This morning on the porch at Urasenke, the zipper on one of my boots got stuck and I couldn't get the boot off to enter the school. A couple of other students who were running a little late—like me—ran up, kicked off their shoes and disappeared inside where class had just begun.

A few minutes later, Joy strolled through the gate. She hasn't seen me in a while because I've been going Wednesdays and not Saturdays, so when she saw me she said, "Hey There!" I was all bent over, wrenching on the industrial-strength zipper and had to swivel a little to get a view of who was yelling at me. I told her the problem and she jumped to the rescue but the zipper and the stiff leather were tougher. So we stayed out there on the porch, in the cold and barely safe from the rain, me sitting on the concrete and both of us alternately yanking up or down on the zipper, depending on the theory being tested.

All the while, the class was meditating and the sounds of those bells slipped through the wall. Finally she said, "Want me to get some scissors?" And I did, so she kicked off her shoes and went in and then came back. We started cutting away the extra flap of material that tends to get caught in the zipper, jamming the mechanism. That solved part of the problem, but it didn't unclog the jam. So I got out my sweet pick and used it to pry leather out of the pull. It didn't work. So we went back to yanking.

I thought I might have to get someone else to help or go home or—gads—cut the boot off my foot. But the thing finally budged and all that leather we cut away left the zipper path free—and our fingers bruised.

It was just funny, I thought. A potential hazard in cultures where you aren't allowed to go inside with your shoes on.