Bells. Lights. The sound of -- an earthquake? Galloping horses? No -- I'm oriented now. It's monks running through the corridors.
Numbly I crawl out of my futon and fold it. My four roommates do the same. We exchange not a word. They are shadows to me, as I am a shadow to them. Hurried wash, hasty calisthenics, frantic search for my meal bowls . . . what time is it? Ten past 4. No time for tea. Where are my slippers? Number 29; here they are.
Bowing before the main altar, I shuffle to the zendo, the meditation hall. I bow to my cushion, turn slowly clockwise, bow in the opposite direction and arrange myself on the cushion, facing the wall. A monk materializing by the bell strikes it three times. He vanishes. The echo fades. Frogs croak.
With your current subscription plan you can comment on stories. However, before writing your first comment, please create a display name in the Profile section of your subscriber account page.