Professional Documents
Culture Documents
I
had been a student of Zen Buddhism prior to the accident.
My spiritual path had begun twenty-five years before, when I
had stumbled across a wonderful book, “The Snow Leopard,”
by Peter Matthiessen, which had just won the National Book
Award. The book chronicled Matthiessen’s search for meaning through
Zen and Tibetan Buddhism after his wife’s death from cancer, cul-
minating in a trip to the Himalayas where he searched for the elusive
snow leopard, as well as the elusive wisdom embodied by reclusive
Buddhist monks at the remote and mysterious Crystal Mountain mon-
astery. Reading that book led to taking a comparative religions course,
where my professor, Dr. Joel Smith of Skidmore College’s Philosophy
& Religion Department, not only taught us in the classroom about
the world’s great religions, but took us to a Buddhist monastery in the
Catskills for an optional weekend retreat. As much as those influences
had intrigued me, in my adult life I had been a spiritual dabbler; family,
children, work and a wife who didn’t approve had all been obstacles to
my becoming a more serious student.
The crisis in my marriage before the accident had turned me into
someone I barely recognized. I would respond to my wife’s taunts by
becoming angry and yelling back at her. I would be short and cross with
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the kids. This was not the calm, peaceful, loving person I wanted to be.
I was an agitated, emotional mess. I had reached a turning point in my
life that caused a newfound search for meaning, for happiness: Who was
I? Who did I want to be? From my previous exposure to Zen Buddhism
I thought that finding a meditation group might help calm my emo-
tions. I sought out a meditation group near my home and was amazed
and delighted to find that Peter Matthiessen had a small country zendo,
or meditation center, about an hour from where I lived, which he called
The Ocean Zendo. In the years since he had written “The Snow Leop-
ard” he had become even more immersed in Zen and had become a
Zen roshi, or master priest. I sent him a letter, and received a gentle
and wonderful invitation to join his sangha, or Zen congregation. So I
began to make the hour-long drive once or twice a week to the zendo,
where I would meditate, join discussion groups on Zen Buddhist phi-
losophy, and receive regular instruction from several of the teachers.
At the same time I set up a small altar with black meditation cushions
in a corner of my home office, and I would get up early each morning,
before the children or my wife were awake and meditate for a half hour.
All of this had a steady hand in helping me deal with the crises in
my life: a failing marriage, a failing business, a mother’s crippling
accident. I was in the midst of this new path when my own accident
occurred. Would Zen and meditation also help me deal with this new
crisis? How would an ancient belief system coexist with modern medi-
cine, if at all? Would the two complement or contradict each other?
In one of my first meetings with my new neurologist, Dr. Mark
Rubino, in Naples after the accident, I gingerly asked him about my
Zen meditation: I told him of my Zen practice, and my daily morning
meditation sessions that had been a regular part of my life before the
accident. Dr. Rubino was the lead physician in the pantheon of doc-
tors and therapists who had become the focus of my daily existence. He
always took time to listen and to answer my questions fully. He was also
my mother’s neurologist. I liked and trusted him.
“Can I still meditate?” I warily asked “Would meditation would be
good or bad for my recovery?”
Even though Dr. Rubino was young—I guessed somewhere in his
early thirties—and bright, insightful, energetic and wonderfully funny
and seemingly open-minded, I fully expected him to be dismissive,
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Soen Roshi did not write a book, per se, but the book “Endless
Vow: The Zen Path of Soen Nakagawa” is a collection of his poetry,
letters and calligraphy. It is travelogue of sorts in both poetry and prose,
although it covers much more ground, from his youth in Japan to his
voyage to America to his role in founding Dai Bosatsu Zendo, the first
Japanese Zen monastery in the United States in New York’s Catskill
Mountains. I felt a certain kindred spirit with Soen Roshi, not only
from his writings, but because he himself suffered a Traumatic Brain
Injury in his mid-50’s when he fell from a tree in Japan.
Exactly what happened to Soen Roshi is unclear, but according to
the stories, he was missing for several days at the monastery. This in
itself was not unusual, as he was known to be a bit eccentric and would
often disappear for long stretches of time. In monasteries, someone
going off alone into a quiet corner for meditation and solitude is the
norm. But after he failed to show up for several meals and services, the
other monks went searching for him and found him lying unconscious
beneath a large tree, supposedly with a sharp piece of bamboo piercing
his skull. The stories say that he had been unconscious for three days.
The words Traumatic Brain Injury are never used in these accounts,
but in 1967 TBI was little understood. It was assumed that Soen Roshi
had fallen out of the tree, although what he was doing up in its branches
nobody knew for certain. He could have been meditating, sitting in
a crook of the tree, or he could have just climbed up to enjoy a better
view. That’s the kind of person he was.
In later years Soen became a hard drinker, likely an alcoholic, and
eventually drowned in his own bathtub, drunk. His drinking was
said to be an attempt to deaden the constant pain he felt as a result of
the brain injury, however Matthiessen Roshi has wondered how true
this story is, since he spent much time with Soen Roshi and never saw
a scar on Soen’s shaved head. Peter has wondered whether the story
might be an apologia for Soen Roshi’s hard drinking, since sake is an
integral part of Japanese culture, even among spiritual leaders. Even if
the bamboo stake is an embellishment, I have no doubt about the brain
injury part of the story. The narrative is too detailed to be fabricated out
of whole cloth. And I understand only too well the pain, both physical
and mental, that can result from a traumatic brain injury. Darkness,
depression and despair are some of the very real symptoms that many
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