ABSTRACT
When the voice at the other end of the phone finished informing me that my son had "passed away" that morning, I created such a disturbance at the top of the stairs that the Zen master instructed a senior disciple to lead Susan and me to a storage room full of stacked, kapok-stuffed meditation cushions. Downstairs a celebration was just beginning. The garden and meditation room were packed with Buddhists and art aficionados who had come to see an exhibit of Korean calligraphy and ink paintings. The Zen center was raising money and throwing a coming-out party after several years of low-profile hibernation in Toronto.
