In June I attended an evening zazen, a midmorning Sunday service, the same in July, in August an evening zazen or two, a midmorning service or two, and the precept ceremony.

In fall and winter the same—

Seldom.

My appearance at the Temple was infrequent and irregular.

I was happy.

At home I practiced religiously.

Every day I walked.

I sat.

I taught.

I edited my book.

Months passed—almost a year.

Except for embellishment and final editing I thought perhaps my book was done.

My story ended.

But before I showed it to the master I needed intelligent reaction.

I printed two copies.

Ruth.

Ryan.

I emailed copies to Billy and John.

Four.

Ruth read it first.

We had gone out to dinner at a new restaurant in downtown Benson.

"I finished it last night," Ruth said.

So soon.

"That alone is a good review," I said.

I smiled.

"What do you mean?"

I explained.

"I was afraid that you would find it so boring, basically of so little interest to you, that you'd apologize, tell me you were sorry, and say you just couldn't plow your way through it."

The book had grown long.

Ruth smiled.

"I did feel that way a couple of times," she said.

"But you kept on going—"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

Ruth mentioned repetition—three incidents she said I had repeated verbatim—and she wondered if it might somehow be possible for me to show development in the minor characters.

I thought not.

"No."

It wasn't fiction.

Non.

"The narrative is flat," she said, "especially in your dialogue with the master."

"Oh."

The reality had not felt that way.

Nein.

Ruth thought that in the book I should mention the major events in my life and in the lives of my family and friends—major illnesses, accidents, deaths, births, her earning her master's in fine arts, graduations, marriages, and jobs of our children—that had occurred in the thirty-two years of my Buddhist practice. She suggested that I introduce more detail from my experience of 1975, in flashback, perhaps, instead of my later vague allusions to it.

But I had not wanted to emphasize that even as much as I had.

I wasn't sure.

"The book wasn't what I expected," Ruth said.

"No—"

"It's so cerebral."

"Oh."

"In a couple of your dialogues with the master I wished I could just shake you!"

I laughed.

"Make you see what he was saying!" she said.

I laughed.

"Yes."

"But you insisted on your analysis."

"Yes—"

"You wouldn't listen to him."

"No—"

"What about that?" she asked.

I thought.

"I don't care how I appear in the book," I said. "I hope I'm transparent."

She smiled.

"Writers always have one main question of their own," she said.

I thought.

"What's yours?" she asked.

"Does my portrait of the master seem fair?" I asked.

She considered.

"That's all I care about," I said.

I waited.

"It doesn't seem vindictive," she said.

"Good."

Ruth thought I should describe in much more detail my Temple jobs, dusting and sweeping the zendo and Buddha Hall, on hand and knee wiping down hardwood floors with damp rags, scrubbing the tub and the toilets and cleaning the bathrooms, cleaning the altars and the koros, stocking the doan closet, shoveling snow from the walks and the driveway, mowing the two yards, raking and bagging leaves, weeding the flower gardens, sweeping the porch and steps, selecting flowers, trimming stems, and arranging bouquets for the Temple altars, photocopying, stapling, and data entry in the office, writing thank you notes, stamping and addressing envelopes, running errands to the office supply store and the post office, the training of doans, shotens, and jishas, the wrapping of bowls, cloths, and utensils for sesshin, and all of the many other duties and responsibilities of ino.

I asked her once more for her impression of the book overall.

"Bottom line."

Ruth thought for a moment.

I waited.

"It’s sad," she said.

"Yes."