Your argument is very zen. I agree this approach will make us happy all our 
life. It will see us through until our last days. Remember the famous zen 
master Daisetsu Suzuki. Many said he  was enlightened. But he went through a 
lot of pain during his last days of dying. Furthermore, we do not know what 
happened to him after he died. The most simple way is to assume we are 
'annihilated' on our death, or as Edgar says, we are 'merged' into global 
spirit. In either case, we lose our individuality. So what happens does not 
matter. Is that so simple? If so, thank god. If not, you better think of 
something else to do.

--- On Tue, 28/10/08, mike brown <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:

From: mike brown <[EMAIL PROTECTED]>
Subject: Re: [Zen] thoughtful story
To: Zen_Forum@yahoogroups.com
Date: Tuesday, 28 October, 2008, 8:37 PM

Hi Jody,

A nice story, but I'm afraid it's not quite zen. The taxi-driver is being 
dangerously sentimental in his reaction to the old woman. He's obviously a nice 
guy but he almost sounds like he's patting himself on the back for what he did 
and how he treated the old lady. It reminds me of the story of the monk who 
carried a young female across a river and his younger protege kept haranguing 
him for hours because he broke the vow not to touch members of the opposite 
sex. After a while the older monk said, "I put her down on the other side of 
the river - when are you going to put her down?". We can't keep reviewing every 
action we take. There's a flip side to your story too. If the old lady had 
acted ungratefully, I can imagine the taxi-driver lamenting about the rude, 
selfish nature of people etc. If we're acting mindfully we just do what we have 
to. If the person is grateful - ok. If the person doesn't acknowledge what 
we've done - ok. Otherwise we become like
 a paper bag blowing in the wind with our desires and emotions dictating how we 


From: Jody W. Ianuzzi <[EMAIL PROTECTED] com>
Sent: Tuesday, 28 October, 2008 0:48:11
Subject: [Zen] thoughtful story

A Cab Drivers Story

So I walked to the door and knocked. 'Just a minute', answered a frail,
elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before
me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on
it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one
had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the
counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and

'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase to
the cab, then returned to assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing', I told her. 'I just
try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated'.

'Oh, you're such a good boy', she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me
an address, and then asked, 'Could you drive through downtown?'

'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly.

'Oh, I don't mind,' she said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice'..

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have
any family left,' she continued. 'The doctor says I don't have very long.' I
quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the
building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when
they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse
that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner
and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm
tired. Let's go now'

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.It was a low building,
like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico..

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were
solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been
expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was
already seated in a wheelchair.

'How much do I owe you?' she asked, reaching into her purse.

'Nothing,' I said

'You have to make a living,' she answered.

'There are other passengers,' I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me

'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said.

'Thank you.'

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me,
a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in
thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman
had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?

What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in
my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.

But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others
may consider a small one.


Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might
aswell dance.
Al G

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