The True Price of Friendship

Return to Spring/Summer 2008

I have known Zen Master Soeng Hyang for many years. It’s hard for me not to call her Bobbi. But we have always had a funny relationship. I’ve always thought of her as a very strong person, but also someone who is aware of her own insecurities. And that’s the same way I think of myself. Somehow when we would meet, at Providence or when she visited New York, we would have a real “buzz” to our contact. I am sure we liked each other a lot, but there was always a kind of mysterious standoffish feeling to our conversations.

Over the years, in casual conversations as well as formal interviews, we got to know a lot about each other. A feeling of affection grew steadily between us. She has a personality that is both tough and warm. I grew to respect her sincere work as a nurse for the dying, and her fierce devotion to Zen Master Seung Sahn and her Zen practice.

She has given me advice that has always been useful. I told her once in an interview that the stress of my work (I am a lawyer in the immigration field) was sometimes overwhelming, and then I realized that she has a job that is so much more taxing. But she saw that the stress was there in my mind at that moment:  “Can you breathe? Just take three deep breaths.” It has always helped.

But there was still something unnamed hovering between us, a feeling of separation that I couldn’t quite understand. One day at Providence, at the end of a sangha weekend, I was saying goodbye to people. I was an avid bicyclist then and I had a pair of expensive cycling sunglasses around my neck on a strap. Bobbi came along and we looked at each other sheepishly for a second, and then our eyes softened in expression and we had a spontaneous hug.

Crunch. I knew what had happened. But I didn’t look at the broken Oakleys until I got into our car. Oh well, I guess that moment was worth a pair of sunglasses.

by Jan Potemkin