I was, by all means, skeptical. My father had never shown any interest in organized religion, but there he was in front of me in his study in Longmont, Colorado. He was talking to me about sewing up his little pouch and explaining how my mother had helped him. 

This was possibly a few years after his refuge vow ceremony which I missed. At the time I had been in the process of moving from Singapore back to the Netherlands. I don’t recall if I actually had been invited to witness his vows. It seems to me that I had been told about the occasion and was, in some way, expected to show up. Didn’t I understand the importance? 

In years prior to Keith’s refuge vows, I had reconnected with my maternal family and, right along with my mother, Keith had been adamant that this was something I should not be undertaking or do. Yet I did it. And in the midst of all the years of trauma that I had absorbed and time and energy spent to find resolution for my own mental health and interacting with the family members who loved me and then the endless attempts at conversation and acceptance with my parents about my decision as an adult, here Keith was looking at me right in the eyes and speaking about his Zen paraphernalia. To me, he was running away into Zen Buddhism and shutting the door. 

The whole scene was like a bad joke. My mother had already developed a fantasy about being Sami and was taking it as far as she could (later she wove another tale of being Jewish into the mix) and my father was going Zen. He even got a name, Bear Sage. I was appalled. After all the shit I had been through, here my father was now entitled with his sanctified name: Bear Sage. During that visit to Longmont, perhaps it was my last visit to their house, I laughingly let drop that my husband, who was a diagnostic specialist of rotating equipment and both considering and given that my father was now Bear Sage, should be called Gear Sage. As an engineer my husband travelled the world because there were not many who could do the type of work he was able to provide.  Keith was not amused at my own take on matters.

So what was this Zen idea? Was it to gain clout at Naropa or….jurisdiction over me? Was it to find friendship and a buddy or buddies? Was it to tamp down his issues with drug addiction? Was it to escape the madness at home? Was it a protective layer that would give him some space since my mother had landed that disability check and sat at home all the time thinking up storms to unleash on humanity?

But in the end Zen Buddhism was my father’s chosen family and present for him as he lay dying. 

I freely admit that when I was sent the fifteen pages of the memoir that Keith had given Penny, I sighed in exasperation and cursorily read through the pages. But after noticing that there are several sites online that mention the link to Keith’s old website and the memoir, I thought I would add it to the website I manage for Keith’s works. If anyone was looking for it, it might as well be accessible. 

It’s not about me. I was never able to develop a relationship with my father as an adult. The joys I remember are from the times we shared back in the 1970’s and 1980’s. And reading Keith’s words, I am genuinely happy he got to engage and connect with Kobun. I find it ironic that Kobun lost his life trying to save his daughter and, after Keith’s death, I have been trying to save my father who certainly never tried to save me. For years I was angry at this, and then I came to realise that Keith could never have saved himself from his fate. But in the meantime he did seek out various manners to enjoy and make sense of his life. At least Keith can’t take me down with him.  That’s the Zen of the matter.