The Moss Garden Journal Of Chan Wing Tsit Read online

  Chapter 10

  I poured myself into study and learned enough to deal with the daily business around the lodge. I soon could understand much of what was discussed around me, but as few ever engaged me in conversation, my ability to converse lagged far behind. After some time, Nowamooks shifted her attention from vocabulary and grammar and began to lecture me on the relationships and connections, clans and culture and legends and history.

  Our village was called Nahcotta. It was the most northern and western of the Tsinuk villages, established to serve the needs of Northern traders whose large boats pulled up on our beach heavily loaded with northern trade goods.

  Nowamooks and I often watched the hubbub surrounding the unloading of boats. Small traders crowded around as goods were sorted, trying to skim of better items before bigger traders simply bought up the lot.

  It appeared to me that traders enjoyed the entertainment and social exchange as much as making profit. Trade involved matching wits with other traders, but practical concerns abounded. Goods arriving in Nahcotta were either exchanged there or transported to inland trading sites like Yakaitl-Wimakl. Nowamooks explained, “Everybody has to come through us to get to and from the River.”

  “They don’t use their own boats?” It seemed an obvious question. We’d watched them arrive.

  “They come in their boats, but it’s foolish to risk the River’s mouth…and they’d have to survive it twice to bring their boats home. So many trade here to avoid the expensed and trouble. They have to arrange transport and housing their crews if they want to sell their own goods upriver.”

  “Oh?” I was intrigued.

  “Think about it…portage is expensive, add feeding crews and arranging boats to the trading site…then transporting and portaging what they buy back here. It’s seldom worth it. Easier to just visit, gamble and meet friends, and maybe buy a few special things in the Great River’s sites. It avoids worry over whether your profit offsets the cost. Trading here, then visiting sends traders home with almost as many stories and a comfortable profit. It’s all a balance of cost and risk…except for those who live for the challenge. For them that’s as important as profit.”

  Nowamooks glanced to see if I understood. I nodded and she continued, “I think it’s seldom worth the problems. Wise old traders usually do business here…beginners often want to try, at least once. It doesn’t matter to us. Either way we profit. Taking advantage of traders would lose business. Tewaugh arranges portage and leases boats as well as trading himself. It’s profitable. It takes constant trading to know what things are worth. Few outsiders can do it wisely.

  Though I’d seen bundles of otter skin and boxes of dried salmon on the beach or piled in lodge alcoves. But I’d never thought about where they went. I’d little beyond my father’s stories about traders to help me understand the concepts. Watching shopkeepers as a youth taught me nothing.

  Nowamooks tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Coming here with so much wealth traders want the best of everything, the finest craftwork, tools, jewelry, weapons. And sometimes the obvious larger items aren’t the most valuable; some carry dentalia, whalebone, abalone or obsidian.”

  I’d noticed that some traders stopped and unloaded while others merely paused, but I’d never looked deeper. Traders often lingered among us before returning home. The conversation filled the gaps in my knowledge.

  Whether owned by visitors or Tsinuk traders, nearly everything arriving here was portaged to Yakaitl-Wimakl and taken upriver to the trading sites. There were hundreds of villages eager to trade along the two big rivers, but the trading centers like Yakaitl-Wimakl at the rapids were famous.

  The Great River’s mouth was notoriously treacherous. Every few years foolish traders risked their lives to avoid the costs of portage; survivors were considered heroes, but Komkomis claimed he’d never heard of anyone risking it twice. Most died, with the remains of their boats and goods collected by the Tillamook on the south side of the River. The Tillamooks had grown rich from what washed up on their shore.

  Everything proved more complicated than I first assumed. Instead of a sleepy fishing village Nahcotta was a major portal between an inland empire and the wealthy north. But Tsinuks were not simply doing business like the cartels of Guangdong; here, trade was a religion, a reason for existence. It was cultural identity and passion for even the lowliest Tsinuk paddlers. Everyone here considered themselves traders because they were Tsinuk.

  It seemed Komkomis was relieved that Nowamooks took over my education. I was relieved to finally learn she was his sister and not a wife. I’d had secret fears about spending so much time with her, but now felt freed to simply enjoy her company. I relished each day and savored each tingling moment of closeness.

  Though I’d learned a lot I was far from true competency. I’d mastered little beyond being polite and felt buried under complexities. Talk might not cook rice…quite the opposite, not speaking could easily leave me hungry.

  In the 9th century, Nan-ch’uan’s disciple I-tuan taught that, “Speech misleads, silence lies…being transcends.” But such wisdom was hard to apply when my greatest need was mastery of the language. I would not survive without grasping Tsinuk words and ideas. What use was wisdom in the face of such truth?

  But I felt I was as far from mastering Tsinuk as I was from China. But despite the problems, like the explorers of Emperor Shun who’d learned the languages of Fu Sang, I vowed to learn Tsinuk.

  Then one morning almost out of the blue, I woke from a dream…and realized with a start that I had been dreaming in Tsinuk. With that one invisible change a great many things became clear; both Tsinuk words and ways suddenly made sense. Nowamooks explained offhandedly that my Tsinuk totems had finally settled themselves within me.

  Even if my speaking was inadequate, I could easily follow complex conversations. Councils were my greatest challenge; for people spoke rapidly and with great feeling. Contentious issues were often obscure and explanations draped in metaphor, but I gradually learned to make sense of them. Sitting behind Comcomly and obviously a stranger, few of those appearing before me truly realized just how much of their sometimes-intimate issues I grasped.

  Forcing my learning, Nowamooks buried me under a jungle of rhetorical subtleties. Chinese was a far simpler language. For whole constellations of Tsinuk changed depending on age or status or clan or family or gender. The seasons and situation affected the vocabulary as much as who might be speaking or listening. I felt lost.

  I gained another good friend in those early days, another friend willing to explain things. “Uncle” to all in the village, “Old” Uncle Tanaka now tended fires, watched grandchildren, and repeated stories about people’s grandparents. A flathead noble, he’d been a warrior, trader and lodge-builder for Comcomly’s father and father’s father, but he was ancient now and outlived both wives and children. Without close family he waiting for castoffs and slept in corners, but always ate.

  We met in a downpour taking refuge under the overhanging eaves on Comcomly’s lodge. His once-broad shoulders sagged and he muttered to himself, but he had vast experience and seemed to enjoy my company. I was honored to count him as a friend.

  Afternoons, after my session with Nowamooks, he might cross my path. We often sat out of the rain talking…he would point things out. Such things as why there were two types of dogs in the village; large ones for hunting and small ones with soft warm fur spun and woven into incredibly soft blankets. Nowamooks had explained who wove them and their value in trade, but never thought to mentioned dogs.

  With neither chores nor responsibilities, we two fell together, at least as misfits. We watched playing children or the drifting rain blown with the white caps across the bay, sitting with our backs against the lodge, talking. Watching canoes or wandering idly our talk was almost always earnest. Calling each other “friend” we discussed real issues as if we’d known each other for years.

  We made an unusual pair; an old man and a useless strang
er. When I tried out new phrases he often laughed until he cried before explaining my mistakes. But never quite made fun of me and his explanations were always simple. For example; Snass Klilt smashed his uncle’s new boat on the same rock where three children drowned, so no one dares go near the flat rock south of the village. He was the one that mentioned that Nowamooks wanted to be a shaman.

  The relationship was so comfortable I grew dependent upon him. Thrown together by fate neither of us could do much of value. We were eccentrics indulged at the periphery of community life, living off the village’s largess. But we were eccentrics in a world of eccentrics, certainly contrasted with the conventionality of China. Special odd traits and differences were matters of pride. Strange dress and behavior and peculiarities were badges of honor. Since totems conferred such differences, eccentricity was honored.

  By then, just as I’d learned enough Tsinuk to feel I understood things, it all crumbled and my very survival was threatened. Gusty winds chased streaks of clouds across the sky as I finished meditation.

  Nowamooks was waiting, her eyes heavy with disapproval.

  “Chaningsit…you have to learn some manners. People are objecting to your rudeness. You’re gross and uncivilized. It’s embarrassing.”

  I flushed with confusion. The reproof came out of the blue. I’d assumed that I’d earned some respect by learning their language. No one had ever mentioned that I was rude. Since Nowamooks seldom complained this was not a minor issue. She was upset. It was serious.

  I stammered an apology, but really didn’t understand.

  Nowamooks sat rigid before me; haughty, her chin high. “I have been asked by our Elders to instruct you.”

  Her chill tone made her embarrassment clear. Mortified I huddled in fer before hearing my offenses, grateful for not being cast out.

  “Whoever you were before…you’re among sophisticated people now. And we respect courtesy and refinement. Here, you must eat politely.” Her tone was severe and her whisper hissed. You chew with your mouth open and make noises like an animal. People make fun of you. Since traders think you’re Tsinuk some villagers want you sent away.”

  I hung my head, confused. I hardly understood. How could my eating be disgusting here when it was acceptable in China?

  “You stuff your mouth and look around as if proud of how you eat. Please understand…you have to take small bites and chew quietly, so no one sees.”

  Mortified, I nodded; abashed.

  “Big mouthfuls imply greed. And that implies you need to stuff yourself or go hungry. It disrupts the world’s balance.” Her face was grim, her voice shaking with emotion. I’d noticed…casually…that I ate with more gusto than others, but assumed showing pleasure was a complement.

  “You are so gross that you’re not welcome in some lodges.” Her voice shook and she stared with haughty disapproval.

  “You are staying in the lodge of a chief,” she hissed. “The way you eat implies we are stingy and don’t share. People assume we aren’t generous, that we don’t feed our guests. It’s not just my family you insult; the entire village is insulted because traders think you are Tsinuk. We’re all insulted.” Her voice rose sharply. Her lips pinched with disapproval. She chewed her lip and stared into my face.

  Scowling again, she leaned close and tapped the back of my hand. “Aren’t we good hosts? Why do you shame us? Why?”

  I was disgraced. Worse, I was horrified and desperate that I hadn’t even realized it. I was so choked that it was only after gasping some breaths that I could squeak a weak apology. If I couldn’t atone for this, I had no place here. My body shook, grew chilled and was physically sick.

  The worst was that I had been totally ignorant, unaware that I was rude. I bowed deeply before her with tears coursing my cheeks. Wishing I could sink into the earth I ground my forehead into the dirt in anguish.

  Nowamooks watched with silent disapproval before finally allowing her expression to thaw. After another few quiet moments she explained, “From now on you must be careful in everything. We realize that your people were ignorant and uncivilized, but you must have known that greed brings destruction. Your behavior has been dishonorable, it’s worse than thievery because the rest of us are judged by it. You’re not living among nobodies. A powerful clan has hosted you. You live in the lodge of an elder and chief.”

  My cheeks burned with shame. I couldn’t breathe. I’d been arrogant and imagined myself civilized and superior. My behavior had been excused, but time had passed.

  Humiliated, my mouth went dry and my cheeks burned. I was Chinese, of the most civilized people the world. I was literate. I was a priest and had learned the manners of court bureaucrats. But here I was considered gross and rude!?! I wished I could claim that I didn’t understand, but in truth I understood too well. I HAD been a discourteous, uncivilized boor. I was left bereft. I would rather have died.

  That puffed-up self-image immediately collapsed into dust. Certainly such an errant sense of worth was unskillful. I deserved that painful slap. I didn’t doubt for a moment what Nowamooks said. I’d been gross and rude, arrogant, conceited and self-delusioned. It was crushing.

  My own arrogance set me up for the fall. I’d secretly assumed that being Chinese and a priest meant that I was of a finer weave, but I’d proved myself unequal to the sophisticated traders around me who spoke innumerable languages and successfully threaded the intricate paths of many different communities.

  Nowamooks’ words had revealed my worthlessness. Though growing up at the edge of a provincial court and learning the ways of courtiers, here I was an uncultured heathen.

  Far worse than that; I’d been rude and insulting to kind and generous hosts and hadn’t even known when I exposed them to ridicule. My insensitivity was staggering I trembled with mortification. As a priest I’d always struggled to be polite…yet I proved myself rude and ignorant.

  She hadn’t said so, but my rudeness must have threatened trade. And, in Tsinuk eyes, threatening trade was no small gaffe; it was a cultural crime punished by banishment. I was surely guilty. I’d compromised my hosts and proved myself ungrateful embarrassment. Both Chinese and Tsinuk cultures held rudeness and disrespect as grievous sins. To have been so blind about something so vital was unforgivable. Beyond loosing dignity and face, I had threatened my very existence.

  I was suddenly, very sick. But worst of all was the certainty with which I knew what I would be thinking if our roles were reversed. I winced painfully at the self-knowledge; I was a hypocrite…and a bigot.

  Mortified, I shrank away from her, turning to hide my shame, slinking from the village humiliated beyond anything I’d thought possible. After growing up in a literate family recognized for its knowledge and refinement, I assumed myself better. I’d been a scholar and an intellectual from the most sophisticated and powerful people in the universe. I was a priest and always tried to do well. Here I was, rightfully seen as an ignorant savage.

  Ashamed and humiliated, I suddenly realized my secret, inner longing to be special. Aching to be unique, I’d assumed myself deserving. My ego bred an internal blindness that festered like pus until everything I saw reinforced my arrogance. Excelling at study, serving at Nan Hua and surviving the wreck—it all fed my delusion of being special. But now stark reality raked its claws across my face. I was a smear of excreta. Learning meant nothing to the universe. My arrogance was based on illusion.

  Trembling with shame, I cowered, vowing that, if ever allowed the smallest chance for redemption I would lift myself beyond reproach. Shrinking away, I hid, not returning until the lodge was dark and then only to retrieve my blanket and slink off, fearful of meeting anyone’s eyes.

  Through that night and the next day I kept away, reflecting on my errors, hiding until hunger drove me back late that next afternoon. Though the gossips couldn’t have missed a shred of my shame, I wasn’t stared at or jeered. Though deserving rebuke, I wasn’t shunned. Strangely, even Nowamooks pretended that our conversation had nev
er occurred.

  Nonetheless, through the following days I took my food to the beach before risking the smallest bite. Like a swaddled infant, I would learn how to eat.

  The shame of that experience left me insecure a long, long while. Everyone in each of the villages around our bay knew each painful detail, but behind the relentless wall of Tsinuk politeness, it was never again referred to. For a long time afterwards, I expected consequences at every turn.

  In China, without wealth or family status there could be dire consequences for even minor indiscretions. Families were sometimes turned from homes to eventually die of hunger and exposure. But here, I’d received leniency for no reason I could see. I’d heard stories of people being forced to stay with family in other villages, but without family that option wasn’t mine. The worst of it hinged on knowing that I was guilty. I was wretched and doubly shamed knowing I only survived through Tsinuk compassion.

  Despite frantic self-examination I found nothing that might redeem me. But as the summer moons slipped by, my shame gradually faded and even thought I wasn’t truly accepted, it became obvious again that I was tolerated. Beyond all else, I was relieved that few besides Nowamooks and Komkomis ever too much interest.

  The illusion of anonymity suited me. Each morning, rain or shine, I meditated then worked with Nowamooks. My ragged hair hung in my eyes while being far too short to tie out of my way. It was better than the shaven scalp of a priest.

  After months of puttering I craved something meaningful and real to do. One morning I approached Nowamooks and simply told her, “I need chores.”

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why?”

  “It’s important to me,” I replied politely. “I need to be useful…just as you want to be a shaman.” It was the first I’d acknowledged it and didn’t know how she’d respond.

  She paused, regarding me, then waved my explanation aside. You’re learning to speak.

  “That’s important, but doesn’t fill my life.”

  Her lip curled in disapproval. I looked away. Embarrassed.

  “When there’s food we all eat,” she declared flatly. “You distrust us?”

  It took me a moment to make sense of that. My mind spun. An uncomfortable moment hung between us.

  “You don’t like it here?” Nowamooks’ voice was crusted with impatience. “Why would you dishonor Comcomly?”

  I was aghast, shocked at her interpretation. “Please Nowamooks…it’s NOT that. Nowamooks. I’m grateful…truly grateful.” I bowed deeply and took a long, slow breath before raising my head to meet her eyes. “I mean to show my respect.”

  Her mouth twisted with amused disgust. “Chaningsit. You don’t know what you ask. How could you possibly work? You don’t own fishing rights or clamming rights or plots of oaks, or camas or anything. You have to know and own the rituals that go along with making anything useful. You can’t hunt or make boats or anything. You’ve no skills…or the right to tell stories.”

  She shook her head sadly. “Don’t you understand how silly you sound? You can’t do anything. Without clan or society memberships, what possible use are you?”

  I bit my lip, afraid to answer.

  “Look at it this way.” She waved her finger. “You can’t paddle a boat as good as a child or gather berries faster than a baby...can you?” She shook her head, then after a pause, smiled. “You don’t know how to do anything. You can’t carry what a small woman can. You’re weak and ignorant.”

  I sat embarrassed through that silence; neither of us spoke for the longest time. She was right. I was worse than useless and couldn’t even offer to help without insulting her. I was left more distraught than ever. “Could I gather firewood?”

  “Chaningsit…do you know which type of wood to gather? Anyway, it’s slave and children’s work and you’re the guest of a high Chief… an honored guest living in his lodge. You’d lose all respect doing children work.” Our eyes met and we sat quietly.

  At last she reached to touch my hand and sadly shook her head. “Children’s work is alright,” I whispered. “Halo yotl tumtum.” I touched my stomach with my finger, I’ve no proud will.

  She sat, staring at me a long while. “Skookum Kwan,” she whispered. Quiet strength. After another long moment she said, “I’ll ask Kilakota. Firewood might be OK. She’ll decide.”

  I smiled as the warmth returned between us. I wanted to help, but she was right…I knew nothing of firewood or anything else. Perhaps Uncle Tanaka would teach me what to gather. Stroking her cheek with my fingers I chuckled, suddenly amused at how odd this must seem.

  I could accept my ignorance and inexperience. Beginner’s mind was the Chan way; accepting our ignorance each moment. The Taoist Chuang Tzu explained, “People following the Way walk simply and carry only what they need.”

  Pride, I didn’t need. I walked a humble Path and could swallow dishonor. Accepting misjudgment and being a man of no rank are attributes of a sage.

  Priests of all traditions face an uncomfortable tension when it comes to work. Inside monasteries it’s expected, outside it’s discouraged despite teachings stressing right livelihood. Priests like monks are discouraged from practical trades despite a venerable tradition holding such activities to be the most natural spiritual practice.

  For a thousand years, every generation or two there are Chan teachers who encouraged students to work their family’s fields or crafts. But as only monastic traditions survive such teachings don’t get passed on. Master Lu spoke of it wistfully, musing that such teachers are among the only ones teaching students to “be lamps unto themselves.”

  Chan is “Everyday” Buddhism; Enlightenment through the minutia of daily life. Each step and breath is better meditation than sutras or cushion sitting. I would be thankful to gather firewood.

  Uncle Tanaka couldn’t believe I actually asked for such a “privilege” and laughed until tears streaked his cheeks. When I offered to pay him to show me what wood to collect, he suddenly stopped and stared at me strangely.