This praxis is based on a true story. Any or all of the following content may or may not be accurate depictions of actual events. Reader judgment is advised.

Markings on the body tell a story. Intentional ones might tell what you want to be heard. Unintentional ones tell where you have been. Tattoos are perhaps the most obvious intentional body marking in our modern world. I could tell you the story behind mine.



But that's not what I'm here to tell. I could tell you about the scar on my knee I got as a child, as a result of believing anger was intended at me that wasn't. And against his better judgment, my dad caving to his daughter's pleadings to not be taken to the hospital.

Or about the scar on my elbow, from when I fell on a family outing, and continuing forward to take pictures of the scenery was more urgent than seeking medical attention.


(disclaimer: my photo editing skills are still only as good as the software I have available, which is sadly lacking)


Or about the tiny scars on my wrists, from a time when that was the only way I could feel anything.
(which are not terribly photogenic)


But again, I'm not here for those stories. I'm here for this one:


Although this one begins perhaps as tumultuously.

Roughly a year ago, I had a nervous breakdown. Recently I passed by the very street I'd paced up and down, waiting to meet up with friends for a concert, while on the phone with my soon-to-be ex. The conversation was dark.

I was falling apart. Grad school was more intense than I'd imagined. I was having trouble coping with the basics of day to day life, much less the demands of school. I frequently didn't make it to class. Even when I did, I wasn't really there. Any attempts at writing papers, or even reading for class were met with blank stares at my computer and books. My living space ceased to exist but for the five feet around me at any given time. And frequently less than that. I persisted, I survived, but I wasn't living. I was lost, and had no idea why. My relationships had in the past been pillars of mutual strength and support. Now my local partner bore the brunt of me simultaneously reaching out for contact and comfort, and pushing him away. The relationship with my east coast partner had become a weight around my neck, of what it should but couldn't be across the vast geographic distance between us. All of this happened so gradually that I didn’t really see it coming, until I was in the midst of it. Even once I was there, I was so caught up in it all that several times I thought I was getting better, simply because I was feeling a little less bad.

When I look back, it probably all started the spring before. But it wasn't any one thing that acted as the proverbial straw. Various stresses had begun to build. By fall, I realized I was starting to crack, and sought ways to cope. When I found myself considering inpatient psychiatric treatment, I knew something had to change. I'd long suspected that meditation should help, but could never get into it on my own. I'd looked into potential places to check out group meditation since before moving to Chicago. Now was the time to act. Just after Samhain, I took a bold step and went alone to my first introductory Zen meditation. I’d never fathomed what I would find there.

Within the first few weeks of going to sit for zazen meditation, I recognized that I felt more centered, and grounded, and calm in my day to day life. In addition, I also found an amazing community that supports one another and is more welcoming than I could have imagined. I frequently came home high on the combined spiritual and social experience at the dojo.

I could gush and fawn for pages. I did both to anyone who would listen for months afterward. To keep it brief: I fell head over heels, heart mind and soul in love with the sangha, and their particular flavour of Buddhism. For the next six months or so, I was at the dojo at every opportunity. I attended brief (and sometimes not so brief) retreats. I couldn't get enough. When I heard about one of the projects they were working on, there was no way I wasn't going to get involved.

An urban Buddhist center's a great thing. But it's not enough. Last year land was purchased and the foundation laid for the beginning of what will be a a rural retreat center. It is being built from the ground up, utilizing nothing but volunteer labor and grassroots fundraising. In March the work season started up for this year. I was eager to put in my blood, sweat, and tears to help bring this project to life.

And I have. The first weekend of the season was just prepping the site for construction work yet to come. “Just.” Three or four of us spent the entire time hauling thick brambles and small trees that had been been freshly cut, clearing space for future work. The sweat was fast and first to come. Midway through the weekend, a small piece of bark, or dirt, or other debris wound up in my eye. There were plenty of tears which flowed in the effort to flush it out. The blood... was relatively minor, but not to be denied. I was working in short sleeves, and mostly without work gloves. When one of the brambles caught my arm, it left an arc of broken skin and blood behind. I wore my wound proudly.

The last time I was on site, as I was trudging up and down the steep hill hauling lumber down to the developing training hall, the director of the project spoke to motivate me through my weariness. He encouraged me to imagine how the place would look in ten years: with a completed training hall down the hill, the residential house just off the path where we were working; completed trails, and gardens... and to be able to look back and think of how I had contributed to making it a reality. He was gone before I could catch my breath to say so, but I thought about the now-fading scar on my arm; “I carry this place with me everywhere I go.” I'm sad that the scar is fading, but I don't need the physical reminder to remember the lasting mark the retreat center, the sangha, and Zen itself have made upon me.

---

post-script: my original completion of this Task follows, for the same reason it was posted: because it amuses me. What amuses me even more is how it was neglected for being so "obviously" untrue

I had initially intended to interest you in an immensely inspiring tale, in entirety incommensurable from this which instead invites your intrigue. But that was before last night. Mayhaps I'll update this at a later time with my original story...

Against my better judgment*, last night found me primping and preening to become a Carnal schoolgirl**. In spite of being expected at work this morning***, and having a class to attend this evening****, I made my way to the dark deep depths of the goth club. Whereupon I proceeded to alternate between dancing with abandon, and perceiving the plethora of pleasing people both on and off the dance floor.

Much fun and enjoyment both were collected throughout the night. But eventually the rumblings of hunger and exhaustion began to stir. I sleepily suggested to my mates in mayhem that we adjourn for food.

I'm not entirely certain of the course of events for the rest of the night. That I was driving while inebriated on sleep deprivation might have been the scariest part of this tale. However, more frightening still was the creature that must have attacked me.



It happened sometime between crashing for a few measly hours' sleep, circa 4 or 5 am, and waking into a semblance of proper consciousness with which to face the day. I vaguely recall a shock of shaggy, curly fur, and long gangly limbs. I had thought it a dream that I was for a time pinned from above, before fighting for and gaining escape. This was only temporary, as we tussled and struggled for advantage, before I felt teeth sink into my skin.

It wasn't until I arrived at work that I felt, and then saw the bruise left behind from the encounter. Was the creature real? Was it something from the Beyond come to find its Lady? I can't really be sure. Like so many things for this Lady, the lines between here and the Beyond tend to blur...



* which is generally how I prefer to do things
** of which there are, sadly, no pictures
*** to which I made it, and only 20 minutes late
**** which I chose to skip, lest I fall face first into unconsciousness upon my desk