Thich Nhat Hanh Jewish Roots The Better Way to Live Alone in the ...

wonderful MOMENTCarts& KoansBy John BeaudryI was standing on a narrow sidewalk, bent over, putting a small bandageon a cut my sandal keeps making in the top of my right foot.The bus that would take us the remaining distance to theisland and the temple had not arrived yet. So I had bought somebandages from the small store next to the bus stop.Standing on the sidewalk, I put my foot on the store step, bentforward and concentrated on ending the little pain that had beenpresent since early that morning when we had begun our journeyfrom the city to the island.On the first part of the journey, I had been focused on thekoan I always carry in my mind. The strain of pushing against thebarrier of the koan, of trying to close the space between it and mymind, merged with the irritation of the cut. The pain intensifiedthe always-present feeling that I lacked sufficient ability to breakthrough the barrier of the koan, that breaking through was impossible.Still, I held onto the koan as fiercely as I could.Now, I finished attaching the bandage to the foot, checkedit—and then realized that there was a head next to mine that alsoseemed to be looking at my foot. I straightened up to see an old,weathered woman standing next to me, bent over forward pasta ninety-degree angle, with her hands clasped behind her back.She was trying to pass through the space between the store walland me and was bent over because she could no longer stand upstraight. I took my foot off the step, opening the space wider forher to pass through.As she walked slowly past and away, I watched her, tryingto see the cause of her present condition. The effect of her paststruggles had been to push her dangerously beyond the limit of herphysical ability. Past suffering had led to present suffering.Her hands were the highest point on her body, resting waydown her lower back almost directly over her legs. Those hands,I speculated, had carried baskets of vegetables, or worked ricefields, or pulled loaded carts behind her. In that moment, though,the hands’ purpose was to provide balance for walking, and tokeep the arms out of the way: If she unclasped her hands, her armswould hang down in front of her legs, dead weight with nothingto support them. So, she held her arms and hands as far back asshe could and let her legs carry them.She reminded me of the old men and women in Seoul, whereI live, who pull rustic, wooden carts behind them, collecting loadsof cardboard and other recyclables, often piling them high abovetheir heads. To me, the weight of the load looks like a lot morethan they can handle, pulling the carts up resistant hills, downobstacle-filled alleys, through dangerous street traffic.When I’m out walking the back road in the mornings, pushingagainst the barrier of the koan, I pass the cart pullers, oftenwalking in the opposite direction. As we approach each other,their physical struggle is obvious. But there is something else aswell, something underneath or behind their suffering that eludesmy perception. What is it? In the moment we pass each other Itry to cross the space between my understanding and their experience,and I fail.They walk bent forward, arms behind, hands holding ontightly to the metal bar.20 Summer 2006