Hermitcraft: Fudos, Part 1

A trio of large fudos await
assignment by the woodstove

Making and hanging fudos is part of my practice. Regulars will have noted photos of them in several posts, as well as the 3-strand, hundred-year model on the masthead. Ever wonder why this blog is called Rusty Ring? Now you know.

Who is Fudo?

Fudo Myō-ō is a bodhisattva, sort of a cross between an angel and a saint. Standard Zen has it that there are real bodhisattvas, human beings who have attained enlightenment and go around helping others, and metaphorical ones, figures who never existed, but embody or symbolise certain spiritual principles. Fudo the Immovable is one of these. His Sanskrit name is Acala Vidyârâja, but I prefer to think of him as the Scottish Bodhisattva. He's that fierce, razor-sharp part of us that Hell can't break.

Fudo Bodhisattva has chained himself to a rock in the deepest pit of Hell, where he vows to stay until all sentient beings have been saved. He holds a sword of steel to cut through delusion and a coil of rope to bind the demons of despair. Fudo will remain on-post, enduring infinite torment, until the last soul makes it out. Then he will turn out the lights, lock the door, and Hell will be out of business.

What is a fudo?

The small-f fudo is a sanctuary object. It reminds us that we are not alone, that others are also looking for the way out, and that together we will find it. Fudos create mindful space. When one is hung on a tree, fence, or other structure, it alerts seekers that one of their own has passed that way, and the spot becomes a sanctuary, a place of rest and encouragement. Think of it as Kilroy for hermits.

Various small fudos on my cot

The fudo’s cord binds the demons that whisper that life is pointless, that you're alone, that you'll never make
it out. We all make it out. Fudo says so, chained to his rock, sneering at the Devil.

The knots recall Fudo's resolve. They attest to the effectiveness of practice, and counter the despair inspired by the demons of doubt.

The ring (typically a washer or similar hardware) recalls Fudo's sword, and is a universal symbol of unity, loyalty, and redemption. The more abused the ring, the stronger it is. I collect mine from junkyards, roadsides, and beaches, to ensure that everyone I give one to gets a full arsenal of arse-kicking contempt for their particular hell.

The three strands in the classic hundred-year fudo stand for the Three Treasures: the Truth, the Teacher, and the Nation of Seekers. It also comes in four-strand, for the Four Noble Truths. Hundred-year fudos are made of nylon seine twine, available from any hardware store and virtually indestructible. I weld the knots with clear nail polish, which fuses them together. Fact is, apart intentional destruction, a well-built hundred-year fudo may last a good deal longer than that.

There are other designs with large or fancy rings, manifold strands, and kumihimo cords. But all serve the same purpose, and have exactly the same value as the plain old hundred-year "washer on a string".

To date I've made over two hundred fudos. Some were big, complex, and colourful. Most were 3- and 4-strand hundred-years. Some I gave away: to friends in need, strangers in need, fellow seekers. The rest I hung in forests, deserts, parks, cemeteries, rest stops; on beaches, paths, roadsides, and islands; by rivers, highways, lakes, railways, Buddhist and Christian monasteries; in parking lots and hobo jungles and ghettos and factories and schools. And I've sent fistfuls off with others, to tag their own paths and homelands.

So if you see one of these, that's what it is: a high-five from us, Fudo's crew.

My nephew T-Bone ponders an
8-strander we hung in a swamp

WW: The sun sets on 2011

Good Movie: Zen

"This is gonna be a short movie."

That's what I thought when I bought Zen (禅), a biodrama about Eihei Dogen, founder of the Soto Zen sect. Dogen is a seminal figure, but he's famous, even in Soto, for being completely unmovable. Two hours of watching a stone-faced Japanese guy sit perfectly still, broken only to yell at his students when they fail to do likewise. Fun for the whole family.

Fortunately, director Takahashi Banmei had the sense to scrap the legend and seek the soul. Which, one supposes, Dogen must have had. In fact, Takahashi's Dogen is not just sensitive, he's downright soft. He actually cries, for God's sake! Four times!!!

Takahashi sees Dogen as a crusader, first against the comfortable, corrupt Buddhism of medieval Japan, and by extension, the violent tendencies of Japanese culture. His motivation remains under-explained; as in oral tradition, the boy loses his mother, and vows to find a path out of misery for all humanity. Alright. But peoples' mothers die all the time, and they don’t hike across China to end suffering. Why did he?

Takahashi begs the question; he wants to get to The Story ("Dogen vs. The Volcano"), and his unorthodox grasp of storytelling makes what happens next one of the great cinematic epics.

It also makes it hard to review. See, this is a visual movie. Oh, there's plenty of dialogue. Important dialogue. Powerful dialogue. It's just, like, so not the story. That is in the images, scenes so saturated with meaning that every one, whether a sweeping vista or the monastery kitchen, is a sutta. I've seen it a few times now, and no longer even bother to turn on the subtitles. (And let me assure you, 僕の日本語 外人のめちゃくちゃですね 。)

So how do you describe a movie that seems to bypass your brain, like you're receiving it in the marrow of your bones? Well, for starters, my film reviews usually include three screen-caps. You'll note a few more here. You can't review Zen with three screen-caps. And these are just half the ones I collected for it. (Click on them. See them bigger.)

In short, Zen is a truly Zen experience, and a deeply moving one at that.

Another facet of Takahashi's "outsider" genius (he's most known for dirty, edgy grinders) is his gift for iconoclasm. In this case he gave the lead to a kabuki actor. Yeah, that's what you want to play the Stone Buddha: an opera singer. But as much as the cinematography, Nakamura Kantarou is this movie. He manages to be just human enough, without getting cuddly, and also remarkably supple. He's got that Dogen steel, sure, but he's never macho. This is not Dogen as samurai; this is Dogen as priest.

Irish priest, in fact; this is a very religious movie. And that's weird; Zen itself is highly suspicious of the thing Christians call "praise," and our movies generally reflect this preference for practice over preaching. But Takahashi's Dogen can't shut up about the Buddha. And while the film does heavily emphasise sitting (for once, thank God), we also see Dogen preach. That's right: preach. At the drop of a deep-dish monk hat, my dear. Is it because Takahashi isn't a Zen Buddhist? Or is he trying to tell us something? I don't know. But I like it. It's fresh. I dig this Dogen.

There are other gems here: Dogen's love of China (some of the film's nuance will be lost on those who can't detect his frequent shifts from native Japanese to his second language, and back); his obsession with the moon, now a Zen obsession; the view of medieval Kyoto, Japan's holy city, as one big brothel; Dogen's rejection, no less dramatic today than it was in 1220, of social distinctions and bourgeois values. "We don't care about your past here," he tells a prostitute who wants to take orders. 

I could snipe at a few things, but they'd be the same things reviewers always snipe at. ("Too derivative. Too Hollywood. Not enough cowbell.") But from my cushion, the only real problem is the title. This movie is not about Zen. I suspect that's why it remains obscure. (A big-budget studio title, and sold only on Japanese Amazon. At least at the moment.) So people who don't care about Zen won't see it, and those that do, don't either. And that's too bad, because it demands to be seen. So what should Takahashi have called it? Something about the moon, maybe. Nah, that would only net a lot of disappointed middle school girls.

Anyway, here's the bottom line: he's strong, he's sensitive, he's Dogen. See the movie. It's good.

WW: Eagle above the bluffs

WW: Crow in the jungle

Street Level Zen: Politics

"'Kindness' covers all of my political beliefs. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn't always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find out."

Roger Ebert

WW: Hearth and home

WW: November night

The Capital Punishment Koan

But the good news is I did change my heart. It just took a while to generate the will. And that's my right. I also get better at this stuff. And that's all God asks. Live this moment right; the past is his property. I am no different from everything else: I'm not what I was. And I'm not even what I've done. That was the koan Gautama gave to Angulimala, the serial killer who became his disciple. All you have to do to please God is strive. He accepts all progress, even that which is invisible to others, even that which is invisible to you, as full payment. That's why we live so many lives. In point of fact, we live as many lives as it takes. All of us. No Heart Left Behind. Fudo closes the door on an empty room. That's his vow.

And by this truth, capital punishment is not just technically murder, it's the random, joyful murder of serial killers. You never kill the man who killed; every criminal executed is innocent, and that would be the case even if you crucified him the very night. Admittedly, that point is academic. But when you kill a man who has lived twenty more years, suffering in the man-made Hell of prison, you are not only killing a complete stranger, you're often killing a soul seared generous and kind in a fire you set. So don't come snivelling around here with your "eye for an eye;" you've taken a soul for an eye.

Hence the koan of capital punishment: Whose soul have you taken?

Wu Ya's commentary: "Not mine. Anybody missing a soul?"


(Adapted from "100 Days on the Mountain," copyright RK Henderson. Photo courtesy of WikiMedia and Rafael Pi Belda [photographer].)

WW: We're here, we're deer, get used to it

Waterproof Monk

The summer of 2011 was wet in the Willapas. Very wet. And cold. But mostly wet. For a monk sitting his 100 Days on the Mountain, sleeping in a cave-like tent and living under a piece of Tyvek, it presented unique challenges. These included (but were not limited to):

• Six-inch banana slugs that got snarled in my robe while I was meditating and then snotted out a plate-sized patch of slime all over it and my zabuton while panicking.

• The same going "squish!", rather dramatically, underfoot when I crawled out at 0300 to pee.

• Mildew covering even the nylon effects stored in my tent.

• The inability to launder clothing or bedding, because I couldn't dry it.

• Bare feet eternally muddy; rain-softened sandals sliding out from under them on any but perfectly level ground.

• And perhaps the worst, being imprisoned in my little jungle clearing, because leaving it meant getting soaked in high grass or dense brush. (Remember: no drying things.)

A week or so of this, and the Oh-Look-How-Zen-I-Am shtick ceases to umbrella one's morale; one begins to swing from vociferous obscenities to deep depression. And so it was that I envisioned this movie, starring me as The Nameless Hermit, one midnight while sitting on my sleeping bag, under the driving rain. If the lines seem a little wobbly, it's because they were drawn by flashlight. Also, the pose was meant to be some kind of scary kung fu stance. Sadly, in the cold light of day, I just look like an angry folk dancer.

I derived creatively from the Chow Yun-Fat grinder Bulletproof Monk. Chicago Reader film critic Bill Stamets said of this movie: "The fight scenes are routine, the humor juvenile, and the Toronto locales rendered drab through muddy cinematography." So there you go. Change "Toronto" to "North Coast," and you've got my whole life.

So what do you think? Does the idea have legs? Frankly, I think I could kick Chow's butt. Commercially, that is.

This is exactly what my ango was like. Except
 I wasn't angry. Or Asian. Or armed. But aside
from that, this is exactly what it was like.

(Adapted from 100 Days on the Mountain, copyright RK Henderson.

WW: Vayan con Dios, hermanos

Good Book: The Zen Path Through Depression

Depression is the elephant in the meditation hall. Virtually all Zenners suffer from it; nobody becomes a monk because he's happy. But Zen is a macho tradition, and since depression is an illness without visible sores, the old right-wing arithmetic applies:

machismo + (unauthorised suffering) = rejection.

Thus the establishment response to depressed Zenners is mixed, ranging from supportive assistance, to conditional acceptance, to outright insult. Students are as likely to be told that they're "attached," that they have the "wrong perspective," or that they're just plain lazy, as to receive useful, scientifically-valid teaching. In short, depression is our evolution, and our response often amounts to creationism: a crap alibi against having to confess that our founders didn't fully understand something.

Fudo-esque confrontation of such unskilful nonsense is just one of the brilliant strengths of Philip Martin's The Zen Path Through Depression. In sensible, measured tones, he accompanies the reader, in the Franciscan sense of the word, through the myriad symptoms of depression: the lack of energy that physically disables; the incomprehensible, paralysing panic; the ceaseless rumination; the pointless rage; the guilt and self-recrimination. Physical symptoms of a disease as physical as diabetes, albeit not yet as well-understood.

I should say that I approached this book with trepidation, and wouldn't have approached it at all if I hadn't been desperate. I had beaten depression with Zen seven years before, and been a monk ever since; it was the first thing I'd ever found that could bully the bully. But two years ago I got nailed again, and this time my Zen practice wasn't up to it. Just admitting that took months. When I finally ordered Martin's book I was afraid I'd either get a pop-psy puff piece with some trendy Zen, or a traditional Zen treatise that flipped a few koans at me and said, "Stop being depressed."

What I got was a scholarly catalogue of medical symptoms at a chapter each, along with what modern science knows about their origins. That was followed by square, monastic-grade Zen analysis. In essence, Martin says, "This is your mind. This is your mind on depression." Frankly, just that much was already as strong as medication. Depression is a lonely hell; shame and embarrassment convince you it's your fault. Martin proves to you that it's not. "In our depression," he writes,

…we can start to heal by accepting that a great part of our becoming depressed, as well as much of getting over it, may not be within our control. In doing so, we can let ourselves off the hook, and stop taking the blame.

Then he does a genius thing. Once his orthodox Zen prescription to accept what is has taken the pressure off, he scratches a few questions, like lecture notes, on the last page of each chapter. You don't have to read them; only if you want to.

Dig:

Examine your beliefs about suffering. Do you believe it is inevitable? Or that it builds character? Is suffering connected with struggle for you? Would there be no life without suffering?

Seems pretty anodyne now, but at the time, with my brain freshly stabilised by a few pills and recharged by Martin's explanations, this stuff was Drano. Note again his classic Zen: no answers. There aren't any wrong thoughts, you just have to know what the thoughts are. Doesn't seem like it would work, but it does. The questions, as much as the teaching, flushed out my system.

It would be hard to imagine a writer better qualified for the job. Martin is a long-time student of Zen; a certified and experienced therapist; and most important, a sufferer of hardcore depression. This guy doesn’t have a condescending bone in his body. He's a brother.

In the end, The Zen Path Through Depression felt so good that I started rationing it, because I didn't want to run out. When I felt low, I would ask myself, "OK, I feel bad, but is it Path-worthy?" And that alone motivated me to endure, to find it within, to haul myself up by my sandal straps. And pop went the depression.

The good news is, that with a supportive family, cooperative doctors, my monastic practice, and Martin's book, I landed on my feet again. In fact, I'm better now than I've ever been, and I'm even off the meds. (But if it happens again, I'm back on. Like, now. Get meds, brothers and sisters. They're undramatic drugs, no scarier than aspirin, for a sickness no more imaginary than migraine headaches.)

And while you're up, get The Zen Path Through Depression. When I needed a lot of help, this book was a lot of help.

WW: Demons in the driveway

WW: October night

Straight From the Tahre Pits

Weird Navy CH54 flew low up the beach this afternoon, exactly window-height, right past the house. Thing reminds me of some giant prehistoric crane fly. Maybe that's why they call it a Sky Crane.


(Photo courtesy of Wiki and the US government. It's an Army helo, but you can't have everything. Where would you put it?)

Hermitcraft: Busting Dysentery

Oxalis

While on ango last summer, I got a visit from the Dysentery Fairy. I still haven't determined precisely what sort it was; we have a lot of Giardia around here, but it would be a true hail-mary for that to get into a rain barrel. On the other hand, the symptoms were pretty giardesque, for a bacterial infection. I'm not even certain it came from the drinking water; hygiene is a constant battle in the outback, and you live surrounded by faeces and wild water.

Anyway, I suffered an anxious week or two, dodging into the dark forest at 0300 and fearing the thing would drive me off the mountain. In the end I kicked its butt, thanks to the support of friends and family and, I believe, this tea. So I'm passing it on.

It's truly terrifying to find yourself alone and sick; once it's happened (and this wasn't a first for me, by any means), you'll never trivialise someone else's misfortune again. In this case, I spent about a day fretting and trying to hide from it. Then I got mad. The fact is, I've got a lifetime of relevant experience. Hell, I wrote a freakin' book on wild herbs, for Christ sake! I decided if I was going to be forced off the mountain, I was really going to be forced. Surrender would only become an option if every last gun had been fired.

And I had several. To begin with, the Hundred Acre Wood, where I lived, was busting with herbs, and in their best season. And I had other possibles in my cache. So I got up and raked together a tea calculated to firm things up and rain displeasure on unwanted guests. I put myself on a regimen of 3 rice bowls of this per day, minimum; most days I had more. I drank down each bowl, then sucked, chewed, and spit out the leaves. (The tea itself was actually delicious, but the cud-chewing part was abominable.) And I got better. Very quickly, in fact.

Hemlock

Here's how I brewed it up:

Put a double measure of strong green tea leaves in the bottom of your rice bowl.

Add:

Oxalis and/or sheep sorrel
New Douglas fir tips (see note below)
Blackberry rhizome
Blackberry leaf

Chop all ingredients well; I used a pair of scissors.

Fill the bowl with boiling water, cover, and steep for fifteen minutes, minimum. Then drink and enjoy.

The tart components (oxalis and sorrel; lemon or cider vinegar if you've got it) provide acid, which gut-bugs hate, and coincidentally taste good, which gets you to drink more of it. Young Douglas fir needles taste pleasant too (though the old ones are disgusting), and are the most effective at halting diarrhœa. Other conifers are also good if you don't have it. I've used spruce and hemlock to good effect. Finally, I also just plain ate oxalis and Douglas fir, often, during these days.

Later, a friend and fellow hermit who came out to check on me said to add Prunella to my dose. Did it help? It didn't hurt. It's dreadful stuff, but the oxalis and Douglas fir got it past my tongue. Similarly, I held willow in reserve, should tougher measures be necessary. Willow bark is an excellent medicinal, the original source of aspirin, and highly acidic in its own right. It's also the most God-awful revolting bile on the planet, like chewing an aspirin tablet, so I didn't jump right into it. And fortunately, I never needed to, this time.

What's clear is that this concoction put an immediate end to pyrotechnic dumps and secured the all-important restful night. Of course, it wasn't the only measure I took; I also went in for draconian hygiene, fastidious handling of water, mindful hydration habits, and careful monitoring of the quality and quantity of everything that came back out of me. I also ordered up some dietary adjustments, chiefly, a well-curried bowl, boiled up with bullion (for the salt), and served with a sadistic squirt of sriracha. Intestinal microbes trend to fairly Caucasian tastes; I made sure things got nice and "ethnic" on Mr. Leave It To Beaver Fever.

Whatever the reason, and whatever it was, it eventually pulled up stakes and left. (You might say, it just didn't have the guts.) Whether I beat it, or it just wasn't that scary to begin with, I'll never know. But the tea worked. One day I had dramatic digestion, then I drank the tea and it went away. Then I stopped drinking it (thinking I was "cured") and it came right back. So I drank the tea again, and it went away again.

Therefore I offer the recipe here, in loving support for anyone who may fall into that place and need it. Brother, sister: drop this on your trouble. And smile while you sit.

For if you listen very closely, you can hear the little bastards scream.



(Adapted from 100 Days on the Mountain, copyright RK Henderson.)

WW: Candid capture of my practice

My Hermit Hut

I've been feeling a bit nostalgic about the old meditation shed I had down at the beach, and it struck me that I've never actually posted on it, though others' huts have appeared here several times. (I did upload a named exterior shot ten years ago on Wordless Wednesday, but the others that have appeared from time to time were illustrating other topics, and so not identified.)

So in the interest of completism, here it is.

This tiny shack, the very picture of a true purist's definition of "hut", started life as my grandmother's potting shed. My grandfather carved it out of the bluff below their house, where I lived for ten years during the formative period of my Zen practice. When I arrived, the house and grounds were both in dire condition; eventually I hacked my way down to this cinderblock shanty, re-opening a steep, eroded goat trail through impenetrable brush. The door, which had been kicked in by a winter storm, and lay on floor inside; only the twisted wreckage of the lower hinge was still nominally attached.

In the intervening years blackberry and honeysuckle had invaded and filled the interior, along with bracken, lady fern, and infant trees, and the roof and wooden parts had rotted in places. Its concrete floor was completely saturated, covered with standing water and mud from infiltrated silt.

I really didn't need a place to sit, as the house – high on a bluff above the grey Pacific, with few neighbours – was already the best hermit hut in history. But rehabilitating one of my grandmother's work stations was an attractive premise, and the place would provide ground-level, fundamentally outdoor meditation, which I always prefer when available.

So I set-to, and after a lot of concentrated effort and scrounging of materials, ended up with this serviceable little squat. I even once sat an all-night sesshin there, hoping to glimpse the bear that left scat in front of it. (I didn't, but I did learn, not for the last time, that spring nights on the North Pacific are bitterly winter-cold.)

So here it is, my own hermit hut. Or to be perfectly accurate, my monastic playhouse. It might not have been strictly necessary, but I learned a lot of Zen there.

WW: The bluffs above the beach

Intelligent Life: The Proof

I found this in the surf last week. It's a porpoise skull.

And yes, it's all there. They really look like that, under the grin. I can't think of any other animals, apart fellow cetaceans, whose eye sockets are actually below their teeth. It's like a life form designed by Picasso.

As if that weren't alien enough, there's also that bulbous cranium bulging up aft, like the superstructure on a bowpicker.

The reason for both oddities is the same: this porpoise negotiated its complex environment not by sight or smell, but by sound. Hence any high-riding eyes would just have been show, and a waste of critical bone; this skull is built to amplify the echoes of tiny, high-pitched squeaks made by its owner, and secondarily those of podmates. Thus, much of that beetling brow roll is a resonator, like the bulb on a freighter's bow, meant to detect vibrations and measure their intensity and direction.

Dolphins and porpoises are also highly sophisticated animals whose behaviour is still largely unfathomable to humans. They have consistently demonstrated extremely advanced cognition, extending possibly even to altruism, morality, sexuality, language, and existential autonomy.

So here it is, at long last: reason to hope that there may be intelligent life on this planet.

100 Days on the Mountain

Day 37.

So I'm back. It's taking some time to recalibrate to the (by turns insistent, by turns indifferent) rhythm of Humania, but I thought I'd climb back up on the blog horse by offering an overview of the project.

The deal: A week ago I completed 100 days of hermit ango in the Willapa Hills, being the rugged, densely forested, sparsely populated southern frontier of my coastal nation. I spent each of those days attending to the needs of survival and practising meditation, both sitting and other. I also brought out 445 pages (and counting) of journal. These will be rockered into a book, but for the time being, I can summarise the experience as "deep and broad and one of the most worthwhile things I've ever done."

In the meantime, here are some photos. I had no camera, since possessions were limited to survival requirements, so "some" photos is pretty much all of them. But I offer them all the same, in deep gratitude for the opportunity to practice, and for the friends and fellow monastics who made it possible. Supplying these photos was the least of their contributions.

Facts in Brief:

I established camp on 83 acres of undeveloped hillsides, surrounded by much the same for miles in every direction. I was dropped on 26 May 2011, and remained in-country for 100 days.

View of my mountain from another one.

The land was extremely diverse, consisting of bands of deep coastal jungle alternating with dense stands of Douglas fir; high, cleared ground going to brush; low, marginally maintained pastureland; and several riparian habitats. It was bounded to the north by one tidal creek, and to the south by another. Decadent luxuries included a 100-year old orchard that furnished my fill of heritage apples in the final weeks, and a barn I was permitted to use. With a freakin' wood stove! (Big deal? Read on.)

The weather was... how do you say? Ah, yes. CRAP. To put things in perspective, let me explain to those not from the North Coast that our famous perma-rain is supposed, by custom and contract, to diminish through June, and end definitively on 1 July. After that date, glorious summer is to ensue and persist until mid-September, at which time the rain may begin again.

Thus, I sat, as I expected, in the bitter wet sopping dark through the full 30 days of June. Then I did likewise through July, day by day, night by night, week by week. Finally, on 1 August, the rain stopped. The grey kept on, but I'm cool with that. You can have the grey, July, just stop goddam raining on me.

So my host's gracious offer of the barn, including the wood stove and even his firewood, as laundromat and spa, proved vital in a summer that included a sit in full winter kit (tuque, gloves, and every stitch of clothing I owned on under my robe) on 4 July. And that wasn't the last.

At long last, mid-August produced a near-facsimile of summer, following clouded mornings with sunny afternoons, and only 1 full day of rain. I was even able to take the fly off my tent for several days, so only somewhat arctic had the nights become.

Despite my sitting Three things will not be silenced Mind. Body. Tyvek.

The gear consisted of a small tent, a Tyvek tarp, a sleeping bag, a backpacking stove, and a backpack. I also had the minimum tools and clothing, and a cache of food (an all-purpose cereal I invented for the purpose, called zenola, and rice and beans for afternoon and evening meals) and other supplies, located in the rafters of the barn. My robe, which I designed and my mother, the Stradivarius of the sewing machine, drafted and made, was critical equipment, as was my stick. Both served 24 hours a day throughout the entire ango.

Sangha included, by partial account: Steller's jays; more configurations of garter snake than I've ever seen; kingfishers; salmon smolt; four species of owl; Douglas squirrels; bears; deer; alligator lizards; a young goshawk; otters; numerous colonies of paper wasp; beavers; bobcats; a special-ops unit of raccoons; a herd of elk; and an entire tribal confederation of coyotes. All of us closely monitored by a proprietary flock of ravens. (Full list to be included in the upcoming book.)

Finally, close friends made three scheduled proof-of-life visits during the ango. One dropped me off in May and made an emergency trip on Day 62 to verify my well-being, and another picked me up in September and bought me a cheeseburger and fries on the way back to the realm of people. And of course the couple who allowed me, with incredible generosity, to sit on their land all summer, and supported my practice in smaller but vital ways over the full 100 days.

And now the work begins. I'm hoping to have the book done soon. In the meantime, you'll be seeing excerpts and related material here.

And I'm glad the rest of you didn't blow yourselves up in my absence. Keep up the good work, eh?

The Bodhi Tree, a giant bigleaf maple, under which I sat.

Just Sitting

I'll be offline for the next 100 days, as I'm going into the woods to meditate.

I'll resume posting here when I come back out in September.

This is a world of compassion.

-- Robin

Today's top headline:
"Free-Range Buddhist Eaten By
Health-Conscious Cougar."

Product Review: The Mobile Meditator Zafu

The Mobile Meditator
provides monastic-
quality support.

One of the drawbacks of writing a hermit blog is you don't get to write many product reviews. As a rule, hermits don't "do" products; products mean materialism, which means consumerism, which means buying things, which means having money, which means valuing money. Which we also don't do. (Forget ice to Eskimos; the real test of salesmanship is selling anything to a hermit.)

But just as it's nice to eat out every so often, it's also fun to to review something you didn't make, find, or receive as a gift. And this is a good one, as it's something hermits need, and we can't really make.

The Mobile Meditator Inflatable Meditation Cushion is exactly what it says it is. But does it work? The only other product out there that seems to fill this description is widely held to be a piece of, well, karma. Although I've never used one, sangha brothers and sisters tell me it's underwhelming. And many Internet reviewers agree. So I was cautious about gambling my grubstake on an inflatable. Can you really buy a truly portable zafu, small and lightweight enough to carry into the woods, but serious enough to support your back and backside during prolonged sitting? And can you be sure it won't fall apart at a rate that would offend Pema Chödrön?

Yeah. It's called the Mobile Meditator.

Folded up and stuffed in its pouch.

I won't go into specs here, since the manufacturer's website is precise, but this zafu is small when deflated, full-sized when inflated, and almost frighteningly light in both states. Three-chamber design makes it fully adjustable. You know how one thigh is always higher than the other in half lotus, queering your balance? Well, on this zafu, you can tune half to feel almost like full.

Three chambers also mean it takes longer to blow up, especially since the valves have to be pinched just right while blowing into them; that's to prevent the air from coming back out. It also makes the zafu harder to deflate, which you have to do pretty thoroughly to get it back in the included protective pouch. But those hardcore valves also guarantee surprise-free sitting, and better yet, they make it possible to adjust posture on the fly: just reach down and pinch the one on the offending chamber, and your body descends, elevator-style, into proper position.

Mine looks like a giant burnt crescent roll.
Feels like one, too.

The Mobile Meditator is crescent-shaped, which lends itself to Western-style, on-cushion positions. Those who prefer the "Japanese wedge" might get it by inflating the Mobile Meditator hard and using it backward; I don't sit that way, so I can't say. I was initially afraid it would soap-bar out from under me, being vinyl and all, but the flocked surface clings to me militantly. In fact, it clings to everything militantly, making it a magnet for all manner of filth. But it's a small price to pay for a tight seal with the planet. (A light touch with an old-fashioned, bristled clothing brush does adequate clean-up.)

I have heard Brand X users complain of feeling like they were sitting inside a Moon Walk, unable to settle firmly on their inflatable base, but thanks to its shape and design, the Mobile Meditator provides positive purchase. It's not as solid as my beloved buckwheat, but I quickly became accustomed to the slight difference.

The zafu on its back.

To date, I've only come up with two criticisms of this otherwise excellent product. First, it's sweaty; after a long sit, my Enlightenment Base is wet and greasy. This is uncomfortable, but in all honesty, I can't imagine a way to make an inflatable zafu that doesn't do this. So I just place a folded towel on it before I sit, and that solves most of the problem. On the other hand, the company could easily do something about its limited colour choice. Right now the Mobile Meditator comes in two flashy Las Vegas versions (Very Red! and Very Orange!), as well as black. I'm happy; I like black. But they really ought to add a conservative blue, and maybe an earthy green and brown. Just sayin'.

I sure can't complain about the price. At $24.95, a person could be forgiven for assuming it's cheap junk. But it's not; it's cheap quality.

I don't really know exactly how tough this thing is yet, as I've only just got it. However, in a few days I'm going into the woods to meditate for a hundred days, which is why I bought the Mobile Meditator in the first place. Of course I won't do anything stupid, like jump on it or use it directly on the ground or shove it into a bear's mouth to save my life. But I think we can safely assume that this summer will be the Mobile Meditator equivalent of a Timex commercial.

I'll let you know how it goes.

UPDATE, September 2011:

Not well, as it happens. The zafu popped on the third day out, and I ended up rolling up my closed-cell sleeping pad each day to serve as a cushion. I wouldn't read too much into this, though; the conditions were extremely challenging for anything inflatable. By way of comparison, my Thermarest pad, which I used as a zabuton, also developed a leak, and the Mobile Meditator is nowhere near as sturdy as that is.

So the Mobile Meditator is not great for exterior hermitry, at least not as-is. I suspect you could make a cover for it of leather or some artificial material (the stuff they make industrial hoses out of comes to mind), and that would probably keep it alive in abrasive conditions.

Before I leave this topic, let me also say that I cut the side chambers out (only the big middle one popped) and used one for my pillow at night and the other as knee support with the rolled-mat zafu. Both served throughout the ango with no further complications, and are still perfectly airtight. The knee support was particularly welcome, since the little cushion could be adjusted with a pinch, and sitting on that hard foam roll increased joint stress rather a lot. 

Monsters

Night filled me with dread. That the world turned black, leaving windows like sheets of obsidian against which my little brother's face resembled something my reptilian cortex clearly remembered, was bad enough. Beyond lay strange noises, cries of marauding wolves and phantom babies that grown-ups dismissed as dogs and cats. But the worst was the bed. There I sat alone, and unarmed, swaddled in flannel and bound by bedclothes. In such a state, I was completely vulnerable. Anything might happen. I had no clear idea what, but it was awful, and certain.

Interesting now to think that I once feared the dark. As I grew, I came to prize the cover of night, the protection of a nocturnal forest, the kindness of a dark room. But at seven, that very darkness manured my nightmares. My lifeline, and the only power standing between me and destruction, was a paper-thin beam of light slicing in from the hall. The door was kept cracked for just this reason, so that a sliver of day would fence my bed from the darkest corner of the room.

As I was (and am) also an insomniac, bedtime was almost as stressful on my parents as it was on me. First came the operatic resistance, then the serial interruptions in television shows as they stalked back down the hall to threaten me with ill-defined but horrific harm if I didn't "go to sleep right now." As if sleep were a place to which I could simply walk, in my striped pyjamas.

One night my mother happened to glance through the narrow gap on the way to the bathroom and find me seated on the floor, reading Dr. Suess by that thin reed of light. The shout that followed sent the book flapping like a flustered chicken. I can only guess that she had parried one too many of my counter-recumbence tactics that night, and a vain hope of peace had been rudely extinguished.

Taking scarcely a terrestrial step I dove headlong into bed, vanishing deep beneath the covers before I'd even touched the mattress. Outside my mother continued raging, while I curled into a fetal posture and pinned my last wager on science.

For as any child knows, children's blankets are made of some advanced space-age stuff -- possibly Kevlar -- and are fully UL-rated against ghosts, prowlers, and middle-weight monsters. They may also be effective against parents, if, upon finding no head protruding from the bedclothes, these last conclude they must not have had children after all, and withdraw. No blanket is soundproof, however, and so I was able to determine that this hadn't worked this time.

At length my mother wound up with the observation that if I couldn't be trusted with an open door, she could damn well close it. Followed by a slam, and silence.

Here was bad news. I popped out, already terrified, and found the situation exact. The air was pitch-black, and opaque as cast iron. The door was closed.

It's hard to describe, or explain, the horror of that moment. It engulfed me like fire, scorching away all trace of reason. I only knew that whatever hid in the dark each night, waiting for just this opportunity, was in that very instant converging on my bed. It was big and vicious, able to shred a child's blanket with a single swipe of its nondescript paw. And it was horrible, too horrible to face. I screamed in the dark, begged for the door to be opened, hot tears pumping down a face that a second before had been dry. But there was no response.

For some reason it never occurred to me to get up and open the door myself. Being decapitated by a giant praying mantis was one thing; a spanking was quite another. But I was otherwise completely disabled by panic, chest heaving as I sobbed, quilt clutched to my sternum. A pounding heartbeat, maybe two, and whatever it was, would happen. And I'd be dead.

Not the dead you get playing army. Actual dead.

And then a strange thing happened. Something did surge out of the dark. It came from 'way down, 'way down to the first rung of a long, twisted staircase, from a place so black and estranged to light as if it had never been.

But this thing came not from my room. It came from me.

Something angry, arrogant, powerful, climbed my spine. Undaunted. Unafraid. Something...

Scottish.

"Rrrrright, then!" it snarled, in my voice. "So et's eatin' me ye're aboot?" Well, GET ON WI' IT, ye blatherskate!"

Even in the dark I could feel my eyes burn red, my teeth gnash each syllable.

"Come 'n' get me, ye gory great monsters!" I, or It, continued. "But I'll STICK IN YER THROAT on the way doon!"

I'm not entirely certain I was speaking English. It might have been Gaelic. It might have been whatever we spoke before Gaelic. But the words came from deep, down where the peaty black water laves the gates of creation, where things live that intellect denies. And the thing would retreat not an inch. Not so much as the breadth of one unearned blade of grass.

"Och," I cried, "STEP UP, ye pukin' milksops!"

No roar, no attack answered. Not a rustle. I sat bolt upright, quivering not from fear, now, but fury. My small fists clenched to hammers, and I was avid to ply them. To be sure, I was still aware of my tininess. I knew the big-scaries would probably just laugh and bite me in half. But this was no longer about winning. Or even survival. This was about giving as good as I got. This was about honour.

I scanned the shadows again, fixedly, panting, but no longer crying.

I cocked my head toward the murky space beneath the bed. Nothing afoot there, either. Nothing breathed in that room, seen or unseen, except me.

Since that night it's been harder to frighten me with darkness, harder to threaten me with solitude. Lurid tales no longer run me. Hysterical exhortations to strike a shadowy enemy before it strikes me. Imperious demands that I not look under the bed, "for my own good." Because I've learned a truth too true to be unlearned.

The monsters are wussies.

(From Growing Up Home, copyright RK Henderson.)

Update: Ferns, Sticks, Trinity Tar

Here's some breaking news on subjects I've broached in the past, of no particular internal relevance and in no particular order.

Fiddleheads

In Hermitcraft: Fiddleheads I discussed the differences between Pteridium (bracken) shoots and those of other ferns, such as those pictured in the article. Here then is a photo of one such Pteridium shoot, for those who want to taste (or avoid) them. (Click to enlarge.) Where they occur, they typically occur en masse; one spring I took a walk during a 10 minute break in a community college course I was teaching, and came back with a mighty fistful of these.

Walking Stick

In A Brief History of the Stick I mentioned that I'd whipped the end of my walking stick and coated the cord with PVC cement. It didn't work, though it probably would have if I'd used urethane varnish. (The glue was an experiment.) I've since stripped off the whipping and replaced it with this brass plumbing fitting from the hardware store. The balance of the stick has changed a bit, but all in all it's working very nicely.

"Pioneers all we are bound/To root-hog or die on the Sound"

I had a lot of fun building this structure, which is about a foot and a half long by a little less wide. It encloses an electrical riser at the zendo. Any Old Settler will instantly know it for a split shack, also known as a slab (or slap) shack, or shotgun shack. It's what we lived in before there were trailers.

At its most elemental, the split shack is pole-framed, eight feet by ten, and sided in "splits," rough cedar boards froed directly off the log without benefit of saw. These were free for the taking, especially if you lived on the bay. Where nails were scarce you could knock it up with whittled pegs and an auger, or notch the splits and sew it together with rope, First Nations style. (This is basically just a hillbilly longhouse, anyway.)

Because splits come away thicker at the bottom than the top they impose slightly asymmetrical lines on the whole, for a touch of whimsy, as if brownies lived inside, or maybe hobbits.

Cabins of this lineage also usually had at least one window, in front, opposite the front door. If there was no glass, it was "glazed" with greased rawhide or paper and protected by a wooden shutter. If there was, it was as likely to be bottle bottoms as plate.

I believe the various names originally referred to different cabins, though they're used interchangeably now. The derivation of "split shack" is obvious, but "slabs" were the round sides of logs, ripped off by the head saw when they were squared for milling. As a waste product, slabs were cheap or free; in my day, it was common for families to order up a truckload from the local mill and make one of the kids (I'll call him "Robin") saw them up for firewood. I'd bet even money that a "slab shack" was originally sided with those instead of splits, and that the term "slap shack," as in something just "slapped up", is just a mutation. As for "shotgun shack," I know why it's called that (because the front and back door are sited in such a way that you can fire a shotgun straight through without hitting anything), but I have no idea why it's a selling point. Seems an even better plan would be not to shoot at the house in the first place.

By the way, the gravel "beach" on which this enclosure is bedded actually came from the very beach I grew up on. By purest coincidence, there was a bucketful in the house, left over from a large philodendron my grandparents brought with them from the bay. This finally died during the years the house was locked up, and when I liquidated the remains, I kept the gravel the pot was lined with, just in case. The decision to put the two together made itself.

And it really wants a stove pipe. The oversight just glares. But the thing's supposed to be unobtrusive, and not attract attention to itself, so I didn't put one in. It still took all my determination not to.

Because it isn't home until it has one.

Hermitcraft: Fiddleheads

It's springtime, the annual Woodstock of foragers, so I'm going to post another wild edibles tip while the news is hot. And it's good news.

Fiddleheads are an iconic wild edible, one of those that, like wild asparagus and dandelion, are widely known even to respectable folk. Notwithstanding, few have actually eaten one. I guess that leaves more for me, but it's not in my nature to keep a good thing to myself, so buckle up.

Fiddleheads are the young shoots of various species of fern. On the North Coast, it's lady ferns (Athyrium). When I lived in Québec, we habitants ate fougères à l'autruche, (Matteuccia/Onoclea), called ostrich fern on the far bank. In all cases they're curled round and tight at the end, like a bishop's crosier or an old-time lacrosse racket. ("Fiddlehead" probably comes from the shoots of bracken fern [Pteridium], which look just like the head of a violin, but the term is commonly applied to all edible ferns.) They're only available for a week or so each year, which is to say, right now in planetary north. They're also a gastronomical delight, so time's a-wastin'.

These little delicacies grow in moist, shady places like low forests, riverbanks, and my yard. They can be anticipated where a wealth of last year's dead fern straw is lying around. Fiddleheads snap easily if grasped near the earth, or you can use a pair of scissors, like I do when I'm prepared, or a pocket knife, which is what I really do. They come in many shapes and sizes, owing to special and environmental variation, but only ones that are still fully round should be eaten; once they unwind and begin to leaf out, they're said to be toxic. Overripe sprouts haven't killed me yet, but they're stringy and acrid, so don't bother.

Most fiddleheads have a tenderness and subtle, earthy flavour that's hard to describe. Some folks suggest asparagus (another edible fern that comes on about now), though I find them much more understated than that. The exception is Pteridium, whose shoots are stout, hairy, vaguely chewy, and leafless, and pack a pronounced bitter-almond bite. Experts in the 1970s claimed they also cause cancer, based on studies done in Japan where bracken shoots are much prized. I tend to take such reports with a grain of salt (ever notice how the "carcinogenic" foods are always something obscure, that just a few [primarily weird] people eat?), but frankly, I don't much relish the taste of Pteridium. You may feel differently.

But all the others I ingest with great gusto. They can be served raw in salad with a nice vinaigrette, but I like them best lightly steamed, with a little butter, lemon, and cracked pepper, or with shredded bacon and some of its grease. You can also drop your shoots in a good soup, at the very end, or lay them on rice before reheating it in the Replicator. In any case, the trick is always to cook them as little as possible. When in doubt, undercook. (If that's even technically possible.)

No matter how you eat them, there's nothing like fresh fiddleheads, so good that even city people sometimes eat them, as long as they come from a market and cost a hundred dollars. (As I've seen them in Québec.) But be brave and cut yours free-range. Out where nobody asked them to be, where they are therefore uncool, illegitimate, even seditious.

Livin' that hermit life.

Cereal box prize: Judd Grossman Judd is one of the few musicians I've encountered who shares my take on country music. If I'm a little chagrined to find I can't claim sole ownership of the territory, I'm happier to find someone who does it better. Better yet, you can listen to hours of Judd's music at this link, absolutely free. Some are demo excerpts, but most are full-length songs, performed live. Some are Judd's own voice and guitar, some are just Judd's guitar, and some are Judd in duet with others, and they're all great. Fine musicianship, fine arrangements, fine all around. Even if you don't like country, drop by. His style is pretty universal, his covers come from every genre of popular music, and his original compositions are excellent.