Satori on Parris Island, 1968

.
(“Satori” – a Japanese Zen term for a flash of sudden insight, a small shot of instant enlightenment, a profound step on the path to awakening.)
.
November/December 1968: Parris Island, South Carolina, U.S. Marine Corps Boot Camp. It was one hell of a bad place for a sensitive student of Zen striving for peace of mind and a glimpse of enlightenment.
.
One item of military business right off the bat was specifying vital info for our dog-tags: i.e., name, serial number, branch of military service, blood type, and religious preference. But on this last item, religion, I just didn’t fit in – as I never have fit in with any defined group anywhere in my life.
.
The most relevant quasi-religious label for me in those days and nights of extreme discipline would have been “Zen Buddhist.” After all, some state of mind near that had been my solace and discipline in the years before my enlistment – and that was especially true of my last summer and autumn between high school and the Corps, where I meditated in the forest.
.
(“Zen” – Japanese term for a higher meditative state. It is derived from the same word and concept in: Pali, “jhana”; Sanskrit, “dhyana”; Chinese, “Ch’an”; Korean, “Son.”)
.
Yet “Zen Buddhist” was only partially true for me. I never identified much with it as a “religion” or with the modern Zen schools in Japan – except for their historical warrior ethos, their visual aesthetics and some of their great poets. I was always too much of a Thoreau-like loner with no drummer to march to. I just don’t belong.
.
My own intro to Zen was scandalous, via Jack Kerouac’s Beat Zen and Gary Snyder’s translations of the “Cold Mountain Poems” of the ancient Chinese mountain hermit poet and Ch’an/Zen-lunatic Han Shan. So, should I have inscribed on my dog-tags something like “Ch’an-Zen-Taoist Beatnik forest hermit hipster”? Too big for the dog-tag plates.
.
Also, I was afraid of writing down “Zen Buddhist” because I feared that I would have the living shit beat out of me by my Drill Instructors for my heathenish and un-American ways. These guys were all-American warriors but not thoughtful scholars. So I caved in to fear and had to choose the only obligatory religious label left: “No Preference.” That has embarrassed me ever since because I was so cowardly. After all, I was going off to war, and possibly to my death, so I should have customized my own epitaph.
.
Ok, now to the satori.
.
On Sundays we had choices of religious services to attend in the morning: Protestant, Catholic or Jewish. If you refused these you stayed at the barracks and were worked extremely hard by the D.I. there. I chose Protestant just to get out and get the chance to sit and meditate in a chair while the preacher droned about something in the background.
.
Going to and from church was a more relaxed kind of march, where we stayed in step but didn’t have to put our heels down hard as the usual. The D.I. just took us there and back, with no pressure, and it was very peaceful – my favorite time of the week. A kind of “walking zen.”
.
It was a Sunday morning in early winter, with a hard driving rain, very dark skies, and thunder and lightening. We all wore our green GI rain ponchos, the huge ones with the big hoods to fit over helmet and gear. I fell into a meditative trance as we stepped along on the wet pavement.
.
Then, I looked up and around at my fellow boots/recruits. All heads and faces were bowed against the driving rain and were invisible because of the huge hoods, and everyone was just looking at the feet of the guy in front of them. All ponchos were waving back and forth together in perfect easy rhythm as we marched along in step.
.
Satori! Suddenly it seemed that we were all Zen monks hundreds of years ago at a Kyoto temple, in perfect harmonious movement.
.
That little flash has continued to fill me with immense joy and a meditative high whenever I think back on it.
.
-Zenwind.
.