Writing
This section includes some of my latest writing—and some old favorites. My preferred genre is the personal essay. Over the last couple of years, though, I’ve been surprised by a leaning toward poetry—very slight, but evident nonetheless. In a brave move, I include some of those “leanings.”Wednesday, 15 April 2009 00:33
I work with a personal trainer twice a week. A guy named Anthony. Big guy. Hard muscles. Wears a ponytail and a do-rag and sunglasses all the time. A diamond stud in each ear. Baggy pants and bright-colored hooded sweatshirts. Walks tough, with a swagger that could be mistaken for bravado. He might even scare you if he looked at you in a certain way. I’m tellin’ you, he’s big picture. But don’t be fooled; he’s soft. Not mushy soft, but soft as in his heart is completely open. When I think of Buddha nature, I think of Anthony Espaillot. Kind and generous, compassionate and loving. To the core loving.
On Fridays, I come to the gym at 3:30 to walk on the treadmill before we train, and while I’m walking Anthony is conducting a children’s class. For a full hour he keeps five to six human spark plugs engaged in a variety of physical challenges that build their muscles and their character. I have never seen a group of kids adore anyone like these kids adore Anthony. Mr. Anthony they call him. Tiny little bodies, wiggling and flailing about with uncontrollable energy for life. Each one willing to be reigned in by Mr. Anthony because at some deep level, they know he has their best interest at heart. And he does. He wants them to develop strong and agile and capable bodies. And somehow, without saying a word about it, he shows them how care for their bodies goes hand in hand with care for their character, about who they are and what is possible for them. He is a personal trainer. But he is also a boddhisatva, a term given in the Buddhist tradition to enlightened beings who have come into human form to teach others the path to peace and happiness.
I had the honor of witnessing Anthony’s unique brand of training last week with Daniel, a slight, freckle-faced, curly-headed eight-year-old whose father sent him to Anthony hoping he would develop more interest in baseball, a sport the father loves and Daniel not so much. When I came into the back room of the gym to stretch out after my cardio work, Anthony was finishing up with the kids; they were guessing numbers to win the last prize he had to offer them for their good effort during the session. Anthony is a genius at motivating these kids to do amazingly difficult tasks (like jumping from a flat footed position onto a bench); in addition to his own genuine praise and high expectations, it’s not beneath him to offer them prizes. It’s fun to see how hard and seriously they perform for the silliest trifle.
So anyway, it’s 4:25. They’ve been working hard for fifty-five minutes. Their little faces are flushed, their hair is damp, a musk unique to young, sweaty bodies permeates the room. But they’re beginning to slow down a bit, even though the decibel level in the small space is excruciatingly high. Anthony has a red gift sack in one hand, and small pieces of numbered papers in the other hand. Each child comes forward to draw a number and a chance to win the red sack. You have never seen such focus. This is the announcement of the winner of the Florida lottery, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, and Deal or No Deal all rolled into one moment. Bodies are tense. Eyes are riveted. Expectancy hovers like a hawk.
Anthony commands the athletes to stand against the wall. They wiggle, tease each other, scream for his attention. With a look he focuses them on the business at hand. “Emma, what’s your number?”
“Thirty-two!” she booms.
“Tony, what’s your number?”
“Twenty-seven,” he screams louder than Emma. And on down the line until all have surely split a vocal cord. No one has pulled the winning number, the prize remains unclaimed, so Anthony must offer a final challenge.
“Everyone down on your mat, plank position on your elbows. Hold it high, hold it tight. The last person holding is the winner of the prize.” They fly into plank position, laughing, talking, craning their necks around like young turtles to see where Mr. Anthony is in the room or to check out the position of their compatriots. They are in this for blood now. The prize awaits.