task that required such energy and a sharper focus than this one," he continued. "When I reach my humble abode which is your abode, I feel more elated with my accomplishment than if I had score ten goals in a match."

The master nodded his head in awe. The supreme master had spoken.

THE PATH

The master was circling a pond when he remembered the words of a master from his youth: "When you accept that you know nothing and that the little bit you think you know is only making you more ignorant, then you have embarked on the path that leads to knowledge."