1.
The first time I met Ted Esposito
his eyes were darkened within their sockets,
story was that a woman he had been involved
with had left him, and he bore the wound
visibly, the way grace is achieved through
the hard love of humility, in quietude.
He was a masseuse, who worked
in New York three days a week, and he was
dedicated to Zen, had a teacher
from the East, in a zendo in the city.
The progress Ted made in his practice
outdistanced all speculation, he began to walk
with an inner glow about him. His balance
was such that when you stood and spoke
with him, he embraced you with the harmony
that vibrated within him.
His roshi in the city was so jealous
of the level of the satori he attained that their
relationship suffered because of it.
Ted described his experience of meditation
as a circle, pointing to the wood of the front
counter of the bookstore, saying, When you
begin, there is just the wood; and half-way
into it, you begin to see through the wood
itself; and then if you have the experience of
satori, the wood becomes the wood, again.
2.
The last time I saw Ted Esposito, it was
standing at the walk light at the corner
of Temple and Crown, that is the second
windiest corner in New Haven—the first
being a block up, at the corner of Temple
and Chapel, as the winds channel
unimpeded through the concrete tunnels,
fashioned by the buildings along
the streets, all the way down to the harbor,
especially in winter. But now the pink
and white dogwood were in bloom all over
campus—true augurs of spring, lending
definition to the concept of commencement.
Ted suggested to me that Zen meditation
may not be my own way to realize
enlightenment; but, added, not unlike
the breakthrough Whitman experienced,
that a devotion to writing, just might
be the way—and as I turned to answer him,
he had vanished, disappearing as Han-Shan
did on Cold Mountain, as I looked one way,
then another—hearing only in the echo
of his voice, a cosmic
laughter bouncing off of the brownstones.