Hidden.

Edward Espe Brown on rules and popcorn popping at different rates ...

The officers of the temple, serious and stern, came to inform me that one of the students, James, had been doing drugs and sharing them with others. Unfortunate news in the crisp spring air with lucid sunlight flooding in my windows. What shall we do? I said, please, let me speak with James, before we decide anything.

James was an energetic, occasionally moody young man with a disarming smile. He was by far the youngest student, perhaps eighteen (or was it twenty-two), and he’d come to Zen practice off the streets of San Francisco, after being discovered by Issan Dorsey, one of Zen Center’s priests. Rumor was that they had been lovers. And now James was following the schedule at Tassajara—Issan was not there—where he slipped easily into the role of mascot (rather than hero, scapegoat, or lost child).

Sitting down together in my cabin by the upper garden, I found James to be entirely forthcoming. It had been his birthday recently, and his mother had sent him a Care Package, only instead of the usual chocolate chip cookies, there were brownies laced with hashish, some LSD, along with marijuana for smoking. What a mom! What was she thinking—sending drugs to a Zen Center? Why wasn’t she thinking? James said that the package had entirely way too many drugs for him to consume on his own, so naturally he had shared the drugs with others—on their day off, of course.

James also expressed his remorse and his deep wish to continue practicing at Tassajara.  He loved being there, and he especially loved Suzuki Roshi. I told James that I would do my best, but I wish I’d known how to make his wish come true, known the story about David and Suzuki Roshi, known to consult with others outside of Tassajara. When I met with the officers, I told them that I wanted James to stay, but they were insistent that he had broken the rules and had to leave Tassajara. I argued that he would soon be back on the streets of San Francisco, and that he wouldn’t survive for long. The officers said that was up to him; that he had to leave. I finally agreed to go along with them. Heaven help me.

James may have lived for a while at our City Center, but shortly he was back on the streets, and after a year or so, we heard that he was dead. How painfully sad. Of course we don’t know what would have happened had he stayed at Tassajara, but an isolated canyon in the mountains does not have the temptations of the streets of San Francisco, and today I am heart-broken not to have kept him in that structured isolation. Where we could have provided him with a big brother or mentor, where the spirit of Suzuki Roshi would have welcomed him: James, please stay, do your best, let this practice take care of you. Though you break the rules, come back to the way.

Zen practice is not like training your dog: “Sit. Heel. Fetch.” Some of us dogs have taken years to mature. What finally helps is hidden in the heart, waiting to be uncovered. Sometimes by a teacher. Sometimes through sorrow.