Nothing Said

There is a beautiful Buddhist monastery in Woodinville, not far from my house. The other week, I felt particularly low on spoons after the holiday, so I asked my wife if she would hang out with our son while I went over there to sit and meditate for a bit.

It was a Sunday afternoon, so there were no services or events. The only cars in the parking lot were mine and a couple older ones that looked like they may have been for the monks to use.

The great hall with the large Buddha statute is connected directly to the monastery's community kitchen. (I'll bet you five bucks that architectural quirk ain't an accident-- but that's a different entry.)

These "off times" are my favorite times to come in and sit. Usually, there's no one there, or maybe just a few of the monks sitting quietly or doing chores. There's this massive, comfortable silence that I take a lot of nourishment from.

Only today, as I walked into the great hall, there was something quite different.

The tinny sound of Fats Domino drifted through the air from an old radio.

When you sit in dharma, you sit whether its raining, shining, silent, or musical, so I plunked down and got to paying attention and settling.

A few minutes later, an older monk poked his head in from the kitchen (the source of the music). He had a broom in his hands, ostensibly cleaning up after the Sunday morning services. He made a chagrined face as he saw the hall occupied, breathing in through his teeth.

I do not know the rules that govern these particular monks, but I imagine filling the air with Fats Domino's work when people are sitting isn't standard operating procedure.

I thought it was delightful. The monks are usually so focused and so serious.  I love looking through those little cracks to see the places where we are all the same. I grinned from ear to ear.

He smiled back at me sheepishly. Then we both started laughing. Big belly laughs that filled the great hall. I raised my hands and gestured with my palms down, as if to say, "The music is OK."

He picked his broom up and continued sweeping the kitchen. When he was done, he came into the hall and sat down next to me.

We just sat together for a while. The scratchy sounds from the old radio filled the large emptiness of the hall.

No one said anything. No one had to.

I got up, bowed, and left.

I felt much lighter than I did when I came.

Religion and Relation

People roll their eyes when I echo the Dalai Lama by saying that my religion is kindness.

But it really is.

The hard truth is that I spent a lot of my life getting treated like dirt by people who felt they could get away with doing so.

The harder truth is that most of them did get away with it. There was no great cosmic justice, no movie script come-uppance. Just me suffering, and gaining some very valuable education.

Having been subjected to so much vile behavior, I made it my goal to treat every single human being I encountered kindly and respectfully.

At first, this just seemed like a no-brainer application of the golden rule. I mean, if I dislike getting treated like dirt, others probably do too, right? The least I can do is try not to be part of the problem.

As I continued to practice my religion, I started learning remarkable things about it. Foremost, I learned about its power.

I've made a point to be kind to people who are utterly unlovable and unloved. They are obnoxious, awkward, difficult. At times selfish or quick to anger. In some cases, these men and women have been dangerous. People who you look at and think, "Dear God, who would be crazy enough to share their life with THAT?"

The answer is me.

And in doing this bizarre move, these people have bloomed for me like some rare desert flower. The truth is that you will never have a friend as powerful as someone who really knows what it means not to have any friends. Once you've felt the pain of real isolation, it will transform you into an entirely different person. From that point on, any loving company is a sacrament. Something you appreciate as much as the air you breathe or the clothes on your back. Other people might give you their time or their attention, but befriend an outcast and they'll share a piece of their soul.

I spent a lot of time in concrete boxes with men and women who did some really bad things. I found that the key to working with them was not mountainous knowledge of law or an intimidating demeanor, but rather simple kindness and respect.

I remember the first time I visited a client in jail, sat down in a room where he was chained to a table, and asked him, "Is this a good time for you to talk?"

You could see the play of emotions on his face. At first, surprise. Then suspicion, as if to say, "Does this clown think that's a fucking joke?" I very clearly saw a moment where he gave serious consideration to adjusting my attitude with his fist. I just stayed there and looked at him.

Then I saw incredulity when he realized that I really meant it.

And finally a fundamental softening in him, as if he was being exposed to something he hadn't seen or felt in a very long time. It was like watching another human being crawl out of that hard shell.

It was a remarkable thing to watch that cascade of emotions. I immediately knew I'd accidentally done something right. We had long conversation, that turned into a long relationship based on the case, that turned into correspondence that continues to this day.

My simple gesture had done something that a legion of cops, guns, bars, concrete, the law, the state, society, and other inmates could not do - I got to him. Kindness and respect will penetrate places that the harshest things in the world cannot touch.

The reason I started writing this was because today someone did me a really big favor. In all honesty, I'd forgotten our interaction. It was one of thousands from the old days as a PD. But when we spoke today, it was clear that my choice to practice my religion back as an assistant public defender had a real impact on him, and stayed with him.

And in return, today he got to return the favor.

Practicing kindness is like throwing massive, chaotic, positive energy in the universe. Sometimes it just gets tossed out into nothingness. Other times, it makes patterns beautiful enough to take your breath away. And then every now and then, just rarely, it comes back to you in bizarre and delightful ways you never expected.

When it does, it reminds you why you converted in the first place.