The Bell Master's Tale
Ahh… such is life.
Who would have thought mine would be so full of dichotomies and paradoxes? I may be a relatively poor sod financially, but time and again I have to remind myself of how wealthy I am in terms of life experiences. I look at my children and see the true wealth I have earned. I may not have been the most well-behaved or debonair of gentlemen, but I sure had my share of encounters with the ladies, both here and in the West. And I may not be the most pious, holy guacamole of seekers—but I have walked through my fair share of temples and monasteries, and sat before some of the greatest Teachers and Gurus along my winding road to spiritual awakening.
A week or so ago, I read a newspaper article that one of my former Buddhist teachers would be visiting Malaysia. It would be nice to see the old monk again, though I doubt he would remember me—just one of many faces in his long life of service. But once, long ago, he made me his Bell Master during a Vipassana retreat at Green Gulch Farm and Zen Center in Sausalito, California. His name is Thích Nhất Hạnh, though everyone lovingly calls him Tay, meaning "Teacher" in Vietnamese.
He lives in France now, when he isn’t traveling the world teaching his Mindfulness Walking Meditation to people like me—the spiritually hungry. His presence and teachings changed my life.
Let me take you back.
It was a seven-day retreat. On the fifth or sixth day, worn out by hours of silent sitting and the aching joints that come with it, I decided to play hooky. I stayed in bed, skipping the morning meditation in the Zendo. There were over seventy participants—some had flown in from as far as Germany. But that morning, I wasn’t among them. Instead, I slipped into sleep.
And in that sleep, I dreamed.
I was hiding in a corner of Green Gulch Valley—the same valley that runs all the way to the Pacific Ocean at Muir Beach. I stood alone, and from deep within the pit of my stomach, I let out a primal "KIA!"—a sharp yell in Japanese that translates to “Horse!” It was a game my friend Tsuyoshi Miyoshi and I played in waking life, to see who could yell loud enough to startle the horses grazing on the hills. In the dream, I did just that.
But to my horror, the whole hillside began to tremble, then shudder, and before I could shout another word, the edge that reached the sea crumbled and fell into the ocean.
“Oh shit,” I thought, “Now I’ve done it! Blanch and Paul are going to chew my guts out!” (Blanch Hartman and Paul Discoe were among the senior teachers and caretakers at the center.)
But then, a calm little voice inside whispered: Look at how ignorant you are… afraid of what these teachers can do to you, when you have the power to move mountains.
That moment woke me up—inside and out. I snapped out of the dream, leapt off my futon, and rushed out of the gaitan (the converted cattle quarters we lived in). Like a man possessed, I ran to the Great Bonsho bell. I grabbed the giant wooden striker and swung it hard. The deep, beautiful bell tones rang out across the whole valley, carrying all the way to the ocean. I struck it seven times, each tone long and full, just as we’d been taught.
Then I returned to my room, lay down quietly, and told myself, I have faced my paranoia. Let the worst come.
Soon after, a gentle knock came at the door. It creaked open slowly, and Paul peeked in, his thick round glasses magnifying his already curious eyes.
“Sham! How are you doin’? Are you okay? Take a good rest and join us when you can…” And just like that, he was gone.
The Zendo sitting had ended. Everyone moved in silence to the kitchen for breakfast. When I walked in, they were already seated at the long wooden tables, eating mindfully, as per retreat practice. A few smiled softly at me, then returned to their food. No accusations. No lectures. Thank Buddha for small favors.
After breakfast, during the short break, some of my fellow retreatants approached me. One bowed gently and said, “Thanks, Sham.” Another whispered, “Hey man, that was great,” and walked away.
I was puzzled. Grateful? For what?
Later, I found out that my ringing of the bell had “awakened” more than one drowsy soul—those who were struggling to stay awake or fighting the urge to give up from the physical strain of the retreat. My act had jolted them into presence.
A day or two later, during tea and a Dharma talk in the library with Tay, he turned to me and asked, in his soft, melodious voice:
“So… you like to ring bells, do you?”
I nodded, unsure of what to say.
“Well, I have a job for you. During my talks from now on, you will ring the bell every fifteen minutes. When you do, everyone will pause, return to themselves, and take three mindful breaths—whether they are sipping tea or peeling a tangerine.”
And so, I became Tay’s Bell Master—tasked with calling others back to themselves with sound, just as I had been called back to myself in that strange, shaking dream.
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