McKenzie’s
Place
This story also
appears in our Philosophy Section, under the heading “Waking
Up.”
This time, Morrison got
better than he bargained for.
In a society without classes, Henry or "Hank" was
royalty of the first order. At one time or another, his
face sprayed across the cover of every major news
weekly. His name crystallized the American ideal of
"Success." Big Business first crowned Hank Morrison as
their "wunderkind" when he emerged as the fulcrum in
history's five largest corporate takeovers. He excelled
at finding asset laden, debt ridden takeover targets,
then turning those acquisitions into hard cash.
Though famous as a raider, his biggest coup came long
after he abandoned the buyout scene, and inherited
control of Corridor Airlines from his late father.
Corridor started long before as a commuter airline,
serving the business needs of the northeast corridor.
Initially, for Morrison, it was little more than a
diversion. By the third annual report, the "hobby" had
grown into a major force in an otherwise tightly
competitive market. Average flight occupancies of 91%
made the publicly held corporation one very cash rich
prospect for takeover.
That realization soon came to Morrison's former cronies,
now representing the interests of United World, the
nation's largest passenger carrier. United, a cash poor
monolith, reckoned it could take over the smaller
airline, absorb its flight schedules, and siphon off its
cash to upgrade United's mother fleet into the next
decade. Not to mention the generous bonuses and
lucrative stock options for those who pulled it off.
Morrison called it the "Philadelphia Shuffle." The folks
at United World thought he was bluffing. Before the
machinations became public, United had already scheduled
a press conference to announce their "friendly"
acquisition of Corridor Airlines. Phase two, already
scheduled to follow, meant replacing Hank Morrison as
Chairman of the Board and CEO. After a consolidation
board meeting, United would announce its blueprint for
integrating both airlines.
The meeting never came. Morrison's "Philadelphia
Shuffle" meant that cash rich Corridor, through a
nefarious stream of stock acquisitions, had already
garnered controlling interest in the unsuspecting
United, and was now in the driver's seat. Morrison
summarily dismissed his former compatriots, he could not
forgive treachery, especially from old friends. To
further prick their wounds, Morrison refused to
authorize any compensation for their efforts, arguing
they failed to produce the Corridor acquisition, per
their original terms with United.
As his hobby, Morrison used Corridor as a vehicle to
escape the rat race. Now, he felt trapped. Running what
had become the world's largest airline stirred a need to
escape unlike any he had known before.
The opportunity arose on his 40th birthday.
Characteristically, he rented a seven story brothel in
Bangkok, and flew friends in from all corners of the
globe to celebrate for seven days. The ultimate blowout!
Even his efforts to escape bore the "stamp" of campish
extravagance that now associated with his name.
Fortunately, this would be his final escape! There
would be no need for others in the future.
While the party lulled, he happened upon a Thai taxi
driver, recently returned from a sojourn in a highland
monastery. The driver jokingly noticed how he looked
much younger than Hank, even though he was, in fact,
twenty years older. He spoke true, and Morrison nodded
his head in acceptance. He knew the toll on
himself. He accepted accelerated aging as a professional
malady. But the driver's words cut close and reminded
him how he had aged a decade since taking on a little
known commuter airline as a "hobby."
Hank thought he’d have some fun with the fellow, "So
Khrap[Thai Language for "Sir."], how do I undo it all?"
The driver responded it would not be easy, he could see
Morrison was a hunter, always on the prowl, sometimes
even when there was no prey.
Morrison held silent, surprised at such words from a
taxi driver.
"When the hunter is about, nothing is at ease,
especially the hunter, whose whole being is focused on
the prey. With no prey, the focus is like a burning
glass, turned back upon itself."
The driver speculated Morrison needed to "remove
himself" from the detrimental influences of his daily
life.
"If you want, I can take you to the country. With some
luck, you can visit the temple, until you are restored."
Though he hesitated, and struggled with the proposal,
Hank really had no alternative. Returning to his
quarters in Bangkok, he quietly made the arrangements,
in the end, hiring the driver to act as his chauffeur
and guide. After making the necessary calls, they headed
north. First, they crossed the rice plains of the lower
delta. Fish were purchased from the local peasants.
Then, they sidetracked among the ancient ruins of
Ayutiah, where Morrison paid a herder $2.00 for the
privilege of photographing some water buffalo. Further
north, they explored the monkey village. Here Buddhist
monks perpetuated the practice of nurturing the animals
from which the village took its name.
They overnighted in Udorn, then traveled still further
north, eating a late breakfast at the bazaar in Nong
Kai. Across the Mekong stood the Laotian capitol of
Vientiane, which the driver explained, was little more
than an outpost for brigands.
The cab then took a westerly course along a primitive
jungle road, until the road ended at the base of an
immense wall, imprinted with swirling lines. Morrison
walked behind the driver, following him around the wall.
Passing from the brush, the driver fell to his knees in
prayer. Morrison surveyed the scene, and found that he
was standing before an immense statue of the Buddha,
reclining like a huge fallen tree on the jungle floor.
Far to the left, he saw its head propped comfortably on
folded hands. The cab sat parked by the Buddha's feet,
far to the right. It was the soles of the feet which had
been the immense wall.
The driver proved to be a good ally. Though Morrison
couldn't understand a word that anyone said, those in
attendance were obviously comfortable with his presence,
judging by their pleasant expressions, and the fact all
were focused on his every need. Morrison thought perhaps
the driver had volunteered promises of largesse to
follow.
Had Morrison understood their language, he would have
known their smiles had much to do with how unsafe it was
for a perfumed foreigner, wearing a silk suit, to be
standing at the door of a temple, with nothing but a
frail wall separating him from the sex-starved novices
inside.
Realistically, his money meant nothing to them. It could
buy nothing here. They fed him and washed him, and then,
put him up for the night, as they would have done for
any human being. These were the people of the northern
highlands, and the compassion of Buddha was strong in
them.
Morrison found the place to his liking, and had already
decided this would be the perfect escape. At his
insistence, the driver attempted to make arrangements
with one of the saffron-robed monk elders. The elder
politely refused, and, had Morrison understood, he would
have reacted strongly to the monk's explanation that the
temple would be desecrated by turning it into a
playground for the rich.
The following day, they were about to leave, when a
figure emerged from the distant horizon. As the man
animal drew nearer, Morrison recognized the shape of
what he took to be a fellow American, sporting the
ragged remains of U.S. combat fatigues. The figure slid
into clearer focus, a man carrying a 5-gallon water
container.
"Thank you God! A fellow American!," Morrison exclaimed.
Mirroring surprise, the figure gawked back, "Thank you
Buddha! A fellow American!"
He walked directly up to Morrison, extended his hand and
introduced, "Hi! I'm Mason, Mason McKenzie."
"Hank Morrison," shaking hands, "What the hell are you
doing here, spying or something?"
Laughing, McKenzie said, "You know friend, that's a
question that never gets answered around here, even when
it gets answered. No, nothing like that. I had nothing
better to do after the war, liked it here, liked the
people and the language, so I thought I'd hang around."
"But how do you get by?" queried Morrison.
"Actually, the natives have been very generous,"
responded McKenzie, not explaining further.
Already thinking ahead, Morrison asked, "Well look, how
would you like to make an extra $1000?"
"Who would I have to kill?"
"Nothing of the sort," said Morrison as he counted off
ten $100 bills in front of McKenzie. "Just get me into
the temple for two weeks."
"Are you on the run or something?" asked McKenzie.
"No, I just need to escape for awhile. You might say I'm
coming up for some air."
"Oh, I see," replied McKenzie, "You're here as a student
of religion, wanting to research Buddhism," winking an
eye with a half smile toward Morrison.
To which Morrison, beaming that he had once again found
the right person at just the right time, replied, "Yeah!
Whatever it takes," then handed the money over.
McKenzie turned to the cab driver, and gave him the full
$1000. "This is to reward you for your kindness to the
foreigner. It would be appropriate that you return in
two weeks' time to take him back to his revelry in
Bangkok."
Facing back to Morrison, McKenzie said, "It's all
arranged."
Morrison eventually learned that Mason McKenzie was an
abbot at the temple, and stood in charge while the head
abbot was on pilgrimage. McKenzie spoke the local
tongue, and, for the time being, ran the show.
Morrison felt he had been "conned" out of $1000.00.
Once in the sleeping area, Morrison managed to cool
down, "What's the program going to be? Calisthenics at
sunrise? Newspapers at eight? Breakfast served till
ten?"
McKenzie interrupted, "Up at 4:30 am, do your chores,
visit the village with your begging bowl, return to the
compound for meditation, eat your daily meal before
noon, then report to me at 1:00 pm for further
assignment."
McKenzie left.
The jungle's cool evening breath licked the monastery
grounds, nearly intoxicating Morrison with the verdant
sweetness of life that lingered only as a distant
memory.
The next morning, he was awakened by two helpful monks,
who escorted him to a local pond. Here, the three
cleansed themselves, and readied for the day's
activities. By 5:30 am, they stood robed and in line,
when, to some silent signal, they moved forward in
single file. Wherever Morrison looked, people waited
with their morning food offerings. There was no want of
generosity here. Within an hour, they returned to the
temple grounds, where each retreated to his own area for
morning study. To some, this meant meditation. To
others, studying the scriptures. Morrison saw McKenzie
walking toward a small group in the distance, doing
ritualistic dance like movements, using swords. Tired,
Morrison decided to lay down, and soon found himself
half asleep, half awake, studying a Gecko glued to the
ceiling above him.
Suddenly, the figure of a young monk appeared to his
right side.
The monk pantomimed an eating motion. Morrison
understood. To his surprise, his watch showed 11:30 am.
Morrison emptied his bowl, knowing the charity of few
cultures would have filled the bowl so well.
At 1:00 o'clock, he followed an elderly nun to a large,
open air pavilion with a floor of polished teak. Mason
McKenzie sat on a mat, centered at the far end,
carefully positioned between the two rows of roof
supporting columns. The smell of incense wafted in the
air, and Morrison saw a wisp of smoke rising from an urn
to McKenzie's right.
Somewhat uncomfortable with the surroundings, he
gingerly closed the gap to McKenzie, noting, once again,
the fatigues.
"Shall we call the $1000 you gave away, my tuition, paid
in full?"
"The money was your payment to the driver, for
protection provided, and service faithfully rendered,
and don't forget his promise to return for you."
Morrison replied, "Don't you think $1000 is a bit
exorbitant? Why up here, it's six month's wages!"
"I figured to include the tip," replied McKenzie, a
slight grin tracing across his lips.
Compelled to speak last, Morrison responded, "That's
fine, so long as you remember that from here on out,
there will be a more direct relationship between what I
pay and what I receive."
Changing the topic, McKenzie noted "Your tuition here,
is what you do for yourself. The food is provided by the
locals, you will have your chores, and you will have
your lessons. Your free time, is yours to do with as you
wish. You might enjoy exploring the surrounding woods,
but be on guard for snakes, tigers, mercenaries, drug
runners, and bandits." McKenzie winked.
"Lessons? And what might my lessons be?"
Laughing, McKenzie responded, "Well, you’re in a temple,
don't you think we should try something mystical and
esoteric?"
"Such as?"
"Ever read Bali?" queried McKenzie.
"Nope."
"Enjoy chanting?"
"Never tried it, though I do practice TM."
McKenzie frowned.
"Well, maybe you like riddles," said McKenzie, "I mean,
all thinking men like riddles."
Morrison's face lit up. "I don't know about riddles, but
I love to solve problems. In fact, while I'm here, I can
help you folks upgrade your sanitation, lay in a couple
more foundations, and roads, I can do..."
McKenzie interrupted. "You will tell me the sound of one
hand clapping!"
"What!" retorted Morrison.
"Not this minute," said McKenzie, "You'll have this
afternoon to contemplate, but tomorrow at 1:00 pm, we'll
meet again to review your answer."
As Morrison took a breath to make what he felt to be a
valid protest, McKenzie lifted and rang a small brass
hand bell, signaling a young monk to enter. "You must go
now. It is Mai's time."
Henry left the covered pavilion, and found a path
leading into the jungle. As was his habit, he walked to
ease his anger. In his world, people didn't talk to him
like that, or treat him so lightly. People respected who
he was, or so he thought.
Had there been a way, he would have left the temple now.
He had already concluded that nothing constructive could
come of this venture.
After walking a bit, he found the jungle broke through
to a marshy clearing. In the distance, several men waded
in a monsoon fed lake, clapping the surface with their
hands. To their front, others, positioned a net to trap
any fish escaping the disturbance. Fishing in this
manner intrigued Henry, and he decided to watch. As he
often said to admiring audiences, the successful
entrepreneur starts with insatiable curiosity.
He sat on the bank, close by to the fishermen. After a
bit, they curled the net and dragged it to the shore,
where Henry discovered they had netted several sizable
carp.
One of the peasants, an older man, turned toward Henry,
lifting one of the fish with both of his hands. Henry,
well defended, thought "Can't I go anywhere without
people trying to sell me things I don't need?"
Wearing a big grin, the man walked to Henry's front, and
pushed the fish up to his face. Had Henry so desired, he
could have counted the rows of scales, up and down,
front to back.
Trying to communicate, Henry crossed his hands and waved
the peasant off, saying things like "no money", "not
hungry", "please, I'm just taking a rest...I'm hiking."
As Henry's hands reached out in gesture, the peasant
laid the fish into his palms. Henry instantly felt the
life force of the animal, as he stopped mid sentence,
and looked eye level at the creature he was holding.
Thoughts that couldn't possibly exist in a supermarket
fomented in his head. A period of silence passed, and
Henry reached out, returning the fish to the peasant
with a "No, thank you!"
Washing his hands in the water, Henry elected to return
to the temple and work on the riddle. Like the carp he
had just seen, he resigned himself that for the moment
his own destiny was out of his hands.
The following day, at 1:00 pm, he sat before McKenzie.
McKenzie raised his eyes from the work at hand, smiled,
and asked "Tell me what you have learned about the sound
of one hand clapping."
Morrison replied, "The question has no answer, one hand
cannot clap."
McKenzie, still smiling, said, "The question has an
answer. You must find it. Think on it and return at 2:00
pm."
Like any good entrepreneur, Morrison had to consider the
possibilities. Possibly, the riddle did have an answer.
Hedging his bets, Morrison also allowed for the
possibility that McKenzie didn't truly know the answer
to the question. Perhaps, he was nothing more than a
burnt out soldier of fortune roosting in this
godforsaken forgotten corner of the world, where he
occupied a position of minor importance, beyond anything
available to him elsewhere.
At 2:00 o'clock, Morrison returned to announce, "I've
struggled with this intensely for over an hour, and can
think of nothing that could be an answer to your riddle.
I need some help. Some guidance."
Morrison, the quintessential negotiator, figured the
more he could get McKenzie to say, the more he would
know about whether an answer existed in fact.
McKenzie's brow folded into a look of astonishment.
"Repeat what you just said!"
"I said that I could think of nothing that might be an
answer to your riddle."
"I'm floored. I've never had anyone make such progress
in a mere hour's time." McKenzie summoned several robed
monks into the pavilion and, in their Thai-Lao tongue,
translated the answer he had gotten from Morrison. They
all nodded in admiring approval, one even flashing
"thumbs up" to Morrison.
Facing Morrison, McKenzie said, "Of course, now I must
test your answer. Go ahead and explain it to me."
Morrison stood silently, still replaying what he had
just witnessed.
McKenzie, tsk tsk'ing and waving his finger to and fro
in front of Morrison said sternly, "An answer without
content is not an answer. Come try again at 3:00 pm."
At 3:00 pm, Morrison returned, angry to the point of
belligerence. "You could be providing me some guidance.
Instead, you give nothing."
The astonished look returned to McKenzie's face for an
instant, and then there was silence. "We gave you many
clues at 2:00, but other clues are everywhere. Look for
them, find the answer."
Morrison returned at 4:00, at 5:00, and again at 6:00.
No words were exchanged with McKenzie.
He was starting to dislike McKenzie!
He felt that somehow, McKenzie had gained the edge on
him, through some downright slick maneuvering. Even if
Morrison wanted to leave, he couldn't. He was stuck in
the middle of nowhere, without transportation, and
without the ability to communicate. His only tie to
civilization would not return for one week and six days.
The following day, and the day after, Morrison became
silent. He talked to no one, not even McKenzie. By the
end of day three, McKenzie declared Morrison's self
imposed "speech fast" would complement his search for
the sound of one hand clapping. McKenzie had thought
about recommending a speech fast anyway, but held off,
convinced his recommendation would have been summarily
rejected. Again, McKenzie praised Morrison's instincts.
"But tell me, why did you decide to enter the fast."
Morrison chose not to respond. He focused on his anger,
and the fact three days had passed, and somewhere inside
lay the sound of one hand clapping. He listened
intently, but heard nothing.
On the fourth day, at 1:00 pm, as Morrison entered the
pavilion, McKenzie announced, "Let's go for a walk!"
The high ground of the temple stood 1000 feet over the
valley, and at its topmost, a small enclosure housed a
golden Buddha. The Buddha sat in lotus. Surrounding the
Buddha were thousands of bronze bells, which chimed with
the slightest breeze. Though Morrison had only seen
glimpses of the structure during his walks, the sound of
the bells was omni present.
"Your negative thoughts concern me. They impede your
efforts to solve the riddle."
Morrison quick-glanced toward McKenzie, and fixed a
stare.
McKenzie, averting the gaze, replied, "Your stare means
nothing here. I will not let you control me."
"Those are fine words from someone keeping me here
virtually as a prisoner," fumed Morrison. His outburst
was so contrary to the normal ambiance, the creatures of
the surrounding jungle stopped, and listened for more to
follow. Even the bells stood silent as the seconds
passed, waiting for McKenzie's response.
"On the issue of why you are here, my memory is certain.
You came into our midst one day and asked permission to
stay. As I recall, you wished to escape. Now you wish to
escape again, only you wish to escape back to that which
you only just escaped from. I don't know that I
understand it. I suspect that your feeling like a
prisoner somehow relates to your search for the sound of
one hand clapping."
He continued, "So there is no misunderstanding, you must
know that you are not prisoner here, just as you are not
prisoner in your body, in this world, or in this life.
You are free to make your choices. Lest you be unclear
as to what they are, I will outline them for you. If you
stay, your taxi-driver friend will return on the
fourteenth day, to pick you up. If you remain in the
temple, you must pay by following the program. For the
time being, that means your schedule, and the riddle.
That's our contract. I think you can understand that.
There are other activities at the temple, but they would
be meaningless to you, and of no service to your
benefit."
McKenzie continued, "Your other choice is to leave the
temple. Then, you would be on your own. You can choose
to find your own way back to Bangkok, or to wait till
your driver returns. If you choose to stay, you follow
the program. If you choose to leave, you make out on
your own. You can not choose to stay here, and not
follow the program."
"You see! I am a prisoner," cried Morrison. You know
damned well I'd be lost if I stepped out the front
gate."
"I don't believe that," said McKenzie. "You can do
anything."
McKenzie, of course, knew nothing about the
"Philadelphia Shuffle," or United World, or the seven
story brothel in Bangkok. Well, maybe perhaps the
brothel. News of such remarkable indulgences traveled
even to the provinces. His statement that Morrison could
do anything was an actualization of his own basic belief
that man controlled the material world, and not vice
verse. He genuinely felt Morrison had the wherewithal to
solve the riddle instantly, or to walk out the gate and
survive. What puzzled McKenzie was that Morrison
resisted both.
"Remember, you chose to be here. You chose to ask the
driver; you chose to enter the temple compound; you
chose to ask the elder; and you chose to ask me. You
know as well as I that if I had said no to your offer of
$1000, you would have doubled it to get me to do exactly
what I did, and what I would have done for free. If what
I speak is false, say so now, and choose to leave. If I
am right, you can still choose to leave, or you can
choose to stay. But why, when the facts are still clear
in our minds, do you choose to re-write history? Why do
you choose not to hear the sound of the one hand
clapping?"
They neared the shrine of the golden Buddha, and the
sound of bells seemed everywhere. Morrison walked
straight into the pavilion, where he was instantly lost
in sound. It was everywhere. It vibrated in his ears, on
his skin, even under his feet.
His sense of vision returned just long enough for him to
see McKenzie headed down the trail. McKenzie turned, and
waved, as though to say "see you later."
Morrison remained. He could not tell if his eyes were
doing anything. There was only the sound. He would step
slowly to the right, then to the left. Like being in
water for the first time. He looked around to make sure
no one else was there, or looking at him. Then he began
to move, at first awkwardly, improvising whatever came
to mind, trying to blend with what he heard. At times,
he stood on one leg, mimicking the crane, and then, at
other times he fish-swam around the sound-filled
chamber. With closed eyes, he circled about aimlessly,
even lifting his arms at times as though flying. Time
stopped. When finally he opened his eyes, he stood
before the sitting Buddha, whose bulbous white eyes
stared down its golden nose through black pupils,
directly at Morrison. The show was for him. The bells
rang, the floor vibrated, and the Buddha stared
cross-eyed. No one was doing anything, but it was all
for him. It was a wonderful show. No one was doing
anything, but it was all for him, he replayed the phrase
over and over, until later in the evening, he stumbled
down the hill, returning to the compound laughing in the
darkness.
On day six, at the third session, Morrison entered the
pavilion with a deep grin painted across his face,
announcing, "I've got it!"
McKenzie, jokingly responded, "Then you'd better not
come too close."
Morrison said, "Watch!"...and he began to swing his hand
wildly through the air, sometimes scribing circles,
sometimes figure eights. Can you hear it Mason?"
"I wish I had a camera," McKenzie replied, "There are a
lot of your former associates who would pay to see this.
Take a second and explain to me what you are doing."
"This is the sound of one hand clapping," he said.
"Obviously, it can't be clapping against another hand.
If it's to generate sound, it must be clapping against
something, therefore, it's clapping against the
molecules of air. Can't you hear it?"
"Yes!" replied McKenzie, "That is a reasonable answer,
albeit incomplete. Now, quickly, take out the reason,
what does that leave you with?"
Morrison stopped, McKenzie glared at him, "Quick! You
almost have it!... Say it!... Now!"
Morrison was empty, but he could not act.
McKenzie's next words cut sharply through the empty
silence. "Enough for today. Return tomorrow."
Morrison was stuck. He was no closer to the answer, but
now his mind filled with images. No one was making it
happen, but it was all for him. He had chosen it all.
That night, he didn't sleep. He couldn't. He wondered
why the golden Buddha sat with crossed eyes. Why did a
15th century artist see Buddha as having crossed eyes?
Next morning, he walked with eyes crossed, as he made
the morning rounds for food. It reminded him of being on
the "speech fast," but he could not see a clear
connection. He was certain that within there was one
hand clapping, and there was a sound, but how was it
possible to get to where the sound was?
Without...without what?
It was now day nine. On this occasion, Morrison found
McKenzie in the courtyard. He followed McKenzie out to
the athletic yard, where advanced students practiced
what McKenzie called the "animal movements." It was a
way of moving, a way of centering, a way of self
defense.
"Maybe the problem is that you're too cavalier in your
approach," said McKenzie.
Suddenly, McKenzie turned toward Morrison and announced,
"While you slept, the elders and I met, and we decided
that if you fail to solve the riddle, you will be put to
death at noon on the fourteenth day."
Silence followed. Morrison studied the warrior monks as
thoughts flashed about how he had stumbled onto some
hidden cult, and now the cat was finally coming out of
the bag.
Checking himself, he turned toward McKenzie and asked,
"Is that the truth?"
McKenzie laughed, "No! We don't do that! But, the
example speaks for itself. How different would your
search for the answer be if you knew you had only five
days of life remaining? Or, if I told you that in 60
seconds you would be dead unless you produced the sound
of one hand clapping?"
McKenzie's voice trailed off into the distance. Morrison
followed McKenzie's words, but for now, the words
drifted meaningless onto a sea of sound.
Later that day, he came to McKenzie, "I think I'm onto
something."
McKenzie glanced, inquisitively.
Morrison reached forward with his right hand, and
sharply slapped McKenzie's left cheek.
There was quiet, expectation swelled within Morrison.
"You should never touch another person, unless you first
get that person's consent," McKenzie, looking sternly,
continued, "Some within the temple would have considered
that a green light for martial arts practice."
Addressing the issue at hand, McKenzie added that, "Your
answer went beyond reason, and was a manifestation of
pure logic. I asked you for the sound of one hand
clapping."
Morrison interrupted, "That's exactly what I gave you.
What you heard when my hand struck was the sound of one
hand clapping."
McKenzie finished his thought, "...and what you gave me
was the sound of one hand clapping against the side of
McKenzie's head. Of course, through careful application
of logic, one might argue that what you gave me is the
answer. But I am not interested in conclusions of logic,
or the arguments supporting them. Your task is to give
me the actual sound of one hand clapping. Take the side
of McKenzie's head out of it." Stop thinking about it,
and do it, time is short."
"You don't like me, do you?" queried Morrison.
McKenzie rolled his eyes skyward, thinking to himself
that logic and reason were like trapped rats. As you
move closer to remove them from your home, or from the
home of a friend, they're capable of emitting terrifying
screams, and, when most tightly cornered, they attack to
the front. This man, whom Buddha had entrusted to his
care for but a fragment of time, had progressed to the
point that logic and reason had now targeted McKenzie
for a last ditch frontal assault.
He would have to be very clever!
Morrison went on, "And so, people like me are busting
our asses turning sow's ears into purses, finding jobs
for hundreds of thousands of people, while dropouts and
malcontents like you, who couldn't make it in the real
world, set yourselves up like little Bodhisattvas,
riding herd on a bunch of superstitious peasants who
don't know any better..."
McKenzie's right hand moved slowly out from the center
of his body, his palm facing outward, signaling firmly
for Morrison to stop talking.
"Leave!" McKenzie ordered.
First, a period of silence, then Morrison continued,
"Not in your goddamned life! I've paid my dues, and I've
earned my say, even if it means I have to walk out the
front door to wander barefoot through the jungle for the
next couple of days."
McKenzie, taking charge, interrupted, "Sow's ears to
purses. What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that my purpose for being on this planet is to
take whatever I find, no matter how worthless, and to
make it better."
"And who is to judge that a sow's ear, once it has
become a purse, is better?"
"The person who needs the purse does!"
"And what the hell does the sow think about it? What
would you say if I told you that last month, I had a pig
in front of me, trying to convince me that he was making
the world a better place by converting worthless
Morrison ears into purses? If it weren't for my
convincing him otherwise, today you'd be sitting here
with gaping holes in the sides of your head, trying to
read my lips!"
Both men stopped for an instant, to consider the image
that McKenzie had set forth, then broke into a joint fit
of laughter. McKenzie started puppeting his lips as
though he were talking, indeed, a gifted mime, which
only brought tears to the unhearing Morrison's eyes. As
his fit of laughter climaxed, his anger was gone.
McKenzie continued, "The point, my friend, is that it is
one thing for the pig to find some Morrison ears lying
useless on the sidewalk, which he takes home and refines
to purses. It is quite another thing when Mr. Pig breaks
into our pavilion from out of the jungle, with an axe
destined for the side of your head. The people who buy
purses know only that somebody gets the materials
somehow. But, the "Morrison" soon learns he can no
longer walk the jungle paths, for between the greedy
pigs, and their cronies, there is no peace. Just fear!
Make a note of that comment, because the path to peace
is the sound of one hand clapping. Of course, whatever
it is that drives Mr. Pig doesn't stop there. To make
his activity acceptable to the purse buyers, and to the
occasional protestors, he'll lobby that, at considerable
additional expense to himself, he has decided to
incorporate anesthesiology into the ear removal process
so that the "Morrison" suffers less when its ears are
being severed. Thinking as a business person, it would
only be a matter of time before Mr. Pig discovers when
Morrison ears run low, he can substitute McKenzie ears,
taxi driver ears, or even peasant ears, and no one will
ever know the difference.
"Imagine a redwood tree at the turn of the century,
imperial in its age and its majesty, cut down, and made
into figurines and furniture, with the remnants turned
into scrap wood. To the entrepreneur, the finished
items, figurines and furniture are truly beautiful and
unique in their own right, and by his labor the
craftsperson has ‘enhanced’ the ‘value’ of the tree.
Perhaps he even advanced the human experience by adding
to the cumulative total of art in existence. The
craftsperson's skills will be commensurately rewarded.
Now, think what remains of the redwood. The scraps, the
chips and the splinters. Because they had no "use" they
were simply disposed of, perhaps even put to the fire.
Ask yourself! Do any of the end products stand up to the
redwood in its original state?
"Reason is to truth, as the carved figurines and scrap
are to the original redwood. The person who knows truth,
knows the redwood, and his first question must be, 'What
is best for the tree?' The voice of reason will ask
'What is best for me, and then the person who will buy
the figurines?' If Mr. Pig had asked me whether I wanted
a purse made from Morrison ears, I would have answered
that I want Morrison and his ears as one. I want the
sound of one hand clapping. The sound of one hand is the
sound of truth, not the sound of reason."
Morrison had no response. He tried to recapture
everything McKenzie had said, and feared he had already
lost bits and pieces. He stood motionless while McKenzie
bowed and left the pavilion.
Morrison would have much to contemplate that evening.
By the following day's session, Morrison believed the
riddle had a specific answer. He felt it inside himself,
and he felt it outside himself, but he could not find
the words to express it, or the images to define it.
During the days following, McKenzie had commented more
than once about how Morrison looked like a constipated
child and, while saying it, McKenzie's face would grow
into the most grotesque distortions, manifesting
maximum, but unproductive intestinal effort.
On day thirteen, the lesson commenced promptly at 1:00
pm with McKenzie's announcement that, "During the war, I
was once captured..."
Without words, Morrison signaled his intense interest.
McKenzie had hooked him. The story followed.
"It was during the Tet offensive. Our outlying position
was overrun. We had taken heavy casualties, when a
grenade exploded close by. The shock, or maybe the fear,
caused me to lose consciousness. When I awoke, I was on
my feet, hands tied behind my back, following a
procession of North Vietnamese regulars. How does one
explain it except to describe it the way it was? I was
happy that the regulars had captured me, because I had
seen what undisciplined guerrillas could do to their
prisoners.
"They took me to a jungle compound, where my cell was a
wooden box. It measured 2 feet wide, by 2.5 feet high,
and 3 feet deep. It had no lock on the outside. The
front panel slid down from above into pre cut grooves.
There was no light, and no holes for air. A #10 coffee
can served as my bathroom.
"The first several hours were an eternity. Though I
never saw any of them, I heard other prisoners
screaming, and banging against the walls of their boxes.
Some even broke down into infantile howling. What was
most curious, is that only one person did this in
English. Me!
“Thinking of it now, I can visualize some deity watching
from far above, listening to the comi-tragic opera being
transmitted in Korean, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Lao,
Chinese, and English from the planet below. Many
voices...one dreadful tune.
"Though it cut off everything my human nature needed to
exist, it wasn't long before I adapted to the box. Some
people didn't. Whenever the panel opened on an adjoining
box, I would listen carefully for sounds of life nearby.
Once, when I heard the sound of a lifeless body being
pulled from its container, I found myself unable to
breathe. It would no longer come naturally. From that
point, I had to "will" myself to take each
breath...always, mind over matter.
"In time, I assessed the situation, using reason, and my
capacity to think. I found myself learning how to be
comfortable in the box. After a week, I no longer even
questioned whether I could survive. Rather, I was
concerned about the number of cheeseburgers and
milkshakes I would order when I finally returned
stateside.
"Then, I lost track of time. I simply didn't care about
it anymore. Once, one of the guards let me out to stand
in the moonlight (they would never allow me to view the
camp in daylight). He laughed at my taking cupped hands
and carefully sweeping out the interior of my ‘home,’
before I back-entered into it. As the front panel slid
closed, my hand felt a soft leathery globe on the floor
of the box. Though I couldn't see it, I recognized it
immediately as an orange. It was a precious gift, for an
orange was a priceless commodity to all sides in this
war.
"I spent another eternity, carefully savoring every
fiber of the precious fruit. Though I hadn't seen the
sun since the day of my capture, I could feel its
chemistry within me as the life giving serum hit on
switches throughout my body.
"To my dismay, weeks turned to months. The camp took its
cumulative toll. I found I was becoming weak. My
anticipated release was now a distant, unfulfilled hope,
locked in the past. At some point I recognized my death
was near. My only choices were to escape, or to perish.
I could no longer choose to wait, and expect to survive.
"One day, I was awakened by the sound of a body being
dragged from its box nearby to the right. When the time
came for evening stretch, my guard ‘friend’ nodded
toward the body, and shook his head. I looked at his
face. In it, I saw brothers gone, sisters prostituted,
and children maimed. The war had become old for him. In
the distance, I saw two silhouettes, dragging other
bodies toward an open pit. The powdered lime in the pit
gleamed white, like snow, in the moonlight. How ironic,
for me the pit was simply another box, just bigger.
"When I re-entered my box, I saw that for once, the
front panel was not closed shut. Checking my perception,
I ran my fingers beneath it. It was true! Had I a mind
to, I could lift it!
"I kept pressure against the panel, cautious not to let
it drop completely shut. I listened everywhere. When
your life depends on it, you can hear everything.
Several hours passed, and I knew from the sounds that
only two guards were patrolling the compound. There were
no lights. To have lights in that situation would have
been sure suicide for my captors, given the nightly
flyovers by B-52's. I lifted the panel slowly, and
peered out from my cavern. The sky sparkled with stars,
and the moon beamed in its first quarter. I thought, 'Be
patient, Mason, don't rush this'...as I lay prone,
carefully letting my senses adjust to the surroundings.
Astonished, I saw there were no fences, and no perimeter
concertina wire. The only prison was our boxes,
isolation, and the authority of the armed guards. I
moved out without breathing, to a point behind my box,
where I had a straight path to the jungle. Though I
expected trip wires, land mines, or secondary guards
along the perimeter, there were none. My escape was
clean, until a sudden terrifying thought came over me.
What would happen to my ‘friend’ if they discovered my
empty box in the morning! I was seized with an urge to
return to the box. Not to become a prisoner again, but
rather to solve the riddle of how to protect my
protector. I sat quietly along the perimeter, trying to
see a solution, when suddenly, it occurred to me, no one
keeps tally of the dead. Once gone, out of the game!
"The body from the adjoining cell lay uncovered atop the
lime pit. With reckless abandon, I walked upright into
the camp. I can remember even now, thinking that so long
as I felt I was invisible to the two guards, they would
not notice me. but if I allowed my concentration to
lapse for even an instant, they would discover me, and I
would be next in the pit.
"I succeeded! I was truly invisible. After dusting off
any residue of lime, I placed the body into my box. The
ruse was complete. The second time I left the camp, I
walked upright, the way a free man should. Would the
ruse work? I only wish I could have seen my friend's
face the following day. Would he know of my concern for
his safety? Would he understand what I had risked to
protect him?
"Then again, did I understand what he had risked to
protect me? In any event, I never saw him again!
"Well, I didn't know it immediately, but the experience
tilted my values onto a new axis. Eventually, I returned
to my unit, and eventually, I got home. But, what was
once North for me, had become South, and West, East.
Afterwards, no matter where I went, or what I did, I
still felt like I was in the box. Now don't get me
wrong, I'm not saying that I felt like I was back in the
camp. Rather, I was forever in a box, as though, no
matter what I did, it would end with me in the fetal
position and the door sliding shut. Later, I went to
school, became a "professional" and, you might be
surprised to hear this, was quite successful, at least
as measured by the number of "purses" I was able to
produce.
"Still, my thoughts always returned to that eternity,
which was the first several hours that I spent in the
box, when suddenly, like a rocket blasting off from
somewhere behind my naval, spiraling up my spine, there
was a clear and true voice which screamed that, ‘Human
beings are not meant for this!’ It was a voice I had
never heard before. After all, I was too busy with
schedules, with counts, with the next things I had to do
to get promoted, with making sure that my paycheck got
directly deposited to my bank, or with the number of
hamburgers I would eat when I finally got home. Long
after that, the voice remained, and became stronger.
"Human beings are not made for this, why have you made
this your choice?’ Whether I was staying up all night
cramming for an exam, synthesizing a new marketing
strategy, or lying in the sack with a beautiful woman,
the question was always there. Everything I was doing
was alien to the voice within, which unremittingly
reminded that human beings were not meant to be doing
what I was doing, then queried why I had chosen to do
it."
"Then why did you?" asked Morrison.
"The point is, I hadn't chosen anything. I was
conditioned ‘not to choose.’ I was trained to think so
that I wasn't really thinking, to strive for goals that
really weren't goals; like a tree growing upside down.
Up until my day of awareness, I was so busy plowing over
my goals that even while I thought I was gaining control
of my destiny, I was losing it completely. I had damned
myself. I had been everywhere, but was nowhere. I was a
success, but was empty. I was a scholar, but could only
think within the box that others, no different than
myself, but at another level, had erected for me."
"And, did they know that they had done this to you?"
"Of course not! Like me, they had no awareness. They
didn't have the capacity to choose to do anything to me.
Their goals were plowed over too! Their being was
reduced to maintaining the status quo, keeping me
controlled in a box. The more they could see I was
properly confined, the less they could see of their own
identical predicament."
Morrison playfully wondered whether McKenzie was in
fact, describing some variation of the "Philadelphia
Shuffle." Who was the perpetrator? Who was the victim?
"So what does it all mean?" asked Morrison.
"It means," said McKenzie, "that we have fallen from
grace, that we are exiled from the Garden of Eden, that
we no longer remember who we are, or where we came from,
or the power that we have over our own existence. We
stand satisfied with a universe of boxes, within boxes,
our measure of success is merely how able we are to step
from one box, into the next one up. And so long as we
don't step out, the system remains intact!"
"But you said you had your day of awareness...?" asked
Morrison.
"Yes, that's true..." said McKenzie, "The day came when
the voice no longer questioned."
"What happened?"
"The sound of one hand clapping! For me, it was the
beginning of truth. From that day, I was free to choose.
Whatever confronted me, I immediately recognized what
was true, and what was not. I could choose either, but
the consequences of my choice would belong only to me.
That's why you came here. That's why you found me.
That's why you stayed. You know now that there is an
answer, but you have to get it out. If you don't, you
may as well be dead. You may as well be in the pit
reserved for the prison compound corpses. This is not a
threat, but your survival, or should I say, the survival
of what is essentially you, depends on your finding that
answer tomorrow. If you don't do it tomorrow, you may
never have another chance!"
Morrison had much to contemplate. Instinctively, he
glanced at his watch, only to remember that he had
stopped wearing it more than a week ago.
"Time's not the same out here, is it?", asked McKenzie,
smiling lightly at Morrison.
In response, Morrison lightly shook his head side to
side, answering, "No, when I don't think of it, it's not
important at all."
McKenzie reached across the space separating them and
put his right hand onto Morrison's left shoulder, "Your
instincts are good, when you don't think about them.
Don't worry so much about the sound of one hand
clapping. It's merely the cherry on top of the sundae.
With or without it, the sundae is just as delightful."
McKenzie stood, bowed to Morrison, then left the
pavilion.
Suddenly tired, Morrison lowered his body to the teak
floor, and closed his eyes. He wondered, "Why could the
sound of one hand clapping be a matter of life and death
one moment, and then the cherry on top of the sundae the
next? It just didn't make sense. It couldn't make sense.
If it couldn't make sense, why did he waste his time
thinking about it? Still, something was happening. It
was as though his body, and his senses, perhaps even his
'instincts' as McKenzie had suggested, were close to
understanding a basic reality that was beyond the
capacity of his reason. He could argue why the sound of
one hand clapping would be a matter of life and death,
and he could probably just as convincingly argue why it
might be considered the cherry on top of the sundae, but
if he argued both points simultaneously, he came across
as a fool. In the realm of reason, the perceptions were
forever to be apart."
Morrison folded his hands in the prayer position, then
laid them beneath his right ear, as a pillow.
Outside, the late afternoon rain made its regular
monsoonal round. The tapping of the droplets on the tin
roof served as a carrier for the "Sa-Ta-Na-Ma" chanting
of monks passing outside. Whatever Morrison had been
thinking was gone.
The image of the cross-eyed Buddha bubbled slowly forth
into his consciousness, the absurdity of its image
evoking a broad grin across Morrison's face. He thought,
"If I were a cross-eyed Buddha, how would I react to a
smiling Morrison statue sitting on top of the hill?"
A comet of insight arched across Morrison's
consciousness. It came not as a thought, but as a light,
a flashing strobe. "My God, why do I see them as
different? Is it possible that the cross-eyed Buddha and
the smiling Morrison are one and the same?"
The rain had stopped. Moist jungle aroma poured into the
pavilion from all directions. It had become dark.
Morrison knew that he had to see the statue one more
time before he left. Traversing the hill in the dark
might be a bit risky, but this was no time for wanton
caution.
It was darker than he thought it would be, the rain
clouds and the jungle canopy combined to absorb all
light. Fighting his reservations, Morrison glanced
upward, where he knew the trail to be, but which, for
the moment, was draped in black velvet darkness.
Taking a few tentative steps forward, Morrison veered
from the trail, dropping suddenly downward, rolling
across the monastery's crop of lemon grass. Though he
was stunned, the pleasant lemon odor revived him. When
he found his way back to the trail, he threw off his wet
and muddied shirt. Facing uphill to the shrine, or
downhill to the temple grounds, he saw only the velvet
black of night. He felt a breeze from above.
McKenzie had said Buddha taught the world was a place of
suffering. The monks learned even though the suffering
was real, it was part of who they were, and why they
were here. And each of them held the power to stop it
all, because in the end, the suffering was their
individual load.
Continuing uphill, Morrison struggled with the question
of whether his own life could be described as one of
suffering.
"Hardly, when compared to that of a leper..."
And no sooner had Morrison thought the thought, then
from the same well sprang the question "And if the world
measured success by one's leprosy, what would the
successful leper think of the plight of the suffering
Morrison."
The question slammed into Morrison with such force that
his body lifted completely from the ground. He felt
himself descending, not so much falling, but floating,
like a leaf spinning downward from an autumn branch.
And as the leaf touched the ground, Morrison returned to
his reality, which was that of a 200 pound, 40 year old
man, falling face first onto the sloping jungle floor.
Morrison's face left its mark on the soft undergrowth.
Lying prone, he delicately lifted to his hands and
knees, cursing his inattention to the hazards of the
darkened trail. He was wet and soiled, and his head was
ringed with pain from the crack it sustained. Morrison
tried to lift to his feet, but couldn't. It was as
though a great weight sat on his shoulders, freezing his
body, leaving only his thoughts free to move.
He could scarcely breathe, as he rose to hands and
knees, a cauldron of thoughts bubbled over with images
of what his life had come to represent. Kneeling
motionless, he stood as judge, jury, victim, and
oppressor. He had become slave to the cycle of life and
death. He struggled further with the pain as he slowly
rose to his feet, stepping forward, foot by foot,
knowing that he would rest at the top.
Would that he could drop this unnatural load, and be
forever unburdened.
Taking a few more steps, he fell once again to his
knees. A break in the clouds was visible in the tropical
canopy, and, in the starlight, he saw the silhouette of
the shrine a short distance away. But, to his immediate
front, what seemed like a vine growing upward from the
jungle floor, swayed ever so slightly.
A voice inside whispered, "Cobra!"
Had he come this far to turn back!
"No," he would continue, "Cobra be damned!"
And as he stepped forward, what was cobra, was gone, as
was his burden.
Turning to look back, he saw that he had passed beyond
the darkness.
A cool breeze ran its fingers like a comb along the
hilltop, and the sound of bells signaled Morrison's
destination.
He entered the shrine and immediately fixed his gaze
onto the crossed eyes of the golden statue. Even in the
subtle starlight, the statue had a light of its own.
No longer tired, Morrison regretted he would be leaving
the next day. He was tied forever to the role his life
had become. McKenzie had said, "It is your Karma. But
remember, when you are ignorant, a mountain is a
mountain. When you are aware, a mountain is something
other than a mountain. But, when you are enlightened,
the mountain can be a mountain once again."
To which Morrison had replied, "Then why bother with all
this? What purpose does it serve?"
McKenzie responded that, "The purpose is merely to still
the water. Only then is the ship free to leave port."
A veil of silence passed over the pavilion. All became
still.
Morrison sat before the Buddha, eyes drooping from
tiredness, cross-eye to cross-eye. In the trance like
state preceding sleep, he finally sensed the secret of
the statue.
On the other end of time, a native craftsman had
dedicated a lifetime perfecting the technology which
produced a perfect statue of bronze, albeit with
crossed-eyes. He meant to share a vision with his
counterpart on the other end of time's tunnel. The
craftsman was Morrison from before. He was the craftsman
today. The passage of time was merely a wave traversing
a sea which remained essentially unchanged.
There was nothing left to consider, only to experience.
The warm sun of dawn wakened Morrison with a casual
caress. McKenzie was sitting nearby, waiting patiently
in lotus. Seeing that Morrison had awakened, he asked,
"Shall we finish what we started?"
Morrison's eyes rose slowly upward as he moved into his
own version of lotus across from McKenzie. The
cross-eyed Buddha stared down at both, a slight smile
passing across its face. McKenzie stared at Morrison,
knowing that only reason kept their true natures apart.
Morrison was empty of distraction.
McKenzie looked across, "Then tell me Morrison. What is
the sound of one hand clapping?"
Morrison's eyes held McKenzie's stare. From somewhere in
the universe, a small thread looped around the wrist of
Morrison's right hand. As Morrison held stare with
McKenzie, an unseen hand pulled that cord, and lifted
Morrison's right arm up and forward, his five fingers
pointing straight at McKenzie. McKenzie, knowing the
experience, recognized the response. Morrison was
dumbfounded.
"And what is the sound of one hand clapping when you are
sitting on a stool atop of Everest?"
And again, Morrison's right hand extended up and
outward, only this time with a bit more impetus in its
thrust toward McKenzie.
"And what is the sound of one hand clapping before you
were born?"
This time, Morrison vigorously thrust his hand out with
a scream of affirmation.
In concert, the wind blew its own chorus energizing the
bells of the shrine.
"And what is the sound of one hand clapping when you are
dead?"
Morrison again thrust his hand out to McKenzie.
"How is that?"
Again, Morrison thrust his hand out, exclaiming, "That
is how!"
McKenzie, stared through Morrison's eyes, deep into his
soul, "But you are dead!"
"No! Not dead. Not alive, but not dead."
Next, only the bells spoke, as the cross-eyed Buddha
affirmed.
McKenzie, looking across at Morrison, finally spoke, "I
will miss you Mr. Morrison."
Morrison could only nod.
"The monks left you a bottle of rice wine as a present.
They said it was to convey their enjoyment in watching
your struggle these past two weeks. Of course, that's
their way of keeping you in a box of sorts. Few of them
have come to the level of awareness that you've attained
today. In any event, your driver has already arrived. It
is time to gather your possessions and return to your
world."
Morrison looked across at McKenzie, took a deep breath,
tried to speak, but couldn't. A tear rolled diagonally
across his right cheek. "I did not know that leaving
would be so hard."
"Yes. But you will go anyway. The world awaits you. I
will meet you at the cab."
There, Morrison was greeted warmly by the driver.
"Sir, I am proud of you. I heard that you did quite
well."
McKenzie, dressed in his usual fatigues, again carrying
the 5 gallon water bucket, emerged from the woods, as
though the vegetation had parted to project the image of
a man walking forward. As he drew near, the driver
carefully loaded Morrison's possessions into the trunk.
Extending his right hand, McKenzie said, "You almost
forgot your watch."
Morrison reached out for the watch, and, as he fitted it
on his wrist, noticed the hands had been removed.
Morrison glanced up at McKenzie, whose knowing
countenance smiled back. "Sometimes, as is your habit,
you will think to look at your watch to see what time it
is, and, as you see the watch, you will think of me, and
your brief sojourn here."
"And what will you be saying to me when I think of you?"
asked Morrison.
I will be saying, "Henry, what time is it really?"
Morrison smiled, as he got into the cab.
He had wanted to reach out the window to shake
McKenzie's hand farewell, only he discovered that
McKenzie had turned to head back into the jungle. His
stare followed the teacher's path for the next several
steps, until what was once McKenzie, had returned to
being a cluster of vines and branches.
In like fashion, Morrison returned to his world, and
just as readily, melted into the jungle of concrete and
steel. From that day, he knew a mountain when he saw
one.
He wore the watch always.
The old Morrison would have considered the thousand
dollars well invested.
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