Miss Thang! (Thing)

I had an interesting realization on my third day of sesshin. I was noticing how often my teaching came up during zazen: how often I thought about my lessons, the kids, what the parents thought of me, etc.
"Wow," I thought. "Being a good teacher is really important to you."
"Well, duh," I responded. "Of course being a good teacher is important to me. What would I be if I weren't a good teacher?"
And then I thought about it. What would I be if I weren't a teacher? What would I be if my identity weren't caught up in how my students felt each day, whether or not the lesson went well, how the parents felt I was doing in terms of keeping their kids engaged in and excited about school.
"You'd just be your self," I suggested.
"My self?" I thought for a second, and freaked out. "Who would that be?"
And I had no idea. Who would I be if I weren't a teacher? Who would I be if I weren't all the things I hope and desire and want to be? How would I know if I was doing okay or being right or living the way I was supposed to if I weren't all those things I thought I was supposed to be? Who would I be if I weren't trying to be what I thought I was supposed to be.
And that's when I realized that I wanted to be a thing. I wanted to be a teacher, I wanted to be a good person, I wanted to be a good friend, I wanted to be someone you can rely on. I wanted to be all those things that I could evaluate, that I could use to judge myself, that I could use to determine if I was safe, accepted, and right.
Being my self? That was scary. Who knows what being myself is? Who knows what that's supposed to be? Being a teacher, a good one, that's easy. It's not that it's easy, it's that it's clear whether you're doing it well or not. But being your self, especially when you don't know who that is, is totally wild. You have no idea whether you're right or wrong and so you can make mistakes and mess up at every turn. Being yourself is really vague so I think I wanted to be a teacher- a thing- because it was clear, it was easy, it was definable.
But in the end, when I thought more about it, about who I would be if I weren't a thing, if my identity weren't defined by my ability as a teacher; I realized, that I'd just be me, being a teacher. My identity as a teacher would be secondary, it would be part of who I am, but not all of who I am. And to be honest, it really is who I am. It's true that I'm a teacher and it's true that I think a lot about how to be a good one but in the end, I'm never only going to be a good teacher or a bad teacher and I'm never going to be either of them; I'm only going to be me.
I think it's normal to want to be a thing. I think it makes sense. But I realize that I'm not. I'm really messy and all over the place and I have good days and I have bad but I'm not a thing, I'm not fixed, I can't ever be good or bad, it just doesn't work that way. All I can be is me.

30 days in Japan... with no plan.

Lately, people have been asking me what I am going to do this summer.
"I'm going to Japan," I answer, "for a month."
"Wow!" they respond. "How exciting! What are you going to do there?"
"I don't know yet," I answer.
"Who are you going with?" they ask.
"I'm just going by myself," I answer
That's usually when their eyes get big. They also often ask, "Do you speak any Japanese?"
To which I answer, "Nope, not a word."
"Whuh.....oh!" they reply and then they say something to the effect of "You are really brave!" or "That's more adventure than I could handle!"
And then I don't know what to do.
Because when they say that, I realize, that I, am going to Japan, for thirty days. I have no accommodations, no plans for where I am going, and I don't speak a word of the language of the country in which I will need to navigate my way around for an entire month. All I know is that I have a flight, to Tokyo, which arrives on June 2nd and leaves on July 2nd, that's all.

This should be concerning, this should be cause for alarm (or at least cause for a visit to a tourist bureau or a good read through a guide book), I should be doing something so that when I get to Japan, I won't be totally lost and dependent upon the people there to help me.
But everytime I think about going to Japan, all I see is people being friendly and trying to help me. I picture a train station, with lots of trains and figure that one of them will get me to where I am going. I picture hotels, with lots of rooms, and a front desk person. I picture guest houses, with really happy owners, anxious to know if my stay at their home was nice. I picture mountains with trails on them that I can walk on, temples with gardens that I can visit, and a really busy city, with noodle bars and maybe some sake. Hmmm, I wonder what I'll drink when I'm in Japan- I wonder if they have juice. Oh...tea...I guess I'll learn to like tea.

Honestly, I don't know if it's because I'm being ignorant or delusional. I don't know if it's because of my experience in Myanmar last summer in which I didn't know the language but was ferried from person to person with loving kindness. I don't know if it's stupidity and poor planning. All I know is that everytime I sit down to plan what I'm doing, it seems so foreign, so removed, so far from the reality of being there, it seems like a waste of time.

I have tried to make plans. My original plan was to hike, from hut to hut, in the Japanese alps. But as soon as I got the "Hiking in Japan" guidebook, I discovered that the huts don't open until after I leave the country, in July. I had also planned to visit Ei-Hei-Ji (Dogen's temple) for a three night, four day "practice" program. I applied for this, via fax, way back in March. But, as of yet, I haven't heard back from the temple whether or not I can come visit.
So maybe that's it. The plans I've tried to make, didn't really help: there's still snow on the alps so I can't hike them, and, for whatever reason, the temple hasn't responded. So now it seems silly to plan for my visit. It feels like I won't really know what I'm going to do until I get there.
Mostly though, it feels, like a country full of people. I'll arrive, I'll get on train, I'll go somewhere. I'll find a place to stay. see the surroundings, and then get on another train, to somewhere else.
When I really think about it, it feels kind of risky, and might be really expensive. But when I don't think about it, it feels like there will be a place to stay each night, food to eat each day, and a way to get from one place to another.
I think I'm going to look in to a train pass, and accommodations for the day that I arrive and for the night before I leave- that seems like a wise thing to do.
The funny thing is, in mentioning to people that I'm going to Japan, with no plans, I've had people telling me about their adventures in Japan or the friends that they know of or places they've heard of. In having no plans, I'm actually getting all kinds of plans for my visit- ones that I never would have thought of on my own and probably wouldn't have found in a guide book.
So for now, I'm going to Japan, with no plan, and am open to suggestions...

The community of HoHos and birthday cake

I have a funny response to eating meals at the zen center. Often, after eating there, I leave with this desire to have a doughnut, or a HoHo, or something which, to me, feels especially gluttonous or luxurious, or indulgent.
I always assumed that I was doing this- "treating" myself to these "indulgences"- because I felt like I had "deprived" myself when I ate at the zen center. I think this perception of "deprivation" came from the fact that I often ate lunch there- which is usually a simple soup and slice of bread- or oryoki- a basic meal in which you take "just enough" of each food offering to sustain yourself (there's actually much more to oryoki than that but, for the sake of understanding, we'll just focus on that for now).
This morning, as I was riding my bike home from an oryoki breakfast at the zen center, I had that same feeling again: of wanting some "indulgence" or "treat." But this time, I remembered my association with these treats. I remembered that I often turn to these treats when I am lonely. I remembered that I associate these treats with being surrounded by my cousins and grandma or with having a cake made for me on my birthday. What I look for, in having these treats, is the feelings that I associate with them: being surrounded by doting family members and feeling loved.
"Lonely?" I thought. "But I'm not feeling lonely, I just left the zen center, where I was surrounded by friends and community."
"Oh my gosh!" I thought to myself. "I'm leaving the zen center. I've just spent all morning in community. I sat zazen with my fellow practitioners in the zendo, celebrated a ceremony in the courtyard with good friends, did soji with strangers, and ate oryoki- breakfast- in the zendo with the sangha. I'm not feeling deprived of food, I'm feeling deprived of community. In riding away from the zen center where I am surrounded by others, toward the isolation of my apartment where I am alone, I am removing myself from the feeling of belonging and connection that I love so much.
It took me forever to figure this out. My body, however, has known this all along. It felt how I felt when I had meals at the zen center, it enjoyed that community and connection, and it knew it was going home to an empty apartment. That's why it was craving the treats of my summers with grandma and childhood family gatherings- not because it wanted indulgence, but because it wanted belonging, community, love. It was asking for it in how it remembered it most: HoHos and birthday cakes...

Taking refuge in the dharma- NOT chocolate

You know when you're feeling tired, or sick, and it's your day to go to the gym and you think to yourself', "I shouldn't go to the gym. I'm not feeling well. I should take the day off, 'treat' myself, not 'make myself' go to the gym."
But then, for some reason, you go to the gym anyway, and you end up feeling better because you went to the gym than if you had stayed home and 'treated' yourself? It doesn't always happen this way, but you know those days when it does?  It's like proof of what you knew already- the gym actually is good for you. But because things that are "good" for us often feel like something we are supposed to do, we feel like not doing them is a treat, a getting away with something, a lavishing on ourselves, a letting go of following all those rules. But in the end, not doing what we know is actually good for us, often ends up being kind of being "bad" for us.

I think this is what is meant by "Taking refuge in the dharma."

I think, that when we are bummed out, or sad, or lonely, what we want to do, is take refuge in chocolate (or T.V., or a beer, or escape or... greed, hate, and delusion). By 'taking refuge' I mean that we want to avoid our situation or make things better by doing that other thing. If I'm sad and want to avoid the reality of my day, I go to the store and get a HoHo. I only got HoHos when I was at my Grandma's house in the summer time, laying around in my swim suit, watching T.V., surrounded by cousins and a Grandma who doted on me. I don't think that I consciously associate a HoHo with that feeling that I had during those summers but I do know that I reach for a HoHo when I am sad and that the thoughts in my head when I eat one are 'you are loved' and 'you are special.' It's a nice place to be and I think I go there to make myself feel better. I think I actually find some comfort in it, some escape from who I was that day- it's like a little shelter, an oasis, a refuge.
But afterward , as soon as that HoHo is eaten, my day is still there. I was still who I was. And I am still who I am: someone who just ate a HoHo. And HoHos aren't all that good. They might be good on your tongue, but they're mostly oil and fat and they're kind of plasticky and I think it's kind of sad that I eat them because I know they aren't good for me. It was the doting and being surrounded by cousins and feeling loved that was good for me, not the HoHo.
And I think that the dharma is good for you. I think that what I need, when I've had a bad day, is to let go of it, to know that it's over, to maybe notice who I was in it, notice how I responded, and maybe even be kind to myself around it.
It isn't easy to do this- it's not my first inclination, it isn't what I associate with "treating" myself or being "good" to myself. Honestly, it feels like pushing myself or doing extra work. But I think, in the end, that that is what is going to actually help me. I think that in the long run, taking refgue in the dharma (and honestly, I don't really know what I mean when I use this term. I don't think it's anything specific other than doing what you know is appropriate for that situation, no matter how difficult that may be) not in avoidance or distraction or all those other things that seem pleasant but that really, you totally know aren't going to help you, is kind of what will make things better in the long run.
It's kind of like an admonition. It's kind of like: I know, I know, things are a bummer and you totally want do those things that used to make you feel good. But stop, accept that it's a bummer, and look to what you've been learning about yourself to determine what to do next- what do you know about how you feel, about what's coming up for you around this. Take your refuge there- in kindness to yourself- not in chocolate.

Wannabe...

I was in my classroom one morning, thinking to myself, "I wish I could be like my teacher. I wish that when kids did things that annoyed me or disrupted the class, I could meet them with a deep breath or inquisitiveness."
And then I thought some more about my teacher, about the fact that you just don't mess with my teacher. But it's not because you're afraid of him or that he'll yell at you, it's just that you want to do what he holds you to- it's like you want to meet his expectations, because he's meeting them.

And so then I picutred myself, being like my teacher: sitting on that square box in the middle of the Buddha Hall, giving a dharma talk, all poised and upright.
And then I laughed. Because when I pictured myself up there, sitting on that box, I pictured myself being all wiggly and taking a long time to settle in to my posture, and maybe smiling at the audience while they waited for me, maybe even making a joke about "these darn robes."
"Oh," I thought to myself. "You definitely would not be like your teacher. You can't be him, you just aren't him, it's just not you."

And then I thought about the last dokusan I had had with my teacher. In it, I had asked my teacher to tell me about his experience with giving up control.
He responded by asking, "Don't you think it would make more sense for you to tell me about your experience with it?"
"No," I thought. "Why would we talk about me? You're the one with all the experience, you're the one who's been practicing longer than I've been alive, you're the zen master; I'm just the student, sitting here waiting to be taught."

Of course I didn't say any of that. I actually don't remember what I said, but I do know that I left dokusan with a lens through which to notice myself around control.
And I did, I noticed a lot about myself as a result, and grew in some ways, loosened in others, but mostly just saw myself in relationship with control.
At the time, I thought my teacher did this (put it back on me) because he knew that I was the only one who could learn about myself and control, I  was the only one who could do the learning around this, that he couldn't possibly begin to give me pointers about giving up control in my life any better than I could, because he wasn't me, he wasn't living my life.

But that morning, in my classroom, as I was picturing myself being my teacher, wanting to be just like him, and realizing that I just wasn't him, it occurred to me that this practice, isn't about being someone. It isn't about reaching some perfect behavior or poise. It isn't about achieving some moral status or place of equanimity. This practice is actually all about becoming the self- it's about self actualization, seeing the self, studying the self, being who you are.
So when I asked my teacher about his experience with control it actually didn't make sense. Why would I talk about his experience with control if the point of all this is to be who you are. Learning about him, isn't going to teach me about my self. And trying to be him, is so barking up the wrong tree. I'm walking down the totally wrong path by trying to emulate him or figure out how to be him. That does absolutely nothing for self actualization.
What I really need to do is be me in my classroom, find my own place of equanimity and poise, settle in to whoever it is that I am, and then just be it.

The last moments of sesshin

The tanto had cautioned us on the second-to-last day of sesshin to not look forward to after sesshin. She explained that often, when we do this, two things happen: what happens after sesshin is never the same as how we had planned it and, in spending our time thinking about what will happen after sesshin, we waste our actual time in sesshin.
I heeded her caution. I didn't pack my bag until the last break. I treated each zazen sesssion on that last day as if it were the first. Each time I caught myself planning for what I would do on Friday night and Saturday morning, I stopped myself and came back to my breath.
But on the last day of sesshin, during the last zazen period, I have to admit that I was looking forward to the final clap of the clackers after the meal chant. I pictured myself running from table to table in the dining hall, finally being able to express my gratitude to all of the people who had supported me during sesshin.
But just like the tanto said, what happened after sesshin did not match what I had planned.

After the last zazen period of sesshin, we chanted the Dai Hi Shin Darani- the very same chant we had chanted at my mother's memorial ceremony last fall. As I heard it and looked around the room at all of the people gathered, feelings came up; feelings that were so strong, I started to cry.
I sat with them, let myself feel them, and then inquired about them: What are these feelings? What is coming up?
Exposure. I answered. And lack of trust.
I felt them some more.
People are talking. They are talking about her.
And then it hit me. I remembered. I remembered being at my mom's funeral or memorial service or whatever it was we had where there were a lot of grownups and they were all talking about my mom. I remember this, I actually remember being there. 
And this is what I remembered. I remembered that everyone was talking about it, about her, about how wonderful she was and how much she would be missed. But no one was talking to me.
They would talk to me. They would tell me how sweet my mom was and how wonderful she was, but no one actually talked to me. No one asked me how I was doing. No one asked me if I was sad. No one acknowledged the fact that I had lost my mother- or at least, I don't remember anyone doing that. But I definitely remember them talking about it. And I think that's why I felt betrayed- they knew what had happened but they wouldn't talk about it.
This is what I felt during the Dai Hi Shin Darani. And then it was over and I thought the feeling was over, but it wasn't. Because then, we chanted the refuges in Pali and I wanted to cry again. I pictured that six year old, probably feeling really sad about all of this, and crying and I thought someone must have held me, someone must have let me cry in their lap or on their shoulder. And I decided that one of my aunts or my grandma probably did this.
The final bell rang, we bowed, and sesshin was over. I stayed behind in the zendo to offer incense for the mother of the practitioner who had been sitting right next to me for the entire sesshin. Afterward, I saw her as I walked out of the zendo. I wondered how I would express to her my feelings of shared loss and whether or not that was appropriate.
And then I was walking upstairs to the dining room. I was still feeling shaky. The feelings weren't really done. I didn't know what to do. I had to eat dinner- I just needed to. But I couldn't imagine sitting with others- talking as if none of this had just happened. I also really didn't want to sit at the silent table. I felt like such a killjoy sitting there- what a total bummer on our final meal together where we usually laugh and smile and are giddy with the relief of finally being able to speak.
I walked in to the kitchen, I didn't really have a choice in the matter, and got my food. I got my utensils and napkin and knew that the silent table was where I had to be. I walked over to it, bowed, and sat down with my back to the room. And then, there I was, with a plate of food in front of me and abolutely no desire to eat. I started to sob again, though I didn't know why. We chanted the meal chant and I finally got the words right but by the end of it, I still didn't want to eat. I listened as voices filled the room, overheard conversations about this day and that, "Is that what you meant?" and "I so wanted to tell you..."
I looked at my food again but a feeling of absolute sadness overwhelmed me. I finally pushed the plate away and realized that I was going to have to feel this one. So, I did. I leaned forward to put my head on my hands and started to cry. I sobbed, made a mess of myself, tried to wipe my face a bunch of times, but basically just kept sobbing at the table.
"You lied," was what I thought. "You said she was in heaven. You said God had taken his favorite angel back. You said she would always be there, watching over me...but she wasn't."
And then I pictured myself, my six year old self, going back to my bedroom, and having my mom not be there. And I think that's when I lost it. I knew I had to cry.
I pushed my chair away from my table, bowed to it, and headed for the roof. It took a really long time to get to the roof. As soon as I got there I headed as far across it as I could and sat down in the farthest corner and cried.
"You weren't there!" I cried. "They said you would be there and you weren't, ever. You were just gone. You weren't in heaven or watching over me or anything like that. You were just gone."
And I cried. I cried the tears of a six year old. They were full and pleading but mostly they were sad. I let them cry for a long time, fully gave in to them, until my six year old self calmed down and sighed. And then I looked at my mom.
"I really loved you. You were a really good mom and I really really loved you and you went away."
"I know," she answered. "I'm really sorry about that. I wish I could have stayed."
I don't remember what I said next but we both acknowledged this loss and I think I expressed my love for her. Because she was a really good mom. I thought I didn't remember that. I thought I never really had her but I did, I really did, and it was sad when she was gone.

After that I calmed down. I rocked myself back and forth a bit, but didn't know what to do next. What I really wanted, was for someone to come to the roof, see me, put their arms around me and tell me that it was okay. I wondered who would do this- wondered who would fit this role but realized there wasn't really anyone who could do this, not appropriately so. I wasn't six anymore. Yes I wanted to be held and cared for but in this case, there wasn't really anyone who played that role in my life.
But I also knew that I couldn't just sit there, on the roof, waiting for someone to notice me. I knew I had to go back downstairs, to find company of my own accord. At first, I considered returning to the silent table, but that felt isolating and what I was wanting was the company of others. So then I considered going to the talking table.
"NO way!" I initially reacted, "That is not a good idea."
But then I remembered two things I had learned during sesshin: when you feel yourself tightening up, notice this and try to step back and loosen instead and, when you feel like you can't do what's skillful, try at least to not do what you habitually do.
I could see that I was trying to protect myself from intimacy by refusing to sit at the talking table. I also knew that it was a little too much to ask me to sit at the talking table after I had, basically, just acted out the loss of my mother. So I decided to do both things: not do my habit and loosen up.
"Maybe you could sit at the talking table and just listen. Maybe you could just come up and sit down and people would kind of pick up on what you're going through or you could even tell them that you're feeling kind of quiet. Just try the talking table."
So I did. I walked back to the dining room. But by the time I got there, everyone had gone. There was one small table of people but that felt a little too intimate for me, so I walked back out.
And then I still didn't know what to do. I knew I wanted company- knew that was the right thing to do, but everyone had left, or was leaving, or was kind of moving on from the whole sesshin thing. It was Friday night after all.
I finally decided to go up to my friend's room- to just walk in and ask for a hug and let it go at that. I got there, knocked lightly, but heard no answer. I considered leaving but saw their shoes were there and saw that I was drawing away from intimacy, not really trying, letting it just be that I hadn't knocked loudly enough. I gave myself one more try, knocked firmly and listened for any sound of life, but there was none so I left.
As I walked back down to my room to get my things I ran into two people from sesshin. Both of them greeted me with such warmth but all I could do was bow, deeply to them. I just didn't have the words just then.
Just outside my room I ran into one of the people whom I had spilled on when I was serving oryoki.
"I am so sorry!" I said to her as soon as I saw her. "I think I spilled amaranth on your hand and I didn't know what to do..."
"I know!" she said. "I saw you go for the towel and I wanted to say 'It's okay- I'm totally fine!"
We laughed about this, discussed the forms for towels and how she was able to finally get the amaranth off her hand.

As I packed up my things and left the building I realized that it was mostly over. Yes, I had gone through a pretty big thing that night but now it was over. That was all. It just happened. And yes, I had tried to make contact again. I had considered isolation but chose against it. It's true that no one was in the dining room and my friend wasn't in their room and now I really was all alone. At first I thought this was a lesson, that I was learning how to deal with this all by myself, that that was why we had places like the silent table. But then I decided that this was just the way things happened tonight. I think it just was, it just was.
I went home, dropped off my stuff, texted my friend one more time but got no answer. I considered going out for a burger but really didn't want meat. That night, meat really felt like suffering. So I got blueberry pancakes instead.
The pancakes were really good but after about a third of the way through, I was full. I considered eating anyway, to feel all "reckless abandon" after eating "just enough" all week but I took a breath instead and felt my stomach. I didn't want to feel over stuffed and I knew that the only reason I was eating the rest was to not make the server feel bad or waste food. I started to get up and leave and then I thought about whether or not I had breakfast at home for tomorrow morning.
"Perfect!" I thought. "I can bring this home as leftovers and actually have breakfast in the morning."
I asked the server for a doggie bag, packed it up, and left.

On my way home, I kept starting to write a blogpost in my head about what had happened, about how I had actually felt what I never got to when I was six. I cautioned myself to be patient, to not write the post until I could get home and actually write it. I also told myself that I was writing a blogpost for connection, that I was hoping that my friends would read it, so that they would know what I was going through. I pointed out to myself that what I should do is call my friends or go to their house or just go be with someone and talk about it.
But it kept coming up, this need to write this post, this need to express what happened, so I gave in to it. I wrote this post.
I considered holding on to it, writing it just for myself and waiting to publish it until I could make it neat or until I could write other stuff about sesshin. But I think I really am writing it to tell you what happened. Maybe I couldn't tell you in person. Maybe if I had seen you I would have thought it was too heavy or maybe it would have come up, I don't know. I just know that something in me wanted you to know that this happened, wanted you to be a part of it.

And now, I know nothing...

I was jiko tonight. At the end of zazen, I heard someone close the doshi door and I thought it was a little strange. I wondered if we were having a special ceremony or if some gong was going to be gonged and that that was why they had closed the door. But then zazen ended, and the bell rang in the zendo, but then also, a gong gonged outside.
"Huh." I thought, "I wonder which one is in charge- the gong outside the zendo or the little bell inside the zendo." I looked around- no one seemed to be preparing for anything special and no one had said anything about a ceremony, so I decided that things were normal. And then I realized that if things were normal, I needed to hurry up and get to the altar so that I could light the incense for service.
When I got to the altar, there wasn't a stick of incense resting on the edge of the altar like normal. I glanced at the ino for direction but couldn't make eye contact. So, I decided that the person who had closed the doshi door didn't have time to put out the incense and decided that I should just grab a stick myself. I picked one up, looked over at the ino again, thought I saw a nod, and so lit the incense. Then I stood there, watched the doshi from the corner of my eye, and bowed when he bowed.
Someone must have left the zendo at that point because I heard the ino say "Please wait for the doshi to exit before you leave." When I heard that, I figured we were back on track and everything was normal. But then the ino approached the altar, said "Special ceremony" and motioned to the doshi that he could exit.
I watched as the doshi walked toward the doshi door and wondered what to do. He was leaving. I was supposed to follow him. But I had a stick of incense in my hands, and it was lit. I couldn't put it down, I didn't know where to put it down. I briefly considered placing it next to the one that was already in the altar but that seemed like I was just putting down incense and it felt like putting down incense was just something you didn't do. I watched as the doshi approached the doshi door. He looked over his shoulder at me, as if to wonder when I was coming. So then I decided that we were still in our roles as doshi and jiko- that I should still be holding the incense and he would still be bowing at an altar, but that the altar was someplace else.
I quickly followed him out of the zendo, up the stairs, laughing at myself for carrying the stick of incense back out of the zendo. Then we got to the top of the stairs and he bowed to me, like we always do when service is over, and I was stuck. Clearly, our job together was over: he had bowed to me, there wasn't going to be another altar. But here I was, with this stick of incense, and nowhere to put it. I laughed again, stood as far back against the wall as I could, and waited for the ino. I watched as people filed past me and walked into the courtyard for the Spring Equinox Ceremony.
"Oh," I thought. "That's what's going on." But then someone approached me and asked if the doshi was going to be doshi for this ceremony and explained that there was special incense for the ceremony.
"I have no idea," I explained. "I'm just holding this incense because I don't know where else to put it."
She went back to what she was doing and I stood back against the wall.
Finally, I saw the ino pass by and asked what to do with the incense. She kindly told me how to take care of it, even took the time to explicitly show me where to put it, then bowed to me and went off to take care of the Spring Equinox Ceremony. After all that I was ready to go home. So I headed down to the coat room, got my stuff, and walked out to my bike.
As I was unlocking my bike, I heard the gong for the ceremony and said to myself, "Okay, so when you hear a gong and a bell in the zendo, it means there's a special ceremony. Wait, and follow the ino's lead for what to do. And if you get to the altar, and there's no incense, don't light a new one. Definitely do not light incense if no one has put any there for you. I'm not quite sure what you should do instead, but I know for sure that you should not light incense."
And then I stopped.
"No you don't." I said. "You don't know what's going to happen next time: you don't know who's going to be doshi, you don't know if someone is going to forget to put out incense for you. The next special ceremony might even take place inside the zendo, and then maybe you should light incense and wait for the doshi.
You experienced what just happened now, and you have an idea of how things might happen the next time, but you know...nothing."
"And now..." I laughed (at myself, at the experience, at the futility) ".. you know nothing."