Unseen

This is an image of a man who was one of the steadiest beats at a temple where Zen training was offered.  His presence was quiet, consistent, and reliable.  His warmth was the same for everyone.  His "work" was to sit, watch, sometimes nap, sometimes take care of electrical needs, and always - to offer a welcome to students who lived-in or visited.  

Jake would arrive in the mid afternoon and slowly drive his dark grey Lexus up the gravel road to the back of the grounds.  He stationed himself at an old desk, next to the workshop and tool shed at the back of the place, and would walk to the spot that was his station.  His job was to be present.  He also kept an eye on a refrigerator filled with cold water, sodas, and snacks that were there for refreshment.  If there was ever anything that needed a small repair, he was there to take care or make sure someone else would know of the need to attend to the problem.  

His was a simple life.  He had no children, never married, lived with his mother after retiring from a union job as an electrician.  He had also been in the military and this duty was something he felt was important.  Proud of his Okinawan heritage, Jake would tell stories of how Okinawans had a secret to living long and shared a well-known saying, "At 70 you are still a child.  At 80 you are are young man or woman.  At 90 you are starting to mature.  At 100, you might know something about life."  (He added the 90 and 100 stuff).  He was proud to be of such people - the folk whose secret to life is to have a life worth living, purpose. And that purpose need not be something fantastic - it could be as simple as showing up and watching what is happening on the grounds of a Zen temple.

Every evening just as the dusk fell, Jake's car could be heard driving toward the front gate, up the gravel road ever so slowly.  The crunching sound of the gravel would bring to one's attention to the ears opening up to sounds that brought a strange comfort.  If for some reason, Jake was not there on any given day, the missing sound was also present.

Before leaving, Jake always took a shower.  It was a routine and it never failed -just like the sound of coming and going.  It was as steady as the rise and fall of the sun.

When Jake passed away, this image was created as a way to honor his life and he never saw this image.  It is like many events and occurrences in life that impact others in ways that cannot be described or known.  The image was inspired by a quality of sincerity and care in Jake.  He made a big contribution to the experience of training at the temple.  It was a contribution that exemplified simplicity, humility, and kindness that was ever present, but never raised up for recognition. When he no longer appeared the old desk became dusty, used to stack items that did not have a regular home.  No new energy entered that space.

When this image was shared with a Zen master at the temple - there was no recognition!  For the decades this teacher had been training - and sometimes parking right next to Jake's car, but there was no recognition of the man at all.

And that is how it is with true Zen teachers.  They leave no footprints in the sand.