HOW ZEN IS LIKE AA AND WEIGHT WATCHERS

James Ishmael Ford

Yesterday I made a quick run to our closest grocery store. While there for the first time in a bit there was flour. It was ten pounds. I thought about that, and the fact we live in a thousand square foot condo and the kitchen and larder are not large. And I remembered that Jan said it was time to cook a pie. So, I put the bag in my grocery cart.

The store is a fraction more than a mile from our apartment and almost a straight-line down Broadway. I was passing her before I noticed an old woman standing between two cars holding a small cardboard sign. There was no way to read it. But she was weather beaten and had an open folding shopping cart with her.

It was too late to stop, and I fretted for a block before turning and circling around. We try to keep a few dollars in the glovebox for beggars. I reached in and found in addition to a handful of singles, a ten-dollar bill. When I got back, she’d crossed the street. But I was able to pull over, opened my window, and held the bill out for her. She crossed over. I can’t tell, she was somewhere between fifty and seventy. Her hair was iron grey, but her face was unlined. As she reached to take the money, she said that she tries to collect enough cans and bottles, but it was hard today. Looking over at the cart I saw it was maybe a third full.

I said you’re welcome. And good luck.

I drove off feeling, as I do when encountering the desperately poor, a cascade of emotions and thoughts. Some flashes some a bit more coherent. What took her to this place? Alcohol. Drugs. Mental illness. I feared more likely just a handful of bad luck.

I returned home and Jan made us a blueberry pie.

Since we’ve been in the virus lockdown, I’ve been steadily gaining weight. Weight has been a struggle for my entire adult life. The reasons and excuses blend together and are probably impossible to untangle. The only thing that has ever worked for me is Weight Watchers. And that for two reasons. One is with their point system I am forced to notice everything I actually eat. And, then, two, going to the meetings, where the most important part is actually the weighing in in front of a witness. All trained to hide any judgements crossing their faces.

With that I’ve been a yoyo. I’ve done well. Several times. Then I’d think I don’t need to do the tracking or meetings. And, well. Then weight gain. And, well, starting over. Yoyo. Today, there are no live meetings. But, I’ve started the day out recording what I ate, and then using the bathroom scale and adding on two pounds as a likely corrective, recording the weight.

As I did this, I realized it is very, very similar to how many of my friends encounter Alcoholics Anonymous.

And that reminded me of a short story by my old friend in the dharma the Zen priest David Rutschman (collected in Into Terrible Light.)

A stack of AA chips carefully placed on the newspaper vending machine outside the liquor store. To thine own self be true, God grant me the serenity.

A neat stack: red on yellow on blue.
One month. Two months. Six.

David describes what in Buddhism is called dukkha, the heartache of human existence in forty words.

And here we are, caught up in the great mess of life. Tangled in our own addictions. Tangled in the sorrow and the drama.

The secret of the Zen way is to sit down, shut up, and pay attention. Then get up. And, repeat.

Lots of repeating.

So, for me, I need to enjoy the pie. I need to recall that woman and so many others. I need to deal with my own stuff. I need to act like we’re all in this together. One family.

I need to return to the pillow. That’s shorthand for Zen meditation. Over. And over.

One month. Two months. Six.