All photos by Glynn Ensho Debrocky

By Sharon Latimer Mosley

Three minutes of Zazen-seated meditation can feel like a long time to children inside on a bright breezy Saturday afternoon.  Each gathering of “Zen Kids” begins with Zazen instruction, a brief sitting period and includes an art project tied to a Buddhist teaching.

 “We put our hands in the cosmic Mudra” instructed Teacher Susan Ji-on Postal to the attentive young eyes seated in front of her in a semi-circle.

 “I’m holding a pear,” a young boy seated to her right announced with an accomplished smile. Susan smiled back at him with a gentle nod. 

“At the sound of the bell, we will sit for three minutes” she continued.  

After a minute of sitting, the young boy began to fidget a bit.

 “Breathe through your pear” Susan reminded. The young boy settled back into Zazen, her instruction immediately clear.

Susan followed the 3 minute Zazen telling the story of the founding of New Rochelle based on the children’s historical fiction book, “Escape across the Wide Sea” by Katherine Kirkpatrick. The story follows a young disabled Huguenot boy, Daniel Bonnet and his family’s escape from religious persecution in France to New Rochelle.

 The group, dubbed “little detectives” by Susan, was challenged to find historical surnames mentioned in the book at Trinity Episcopal Church Cemetery, the original site of the first Huguenot Church some 300 years ago -a short walk from the Empty Hand Zen Center.  

“Well, I like to learn about history,” Zoe of Zen Kids explained. “They lived here and they started New Rochelle.”

When the children arrived at Trinity Church Cemetery, they were each given a long piece of paper, tape and an oil pastel to do rubbings which capture the imprint of headstones of the historical surnames they recognized.

“That tombstone looks cool because of the picture carved at the top,” noted Shevaun. “Like there are angels out there and it tells me not to be afraid to die.”

Some of the stones were toppled, others too weathered to read. Undaunted, the children continued, carefully moving around the cemetery, then shouting their finds with requests for new sheets of paper for a rubbing.    

“He lived 27 years” reported Aiden after viewing the tombstone of “Ashe.” You need to know how old he was. It’s important for kids to learn about age.”

After proudly waving their historical discoveries in front of parents who stood nearby, it was time to return to Empty Hand Zen Center for a light snack.

“It’s nice,” observed Chloe under a berried shade tree in the middle of the cemetery. “because all the Allaires are buried together.”

This was an afternoon of infinite kindness expressed in careful rubbings of time past in blue, green, orange and pink.

With many thanks to Janice Haynes for her kind assistance during this field-trip.

Stories in words are among our oldest, most powerful, most mysterious tools. Through mere sounds on the air or squiggles on a page, they give us what no other technology can - ourselves. –Rafe Martin

All photos by Fran Shalom

The art of storytelling is a craft - just as powerful and compelling in our fast paced, twitter engrossed society as it once was in ancient India. On Sunday, May 23^rd, author and storyteller Rafe Martin, who has written numerous books, such as the Rough-Face Girl and Birdwing, offered his insights in a dharma talk at the Empty Hand Zen Center which helped our Sangha enter a deeper understanding of The Jataka Tales. These classic tales trace the Buddha’s karmic path - both as animal and human; they were told by Buddha to his disciples over 2,500 years ago to teach about entering the Boddhisatva path. Within the fabric of each tale teachings central to include virtues such as compassion and prajna or wisdom. These attributes are perceived in Buddhism as Paramitas or qualities of perfection that carry us into the realm of a Boddhisatva: an enlightened being who serves all sentient beings.  

Rafe explained that by reading The Jataka Tales we gain a fundamental understanding that the hindrances the Buddha faced are universal in nature; thus, these stories provide us all with an opportunity for growth and insight. As Zen practitioners, sitting upright on our cushions, we begin to awaken to the notion that whatever endeavor each of us may face in any moment is our own Jataka tale - our own life story which carries us forth and becomes part of our own endless path. Rafe shared with our Sangha how these canonical legends impacted his life as he struggled to find his own way.  The author and storyteller described his experience as a “dweller in no-man’s land” since he and his wife, Rose, had children, and were among the few Zen practitioners at Rochester Zen Center who were parents.  One day, in an old bookstore, Rafe stumbled upon a book published in 1878 that contained The Jataka Tales. Each story encompassed a lifetime of efforts that the Buddha had faced as he evolved in his many lives.

Rafe explored The Jataka Tales as an apparatus for our own practice. These timeless tales became a compass for his zazen.  Perchance because the sound of the gong in Zen is so pivotal—bringing us home to ourselves, to no separation between the sound of the bell and our own breath—discovering the Jataka Tales was like hearing the sound of the gong. In a moment of sudden personal insight, the tales linked him instantly to his own practice, his own parenthood, and a way into his own Jataka. He could now share these legendary tales with children, just like his mother had shared fairy tales with him as a child.

Rafe also revealed the story of the Buddha to be the ultimate call of the hero: leaving home on a quest, a journey to unearth the truth of life.  The Jataka Tales reveal virtues that Buddha acquired; his own evolution led him to help his disciples. Timeless tales have always been utilized by human beings as a device to unravel our true nature. Buddha, Rafe explained, often used his empty mind to see into the foibles of his Sangha. He would look into the life of each of his disciples and see many past lives connecting the present situation to past imperfections thus helping the disciple understand his own lineage and his conditioned existence within the framework of a particular difficult situation.

Rafe also shared two Jataka tales with our Sangha. He first told us the well-known tale of The Hungry Tigress, a story that reveals a self-less act of a true Bodhisattva. The thirteenth Dalai-Lama noted this Jataka at the Tibetan Prayer festival and illustrated it as a tale that embodies the virtue of compassion. In one of the Tathagata’s past lives, the Buddha comes upon a hungry tigress who is about to devour her cubs. In a self-less act he feeds himself to the tigress to spare the lives of the cubs.  This story still resonates in our modern world; we see examples of many Bodhisattvas who give themselves completely by performing altruistic humanitarian actions. “What are we willing to do?” Rafe asked our Sangha.

After giving us a dynamic explanation of his own path and The Jataka Tales, Rafe shifted—like a shaman—as he animated the story of The Sage Little Bowman. In this lesser-known tale, a wise young cripple, who is knowledgeable about the way the world operates, and highly-skilled with a bow and arrow, sets out to make a living. He comes upon a mighty man named Bhimasena who is not living up to his full potential; the two men form an unlikely bond. The Sage Little Bowman lives in the shadow of Bhimasena and guides him as Bhimasena saves the kingdom from dangerous beasts. As Bhimasena’s popularity grows, he believes that he no longer needs the young cripple and thinks he can manage well on his own—as he felt he had been taught well; hence, he sends away the cripple. When the kingdom is threatened and Bhimasena cannot aid the king, the Sage Little Bowman comes forth and reveals his true identity: It was he who had the wisdom, knowledge, and skills as the bowman; it was he who had slain the beasts.

In his essay On Fairy-Stories, Tolkien, author of the Lord of the Rings, examines the fairy tale as having an essential element which he has baptized as a “eucatastrophe”—in which a sudden catastrophic moment ends on a joyous note instead of in lament. The Sage Little Bowman, offers the same concept; in the bleakest moment in this tale the true hero emerges. This archetypical motif can be found in innumerable myths and legends. Rafe examined The Sage Little Bowman as a story that depicts knowledge, wisdom, skillful means, and compassion—all virtues of a true Boddhisattva. 

Rafe then encouraged our Sangha to discuss The Sage Little Bowman. Some members saw this tale as an allegory for our shadow-self often aiding us in ways we could not fathom. Rafe also explained that a handicap that we possess is in many ways a metaphor for recognizing an inherent gift that helps us as we unfold our true nature on this realm which is often similar to Middle Earth. He challenged us to take a great leap and not be like Gollum—who saw himself as a separate entity—but to wake up to no separation.

The Buddha, as Rafe understood was not only a monk, but had been a family man and had faced hardships just as we do today in our hectic world. In a simple definition, we have now “joined the club.”  In The Jataka Tales we begin to understand that the Buddha’s job was to evolve. The obstacles that we face, the Buddha had faced in infinite lifetimes. Buddha’s fate was to emerge into Buddhahood. He too had made mistakes and failed just like all the great heroes in myths and legends; Frodo, King Arthur, and Beowulf experienced their own struggles, but these difficulties became their champions. Like these beloved heroes, Buddha did not surrender: he walked his endless path, gaining in wisdom, compassion, and countless other virtues.

In The Power of Myth, Joseph Campell claims that “the closest thing we have to a planetary mythology is Buddhism. In it all things are potentially Buddha-things.” Rafe Martin asked us to view The Jataka Tales as a gateway to live like a Buddha. In our imperfections we are perfect and in our incompleteness we are complete. 

Rafe Martin's forthcoming book, Endless Path: Awakening With the Buddhist Imagination - Jataka Tales, Zen Practice, and Daily Life, is available in September and can be pre-ordered here.

 By Catherine Seigen Spaeth

Asphalt bubbles up from the earth.  We use it to bind disparate things into a hard aggregate - it skinned our knees at recess and now it gets us where it wants us to go.  Black and smooth at first, it grays, pits and buckles with age.  Our garden has found its way into the cracks of the asphalt, settling into its curves and hollows, earth silting up and washing away on its crusty surface.  There is strong patience in taking root here.

A humble material, asphalt provides the infrastructure for our dependence on oil, the very thing it arose from.  There is pleasure in meeting this hard surface with the softness of the earth.  Our dirt comes from many places – a few buckets here and there of thick grey clay, of forest black soil and acorn husks.  There is  Frank's earth from China, a blend of pilgrimage sites including Tiananmen Square; and Rafe and Rose Martin's earth from Joshu's temple - a cypress tree grows here. 

A giant stump marked where to begin, and the Buddha sits there surrounded in vinca – an invasive plant that worries the foresters but pleases us urban gardeners with its vigor.  As the earth has begun to hold we protect its fragile borders with river stones and thyme, and a Lady’s Mantle has settled in.

Cut flowers from the altar and rose petal offerings end up quickly in the compost heap. As the seasons change so do these flowers – the very first layer of our own cuttings has appeared over store-bought irises and yellow tulips, curling and browning into dank rot softness.  Our pierced garbage can is an enso of what arises and falls.  Stanley Kunitz writes, "We are all containers for composting.  So we cannot approach the compost heap without a feeling of connection."*

Once on a scrap of paper in the dokusan room I left a note for Susan Ji-on.  “Did you see the Buddha head in the Wisteria pot?”  It was the final hour of long zazen, and I couldn’t wait until the silence had ended to verify my sanity, for after days of  silently observing the garden a head appeared from nowhere.  The surprise of this gift had teacher and student both in shivers, and in the next day we learned that it had been snuck into the garden by our neighbor, Ivar, who once lived in the building that is now home to Empty Hand.

Other such gifts have arrived, turtles in a row, and a Hotei too large to be discreet.   In Ed Roberson's beautiful poem, “Hotei:  The Fullness,” is conveyed our delusion to seek transcendence in Enlightenment’s fullness, the mistaken satisfaction “that fullness is assumed upon the full.” Hotei’s belly is for Roberson as much the swollen belly of no possessions, the swollen belly of the poor, distended to the very last minutes of life.   It is as though Roberson urges us to rub this belly not for good luck, but in acknowledgement of the path beyond abundance and lack.  In our urban garden, Buddha’s stillness is in the very left corner, and wandering Hotei is bursting from the right.

 Our feeders are frequented by sparrows and finches mostly.  They perch on springy willows in a gang. But as ground feeders it feels as though it is the pigeons who have really made our garden their home, strutting among the potted plants or resting on Buddha's head.  Transmission bows were interrupted by the cardinal that appeared out the window, but a cardinal has appeared only a few times since then.  There are other creatures who come to the garden to feed, raccoons have cleaned their fish in the birdbath, leaving  unfinished carcasses behind.  And a Red-tailed or Cooper's Hawk occasionally catches a squirrel or a pigeon - here, a Cooper's Hawk is wary as it feeds.

Asphalt belongs to a slower time where the beating of the sun, the pouring of the rain and winter cold barely effect it’s stillness, while thriving upon the asphalt life is as fleeting as a gnat. Our garden has no plan or purpose but to flourish -  when an iris blooms, the garden is the garden of the blooming iris.  We watch for the cardinal as much as we watch for the hawk. When the garden is for the birds we tiptoe up to the window, and when it is for us we do our best not to disturb the neighbors.   

Stanley Kunitz writes:

The garden isn't, at its best, designed for admiration or praise; it leads to an appreciation of the natural universe, and to a meditation on the connection between the self and the rest of the natural universe. And this can come not only from the single flower in its extravagant beauty, but in the consideration of the harmony established among all aspects of the garden's form.*

*Stanley Kunitz, The Wild Braid: A Poet Reflects on a Century in the Garden, NY: W.W. Norton, c. 2005, pp. 65 and 13 in order of appearance.

Photo by Chuck Peters

Deb Mushin Wood was born in New Hampshire and raised in Connecticut.  Early in her career as an occupational therapist she lived and worked in Brazil before settling in Westchester.  In 1981 Deb began her practice with Susan Ji-on at Wainwright House, also joining with Susan at the Zen Community of New York in the mid-‘80s where Susan was an active student. It was at this time that Deb attended retreats and sesshin with Glassman Roshi.  After the sitting group at Wainwright House was ended Susan was offered the key to the Quaker Meeting House in Rye where Deb and others continued to be active members.  When Susan began her study with Maurine Stuart in 1987, Deb had the opportunity to benefit from Maurine's teaching in her own visit to Cambridge as well as in Maurine's visits to the Meeting House.

After nearly thirty years of practice with Susan, in the priest ordination ceremony of Shuke Tokudo on March 28th, 2010 Deb was bestowed with the koromo, rakusu, okesa, zagu and the oryoki bowls of a priest.  Deb has spent the last year sewing her own rakusu, zagu and okesa after attending a sewing sesshin with Blanche Hartman at the San Francisco Zen Center.  Her new dharma name is Myomyaku, meaning “subtle life vein” in honor of her strong and continuous practice, naturally reaching to the support of others as quietly as the flow of life in the vein.

In Dogen’s day, Deb would also have received a willow twig for cleaning her teeth – these would have been all the personal possessions needed for monastic life.  But her toothbrush is in a jar beside her partner of twenty five years, Carolyn Hoffman, who along with Jean DeVeaux assisted in the cutting of Deb's final lock of hair, the shura.

Susan Ji-on Postal is cutting Deb's shura, directly behind her is Jean DeVeaux, and to the right stands Carolyn Hoffman.  Photo by Chuck Peters.

Deb Mushin Myomyaku Wood's name has now been written on her copy of the lineage chart of our bloodline from the Buddha through all the ancestors from those ancient days to Suzuki Roshi, to his son Hoitsu Suzuki, to Sojun Mel Weitsamn, to Dairyu Michael Wenger, to Surei Darlene Cohen, and then here to Susan Ji-on Postal.  She will treasure this document, keeping it safely throughout her life.  In the words of Zen Master Honghzi:

A patched-robed monk's authentic task is to

Practice the essence, in each minute event

Carefully discerning the shining source

Radiant without discrimination, one color unstained.

Photo by Chuck Peters

This photograph of Haiti was taken by Zoriah, whose work can be found here.

On Monday, March 29th, Valorie Lordi spoke at our zendo about her recent experiences in Haiti.  Valorie, a registered nurse, Dominican Sister, and known to many as a teacher of native American spirituality and healing, has previously provided medical services in wars and disasters, but when she traveled to earthquake-stricken Haiti in February her own life was shaken to its very core. The devastation of Haiti and the resilience of its people reordered –as Valorie puts it – “the landscape of [her] life.”

She attested that her first impulse upon hearing the news from Haiti was to resist it, to hold it back, but her resistance eventually wore thin and she became filled with an immediate need to engage with the situation head-on. She reached out to an organization called The Ministry of Presence on a Monday, and thirty minutes later was procuring the last seat on a flight departing on Thursday of that same week. She flew to the Dominican Republic and made a mad rush to get to the Haitian border before it closed. The ten minute van ride past the border-guards and into Haiti encapsulated a “time change” of a sort unfamiliar to even the most seasoned world traveler: “in ten minutes all references to my own life fell away.”

The destruction she described and the images she showed us seemed inconceivable –sometimes described as such even by Valorie who had witnessed it all first-hand. Upon approaching an orphanage she was hailed by what remained of a gesture from a girl whose arms had been amputated. The girl asked for help for her mother. Valorie wanted to stop but her hosts said they would never make it inside to the orphanage if they did not move on. Once inside what remained of the orphanage Valorie was met with waves of person after person approaching her and asking for help. She emphasized to us that there was no time for planning how to help; “What you attend to for the hour comes to you.” Over and over again people would approach her with the words nou pa gen meaning we have no . . . : we have no parents, we have no food, we have no water, we have no home."

Photo courtesy of Valorie Lordi

She showed us photos of a hospital and noted how pregnant woman had given birth under the piles of rubble. She explained how mental hospitals had been demolished and told us how those patients who hadn’t died were now walking in the ruin without care and appropriate medication, many suffering delusions. She explained how prisons had broken open due to the quake and how already desperate circumstances were further exasperated by a spike in crime. She explained how the need for medical care outweighed the number of those who could possibly provide it, that amputation was often the only viable method to ensure safety from fatal infections. She showed us a photo of a trickle of water meandering down a wall and explained how water-borne illnesses are already bringing a second wave of deaths. Valorie showed us one photo after another of demolished buildings and injured people. She reminded us that inside every pile of rubble there were piles of bodies. My own body and mind began to slump into passive disbelief longing to separate from the horror, but Valories reminders and guiding words engaged me with what I saw: “Imagine what you would do if your friends or family were under there. Imagine what you would do if you lived there.”

Photo courtesy of Valerie Lordi

 Even before the earthquake Haiti suffered from extreme conditions of impoverishment. It is the poorest country in the western hemisphere despite being only 600 miles away from the wealthiest country, the United States. Haitian ancestors came as slaves torn from their homes in West Africa and forced to work in the sugarcane fields that supplied Europe and North America until the early part of the 19th century. Although the diasporic people of Haiti ultimately won their sovereignty, they have always been plagued by a struggle for basic life needs. Due to limited supplies of food, water and shelter the population of Haiti has been chronically vulnerable to both desperation and criminal greed. As the Ministry of Presence website notes: before the earthquake poverty affected 80 percent of the population; the economical distribution showed one percent of the population holding fifty percent of the wealth. The struggles that preceded the earthquake have now worsened. The particular orphanage that Valorie has been working with quadrupled its residents in facilities which were already at capacity prior to the disaster.

Photo courtesy of Valerie Lordi.  These are women receiving rations, the military had to make the decision that only women could be given food, as they were more likely to feed their families.

As Valorie spoke, her hands guided us with metaphors and with gestures. “Before I went, Haiti was about there,” she said, holding her right arm out straight, palm facing inward. Her hands came closer to her body as she described the urgent need to travel into Haiti, the “energy in her belly.” She described the terrain with her arm, outstretched again, but this time with her palm flat, facing down. She made a smooth slow arc in front of her body as she said, “horizon to horizon there was rubble.” She clapped her hands once and we heard the crack she felt as she crossed the border. Her sharp clap represented the vibration she felt the moment the van entered “the gates of Haiti.” She drew her hands to her head and hair as she remembered the dust that settled down upon her almost ritualistically - “dust of mountains, of land, of buildings and of people.”

At the same time that she crossed borders, her journey also dissolved boundaries inside her. “Nothing was familiar and everything was familiar.” As the journey unraveled her understanding of her place in the world, it wove no new, precise understanding, but rather one abundant with paradoxes and unanswerable questions. She noted that the purity and light amid the destruction were inexplicable. How could there be no hope and so much hope in the same breath? Many of the photos were of smiling children, families waving to the camera. As we looked at the sheer whiteness revealed inside a mountaincracked wide open, Valorie attested that joy and beauty pervade Haiti. The people she encountered were full of “life, passion, fierceness, and intelligence.” Their litany of what they didn‟t have was real and endless, but with persistence they declared men nou gen yon bon (. . . but we have goodness). She described how people touched her face and stroked her hair and asked her to share with them the stories of her life. How could children who had nothing be so eager to learn how she, a stranger, defined her life: did she have a mother? a father? children? where was she from? The orphans asked these questions with limitless curiosity.  When she asked them if they had brothers or sisters, they gestured to everyone around them.

Photo courtesy of Valorie Lordi

On the other end of her journey Valorie could no longer describe her relationship with Haiti in terms of distance as she had done at the beginning of her talk with her outstretched arm: “Before I went, Haiti was there.” The relationship had changed to something immeasurable, something that could not be quantified, and something that was best articulated through gesture rather than words. She showed us the new relationship through her hands – hands that had been telling her story all night, hands that had carried her journey to us, a healer's hands that had checked vital signs, dispensed medicine, and comforted babies. “It was no longer them and me,” she said, one hand away from her body as she said “them,” the other close to her heart to signal “me”. “It’s just like this,” she said as she began to revolve her hands around one another, each one moving around the other in a continuous circle.

Photo of Valorie Lordi by Chuck Peters

***

Han inscription: Great is the matter of Birth and death; Life slips quickly by; Time waits for no one;  Wake up, wake up; Don't waste a moment!

Susan Jion Postal, January 10, 2010 

Background:  A Zen teacher in the lineage of Deshimaru, who was a disciple of Kodo Sawaki, is building a zendo in rural Missouri.  He wrote to his fellow AZTA teachers, sharing his question as to what kind of inscription to put on the doorway, or on the gate, of his new place. All the initial responses were about The Verse of the Han.  It was fascinating to see the slight variations on a common theme as well as different cadences or rhythms from zendo to zendo.

But wait a minute, I thought, he asked about ideas for an inscription at the doorway, at the gate, not for the Han.  So I piped up and questioned that, and then came another flurry of responses of various verses which might be suitable to have outside, over the door or on a gate, some traditional, some modern.  These were all different, but with a shared point of view.

And so this morning I would like to make use of this “thread” of teacher to teacher conversation to talk together about what seems needed Outside the Door and Inside the Zendo - as a teaching, perhaps not an actual written inscription - if we are truly to enter the Way.

All of the Outside the Door examples, even those from contemporary poets, expressed the essential aspect – the unconditioned and already-existing reality.  Keizan Zenji, often referred to as the “mother of Soto Zen” (Dogen being “the father”) who wrote the great Denkoroku (The Transmission of the Lamp) in around 1300, is said to have written something like the following over the door to his zendo:  Any One Who Wants to Gain Enlightenment, Do Not Enter.

Nothing to gain here - your Enlightened nature is already here, only not yet realized. A strong statement of the principle of “no gain”, that’s for sure. Gee, I bump into gaining ideas all the time here. Students want to “get something” from this practice.  Natural perhaps in the beginning, but really almost dangerous in more experienced students when it becomes about “being somebody” here in the Sangha, about gaining some status.  I see ambition and pride around being a good student.  I see subtle and not so subtle “decoration of self” happening right here, as though being a Zen student was something you could now list on your resume.   

Dainin Katagiri once said, “You take care of your life as if it were a vending machine. You put the coins in from the top and then get the soda at the bottom.  You do meditation and you expect something. But life doesn’t always go well. The vending machine goes out of order. Then you are mad and kick the machine.”  Michael Wenger cites this in his wonderful contemporary koan collection, 33 Fingers, and he comments “Have you made your world into a vending machine?”*  Would Michael suggest that the inscription over the door read Not a Vending Machine ?

Our good friend Nonin, from Nebraska, suggested a favorite verse by T.S. Eliot:

We shall not cease from exploring,

      And at the end of all our exploring

      Will we arrive where we started

      And know the place for the first time.

And another teacher suggested still another verse from T.S. Eliot for over the doorway, outside the zendo:   …and it costs not less than everything.

Another proposed that a simple Abandon All Hope would be perfect right there over the door, to stop us all short before we enter.   This might give us pause, lest we try to carry all our baggage through the door.

Last year we enjoyed a visit from Guest Teacher Susan O’Connell from San Francisco Zen Center. She shared with us here musings on this question of hope.  Some in attendance were actually kind of upset to hear that the letting go of hope was considered a Zen teaching.  My thoughts on this right now are first, we need to acknowledge that in our language and our culture the concept of “hope” is central to all notions of “positive thinking” or “having courage”.  But also, at the same time, I find myself needing to really question this.  As long as we hope for a particular future outcome, we are in trouble, all tangled up in expectations.  Letting go of Hope actually frees us to fully engage in whatever is happening now. Abandon All Hope seems a wonderful front door sign. If it makes us squirm, all the better. 

Having an inscription on the outside has traditionally served to shine a spotlight on the intrinsic side, the emptiness side, the no-gate of Dharma.  In the old days they didn’t have Wednesday nights with instruction, just an inscription. Most have heard this phrase, the Gateless Gate.  This is not just the title of a Koan collection, it is also a fundamental and principle teaching of Zen.  In master Mumon’s preface he states:

Zen makes the words and the mind of Buddha its foundation. It makes no-gate the gate of dharma. It is no-gate from the start.  How can we pass through it? **

Master Mumon is encouraging his disciples to dare to really enter the essential world which cannot be grasped philosophically. As seekers, we humans do perceive a barrier which separates us from what is. We find that we have work to do, experientially, even though intrinsically everything is already whole and complete.

Stepping inside the practice hall, we meet the inscription on the Han.  Immediately it is pounded into us that life and death are of supreme importance, that time quickly passes by, that opportunity can be lost, that we should strive to awaken.  The young Dogen was deeply puzzled by the seeming contradiction of the teaching of intrinsic Enlightenment and the need for such hard practice, for striving to awaken. Finally, on completing his work with his Master in China, he came to see that it is because we are already awake, essentially, that we have to practice.  We practice in order to fully realize what has been there from the beginning. This takes strong diligent effort – what Dogen called effort without desire, takes discipline and finally deep surrender.  Not easy.  Whether in the style of sitting called Shikantaza or working with koans, there is at a certain stage a kind of pounding of our head against this barrier.  Maybe it is even more frustrating because we have been taught that it is no-barrier, and yet we bump our hard heads.  Worst of all, at least for me, was the sense that I was a complete failure as a Zen student.  Oh, such self-condemnation arose.  Looking back, it almost seems absurd and funny, but at the time there were dark clouds of discouragement and despair.

Soko Morinaga Roshi wrote so eloquently:

Buddhism does not teach just to drop our desires; especially in the Zen sect, we also continuously knock and ask until our very bones are ground to powder. Buddhism also assures us that by repeatedly knocking and asking, we will at long last realize deep within ourselves that even before we began to ask, it was already given, and even before we began to knock, it was always open. ***

So I see the Han as a stimulus to knock and ask. The message of the Han is about our own tasting of our own impermanence, the impermanence of all things. Not as something on the lists of Buddhist teachings, but as the actual living fact. We are all dying, right now.  That process began with our birth. Discovering the immediacy of this can galvanize our intention, set fire to our heart’s desire. No one has much time.  To quote Mary Oliver, "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" ****  

So back side/front side -  intrinsic/experiential -  inseparable.  Maybe the Mississippi Han will have inscriptions front and back.  My choice would be that the intrinsic no-gain message be the first thing one sees, and the pounding teaching about life’s brevity is met in the practice hall, calling all to take their seats and give it their all. 

***

*Michael Wenger, 33 Fingers: A Collection of Modern Zen Koans, San Francisco, Clear Glass Publishing, c. 1994, "Vending Machine," p. 19.

**The Gateless Gate:  The Classic Book of Zen Koans, Koun Yamada, trans., MA:  Wisdom Publications, C. 2004, p. 7.    
***Soko Morinaga Roshi, Pointers to Insight: The Life of a Zen Monk, Jim Stokes, trans., London: The Zen Centre, c. 1985, p. 29.

****  Mary Oliver, "The Summer Day," from House of Light, 1990, Boston, Beacon Press, c. 1990, p. 60,

 Unpacking Manjushri after the move to 45 Lawton, we searched for the very best place, and found this niche in the brick wall behind our Han.

To make noise in the zendo during a workshop was to breathe in the middle of an oxymoron - deep, deliciously, and with joy.  The February 21st Workshop on Sound was an opportunity for 18 of us to share and to teach each other about the forms and possibilities of the temple instruments and sounds that mark our practice - wood (han, mokugyo), brass (bells, large and small) and voice.

The workshop was led by our teacher, Susan Jion Postal, with sangha members from the Practice Leadership Group contributing their experiences in using the temple instruments.  I've had the opportunity to work with all of the instruments and roles before, but, as has been true of each day I've spent at Empty Hand Zen Center, I came away with new insights.  What was special about this day was the added pleasure of making noise with fellow sangha members - a concert of wood, brass, and voice. 

Here are a few things that resonated (pun intended!):

Wood - Loud, but not too loud:  The words of the Han and the sound of the Han communicate the same thing:  Awake!  Waste not a minute!  Appropriately, the Han can be quite loud; but, since we are surrounded by apartments with potentially sleeping neighbors, we do not strike it loudly.  This is important during the run at the end, in which the intent is to speed up but not get louder.  

Sometimes a bell is much more than bell: Susan shared a teaching by Suzuki Roshi in which the striking of the bell was analogous to giving birth to the Buddha.  I appreciated that thought, because striking and hearing the bell often feels so full and complete, an outward movement and gift.  There is also a view in which striking the bell brings energy and attention inward.  Bruce, a sangha member who often takes the role of Doan, has trained several of us.  He wasn't at the workshop but he was quoted by both Catherine and Chuck as having shared a very active notion of bell ringing.  He notes that the Doan, usually in position before everyone else, has the opportunity to offer quite a few returning bows to those who take their seats.  Each bow brings the Doan's eyes into the bowl of the big brass bell.  Bruce said he has come to think of this action as bowing each of us into the bell, bringing us all together in readiness for practice.

Voice and song:  We explored what is appropriate to chanting as a group.  In reciting the sutras together we found parallels with singing as an ensemble in which all listen and adjust so that voices blend to make one energetic sound.  To do this Maezumi Roshi said it best: "Chant with your ears, not with your mouth...Always adjust yourself to others, rather than expecting them to adjust to you...Chant as though each syllable were a drop of rain in a steady shower..mild, consistent, and sustained."  

I remember being uncomfortable with chanting, but now see it as another opportunity for practice.  I also have found it to be a great gift to, as chant leader, offer the invocations after the sutras, essentially using my voice to call forth on behalf of all of those present.  It is that experience of invocation that allowed me to hear anew Susan's words and those she shared from Blanche Hartman describing chanting as an opportunity to do something useful when other actions are not possible.  We may not be able to prevent a friend's illness or distress or single-handedly end a war, but we can call forth compassion and with attention and intention direct it to where we think it can help.  Fully owning my very deep rational pragmatism, I know in my bones that when done with sincerity and heart, this action makes a difference.  

Dance:  Wait.  Dance?  Indeed.  We've all been part of this zen dance - more subtle than the Electric Slide, but just as fluid.  By the close of the workshop, I felt deep appreciation for for the unspoken choreography that weaves together a sitting period, a service, and a day-long retreat.  From the Doshi's first bow that signals the Han, to the closing bow that we offer each other with hands in gasho, each person who takes a position in service leads a part of the dance.  The Doan signals movement but with an awareness of  time and readiness of all, the Chant Leader and Mokugyo listen for each other to keep the pulse of the Heart Sutra steady, and we each rise, walk, turn, sit with each other and the Buddha, from kinhin to closing bows.  

Each sitting period, each workshop, each retreat is built with our intention and colored with the sounds and silence of practice.  Come dance, at least 18 of us now know the steps.

On January 3^rd 2010 Craig died in my arms at home, surrounded by our family and wrapped in love. He had lived with brain cancer for exactly three years. How can I describe a life that was so well lived- lived with fullness and deep devotion to others? How can I distill the essence of Craig here in a few short paragraphs?

I can tell you that he was an incredibly active man with places to go. Craig was born in Needham, MA in 1952.  He attended Boston University and graduated in 1978 with a BA in Urban Studies and Economics. He received an academic scholarship to study Urban Planning at Rutgers University and graduated magna cum laude with an MS in Urban and Regional Planning. For the last seven years he was the Commissioner Of Development for the City Of New Rochelle, and committed to, as well as excited by, his career. He invested deeply in the many groups he was involved in, both professional and in his personal time, including his growing practice at the Empty Hand Zen Center. He had four sons and a daughter that he loved dearly. Craig could run like the wind. He read daily. He listened to NPR religiously and loved music. He talked politics, debated, joked wickedly and hilariously and laughed often. Craig adored chocolate ice cream, the ocean, biking from the George Washington Bridge down to the site of Ground Zero and back again, driving his car and taking adventures. He could endlessly walk through art exhibits and galleries and also appreciate cities and large monuments of urban stone and cement. He was an extremely intellectually gifted man and critical thinker.

Well known in his professional life, Craig received many honors, awards and citations for his service to the people for things such as historical preservation and the work he did to further affordable housing. However awards and acknowledgements were not the things Craig thrived on. He preferred working in the public sector and what was important for Craig was his service to others; personal acknowledgement was not the point. He constantly reminded himself that he was not important, rather he told me that his purpose in this lifetime was to do for others at the outset; to awaken with selfless acts in the forefront of his thinking and planning, to do whatever was needed to help heal or provide for another. As he endeavored to do these things, he also found great healing. He believed strongly that we are all one, there is no differentiation and so we are all connected to one another. As he healed himself and supported others the ripples of these actions would continue outwards through all of humanity.

Craig understood and embodied that all that is truly meaningful and sacred in our lives is about love. His illness and death drove that point home more than anything else. We can lose everything material and physical that we are attached to in life, yet it is the love that we give that matters the most. Love is what is really inside all of us when we arrive on earth and what is left when we leave our physical bodies.

Craig was a prolific journal writer and besides documenting his runs- 100 mile months that he so enjoyed- the animals he often met along the way, as well as the Northern Lights he once was able to observe awestruck, he also documented his journey into awareness and growth. As his cancer worsened Craig lost his ability to write with his right hand and taught himself to write with his left. Eventually he could no longer journal so he put down his feelings and thoughts in left handed haikus for as long as he could.  Looking back at his writings I can see that he had started his spiritual practice back in 1990 and his Zen practice began in the year 2000. Craig found the EHZC in 2003 when he moved to New Rochelle and started sitting in earnest then, making his practice the context for his life in which he could grow and where he could learn to be present and to open his heart until it was of limitless dimensions.

He believed in his connection to goodness and just simply unconditional love. He often told to me to believe that we are surrounded by love.  When things went wrong he would say, “It’s all good.” Yet he was a realist, and he had no doubt that the world could seem random, and that pain, suffering and attachment were the human condition.  He wrote once that he had been at a retreat at Garrison Institute where Nonin Chowaney had also been giving a dharma talk. Craig recounted in his journal the quintessence of what he came away with after that weekend and what he would put into effect in his life: that enlightenment can come and go like the flowers and disillusionment crops up like weeds. Because of that he realized his commitment to the Four Noble Truths and the Eight Fold Path would have to be constantly renewed.  Craig understood that perseverance, patience, and practice was the path he would need to walk towards awareness, while looking deeply inwards and experiencing fully the pain, the joy and the peace that it can bring.

In October 2005 Susan presided over our beautiful wedding ceremony in NYC incorporating Zen Buddhism seamlessly into a ceremony for many non Buddhists. Everyone found it incredibly moving, funny too, when Craig pretended that we bumped our heads together as we bowed to each other.  In March 2009 after we found that Craig’s brain cancer had spread and that it was very likely that his time in our physical world as we know it would then be short, we renewed our vows at the Zendo in New Rochelle, the first wedding to be held within those walls.

Craig received Jukai in November 2008 and was given the name Kyusen (Enduring River). He was the first in his class to give a “Way Seeking Mind” talk to the sangha, and he spoke of  Kyogen’s “Man Up A Tree” koan. “This is life,” Craig wrote in his preparation. “We are both in the tree and the questioner. There is no other. I want great meaning and I stand there beneath the tree staring and thinking that this great suffering will distill truth. I am suffering the agony of life, the agony of choice and I am speechless. Indeed, what is one to do”?  Perhaps this haiku Craig wrote left handed will provoke some thought about that issue:

It’s life on life’s terms

Nothing withheld – all given

Don’t give up- let go

All too quickly as Craig’s brain cancer became more advanced Craig lost his ability to do all the things he loved and valued in life and which until then had given his life so much meaning. First as his hand and arm became paralyzed his writing suffered and then failed.  Craig’s leg started to become weak so his running stopped, then biking stopped, then walking. He had to give up his beloved car and the freedom of driving.  His ability to speak began to fail and finally to even tell jokes. He became unable to say but a few words, and lost most of his sight. Craig did mourn these losses deeply-  but his continuing practice of non attachment helped him as the physical parts of his life were stripped away- gracefully he accepted and surrendered to his experience until only the bare spirit remained in his wounded body- his spirit of love, giving, patience, and goodness was what was left. He truly lived in the moment and his understanding of what was meaningful in life deepened immeasurably, it became all about communicating his loving strength to others so they in turn could find their own inner strength and love.

Even at the end of his life every day he received visitors, hugged them with whatever strength he had left in his one arm, encouraged his friends to talk and seek within themselves for what was important and how to live their lives. He made it his purpose in life to show his love in every way that he could- to continue to grow, to transform- and he shone with the light of a million stars from within. He was luminous and all that beautiful pure light surrounded us as we sat with him and lived with him. It was not about death- it was about life! Until he could no longer speak anymore he said “I love you to everyone”, and then he showed us all his love with his eyes, his expressions, and his entire beingness even from his death bed for as long as he could open his eyes.  Caring for Craig, and his allowing us to care for him so completely and intimately, also became a lesson for us all in acceptance, presence, giving and unconditional love. We were all connected.

Throughout his process of dying Susan, Dennis, Glynn and Craig’s Dharma brothers and sisters continued to visit. Craig could often be seen in deep contemplation with Susan as she sat with him and they looked into each other’s eyes, or with Dennis leaning forehead to forehead and communing deeply without the need for words. During his last days Susan was in almost constant attendance and sat and breathed in tandem with Craig. On the day he died, when Craig was no longer outwardly conscious, we all gathered around his bedside and chanted sutras and dharanis. I could see Craig breathing in rhythm to the Sho Sai Myo Kichijo Dharani, the chant to remove hindrances.

 I will leave you with one of Craig’s last haikus:

Life is Terminal

Blossoms fall and weeds grow wild

Enjoy the ride dude

We want to thank the entire Sangha for your continued prayers, visits, thoughts and the healing energy and care you have showered on Craig and our family. It enriched Craig’s life and gave him spiritual guidance and support so that he could transition peacefully as he was gathered and held in your loving embrace. It has been a bittersweet, but never the less, beautiful lesson for us in being present, accepting life as it is, and in the experience and connection of a loving community.

From Craig Kyusen King's 49th Day Memorial Service, February 27th, 2010

 Unless noted otherwise, all photos are courtesy of Sandra Seirin Laureano.

The following interview with Sandra Seirin Laureano occurred over the phone and through email. Sandra started sitting with the Empty Hand Zendo in 1995. She received Jukai in 2001 before returning to Puerto Rico. After encouragement from Susan Jion Postal, Sandra’s teacher, El Grupo Zen de Cupey was created in April 9, 2008.

The above title refers to a dharma talk written for the Grupo Zen de Cupey, available in both English, "Nothing Missing,"  and in Spanish, "Nada Falta," both available here (scroll down to the titles once you get to the page.).  There is also a sutra book in Spanish, Libro de Sutras, available here.

 ***

Catherine Seigen Spaeth:  You moved back to Puerto Rico to take care of your mother?

Sandra Seirin Laureano:  Yes, we frequently bypass death and dying while we are growing up and then it’s all around us, frequently, frequently.  We reach a certain age and our parents are ill and dying.

My father passed while I was living in the States. I would come to Puerto Rico and spend a week to ten days and go back to New York, and then no sooner than I got home, I would have to fly back.  A friend whom I consider a sister, we’ve shared most of our lifetime, took care of my parents when I was away, and would call me and say “He’s calling for you and wants to see you!”   I was in this process for about a month and a half. I had taken a three month leave from work to take the national board exams for my acupuncture practice.  On the last trip I returned to New York on a Tuesday; my exams were that following weekend.  Dad died Wednesday morning. I remember walking into the exam room, a ballroom in a hotel, and thinking “there’s no way I can pass these exams without your help dad.” He gave me a hand and I passed the exams. 

And then I decided that I didn’t want to repeat that experience with my Mom, I took those exams in October 1998.  I graduated from acupuncture school in 1999, two weeks after my son graduated from high school.  I waited for him to get used to being away from home and in college and when he was in his sophomore year I returned home to Puerto Rico, on April 4^th 2001.

Sangha members of El Grupo Zen de Cupey attending a ceremony for the viewing of relics in Puerto Rico.

CS: The Zen Group was started in April 2008, so there was a big gap of time between when you moved to Puerto Rico and when you decided to formally have a sitting group.  What was the transition like from that arrival in Puerto Rico, and deciding that you wanted to have a sangha?

SL: There were several years when I experienced different Buddhist traditions in Puerto Rico. Meanwhile, I was visiting New York regularly and sat at the Empty Hand Zendo and kept in touch with Susan.

I looked around in Puerto Rico for a place that I would feel part of and comfortable in, there are many centers in Puerto Rico I discovered, but they are mostly in the Tibetan line; they are much more ornate and into ritual, they are not as silent as we are.  It was difficult.  I talked about it with Susan and we talked about how, in a way, I needed to let go of attachment, attachment to a particular way of practice. When I visited with her during the fall 2007 sesshin, she said to me, “You know, you’ve looked around and you haven’t found a place yet. Why don’t you start a sitting group, start sitting with other people and see how it goes?”   

I called Gloria, a woman who I had been in a Buddhist reading group with and said “I want to start a sitting group in the Soto Zen tradition and want to know if you’re interested.” On April 9^th 2008 we had our first sitting as a community, there were seven of us.

Many things came together in those weeks. In a previous trip to visit Susan we had visited an antique store in Mamaroneck and we had both fallen in love with a Jizo statue most adequate for my acupuncture room.  My partner brought back a wooden carved Buddha from Indonesia in 2000. I moved from my house in the suburbs of Cupey to Old San Juan. However, the house in Cupey  continued being the place of my acupuncture practice, and it had plenty of empty space. 

Nine months after sitting began I moved my mother to the house in Cupey so she could be better cared for. At that time she was 92 and had senile dementia.

Now it all blends, sangha, acupuncture practice and my mother’s care. And it all started with Susan really listening and saying “Why don’t you start your own sitting group and see how it goes?”. And we’ve been sitting ever since.

Like with all sanghas, it’s been a process; some people stopped coming, new people came and started sitting. Initially we started sitting on towels and cushions, in May 2008 we decided to buy cushions. I talked to Susan about it and she allowed us to use the 501(c) 3 non-profit status as an affiliate and we bought what we needed  so now it looks like a real zendo.

Martha and Pedro bathing the Buddha at a relics ceremony and viewing in Puerto Rico.

What’s been really good is that Mom moved into the house with her caregivers. Luisa, one of the main caretakers had been practicing Vajrayana on and off for several years and is also a Reiki teacher.  She started sitting as soon as they moved into the house and has been a real pillar of our sangha. Together with Gloria, we have a strong continuous space for persons seeking quiet and stillness. 

CS:  How has gathering a sangha altered and strengthened your own practice as a Buddhist?

SL:  It’s all about letting go of ideas, perceptions, expectations, and desires. When we embark on a project of any nature we of course have expectations, desires and ideas as to how it should progress. Our small self immediately analyzes what’s going wrong, what we are doing wrong, or not doing.

Sitting practice helps us deal with crushed expectations, unfulfilled desires and erroneous ideas. But creating a space where people can come and experience stillness doesn’t necessarily mean that the people we invite are ready to experience it. So it’s been a continuous process of trying to not have expectations about how many people arrive or how long they stay.

Others will arrive at their own pace. Ideas of whether I’m ready to facilitate sitting in silence and stillness is a recurrent question that I try to look at and not answer. The relation between my own practice/understanding and people’s arrival also is a recurrent theme.

So the house where I used to live has become a space that accommodates many different needs for those who are near it; it’s been a real blessing to have the space.  Right now we have around five regular sitters. Last year when we had our first anniversary we had nine people that came to sit and shared tea and cookies afterward. Late last year we visited the Buddhas’ relics and there were 13 of us. For half day retreats we’ll have five to seven people.  2010 is the first year that we will have pre-set dates through the year for our retreats.  We receive dana, and we’ve been able to help Haitians affected by the 2008 floods and the 2010 earthquake. We’ve also supported East Asian immigrants who were abandoned in 2009.  We are now thinking of buying additional zafus for the zen group.

From Puerto Rico, Sandra and Gloria together at the October 2008 Empty Hand Zen Center retreat in Garrison, New York.

CS: How have you remained in touch with Empty Hand and what has this meant to you?

SL:  Susan’s guidance and support have been essential to what has grown here.  She and I have been reading Dogen together back and forth over the phone, and we speak about what touches us and inspires our practice.

I usually give her an update on what is happening and she provides feedback and offers suggestions. Her encouragement to get the word out about our zen group has been helpful as well. We produced a flyer and distributed close to 400 copies. Susan has also prepared dharma talks specifically for our group, which I have translated into Spanish. At times someone that sits with us will have a question for Susan that I will pass on.  She and I talk about it and I bring back a response.

CS:  As you describe the house your mother is very nearby through all of this, how is she a part of all that’s happening there?

SL:  My mother came when she had already started showing signs of senile dementia. I think it’s been great for her because when she moved into the house she was very hyper, and I’ve tried to keep her on minimal necessary medication; we work with homeopathic remedies, reiki, massages and music. The peacefulness that comes with sitting practice has benefitted her. Although she manifests episodes of hyperactivity it is no longer fearful or tearful.  She has moved on to a very peaceful kind of just being there in the house; she’s not anxious, she smiles, she’ll dance, she danced with me yesterday.   She’s moved to this better place which is good, I think she has benefited unknowingly from the practice, from the energy that is here.

The whole body is a mouth

Hanging in space

Not caring which way the wind blows

east, west, south or north

All day long it speaks

of Prajna Paramita for everyone

ting-ton, ting-ton, ting-tong 

One Wednesday, in our Introductory evening a few weeks ago, we briefly looked at this famous poem, entitled Windbell, by Dogen’s teacher, Rujing. Sensing that this bell is still ringing here, that this poem has more to tell us, I am picking up its teaching again.

Throughout Zen history, so many poetic word-pictures have been given to inspire us, to give us a clue about what the Buddha’s teaching actually means for us, now.  Today we have this bell, hanging like an open upside-down mouth.  I looked at a few translations, one says “The bell looks like a mouth, gaping.” This certainly gives us strong sense of the wide-openness, the receptivity. When we are completely surprised, completely clueless, we might say “my mouth fell open” – this is gaping, a kind of physical expression of not-knowing.  However, I have gravitated to this translation, “The whole body is a mouth hanging in space.”  I appreciate the reminder of whole-body-presence in our practice.  I also appreciate that it says “is” not “looks like”, and finally it is clearly out there, hanging in space. Not some internally contained little bell that rings in our heart, but out there – freely functioning in space.

And then the pivotal point – not caring from which direction the wind blows – north, south, east or west.  Not holding to preference, not sticking to agenda, not holding any gaining idea, not investing in any point of view, any belief –in short, no clinging. And also there is no aversion - no rejection out of fear, no pushing away with criticism, no turning away with dislike.  This wide mouthed bell simply continues to ring, to respond, to give expression to what is true which ever way the winds are swirling.   This is the realized life.  Winds can carry noxious odors, sweet perfume of lilacs, cold sleet and snow, howling hurricanes.  To be fundamentally OK with what we do not like, could not possibly like, is the teaching of this Windbell.   Taking rest in deep spacious mind is not dependent on conditions, on the direction of the wind blowing our way.   This is the lesson brought home to many of us recently by our dear Sangha Member, Craig King, as he was dying from brain cancer.  As his physical condition deteriorated, he began to manifest such presence, such love. With his one strong arm he hugged tightly, with his one good eye he made powerful eye-contact. As his speech failed, we “talked” eye to eye with deep meditative intimacy. He was shining forth for us all, ringing clearly, as he entered the time of transition and passing. There is no way to like the particular wind that rattled his family, his friends, his dharma brothers and sisters to the core. Yet somehow his years of practice allowed him to continue opening up his heart/mind wider and wider as his body became weaker and weaker.

Craig’s gift to us, just like this poem, offers a glimpse into the functioning of Prajna, our own intrinsic intuitive wisdom. The bell hosts the wind, takes in all winds, and responds directly.    Let’s be like that with each other here – empty bells hanging in space. Leaving the Zendo, let’s be this way with our life, whole body ringing, giving out our own intimate expression.

This is an abbreviated version of the dharma talk.  In order to listen to the full teisho please click here and scroll down to "Which Ever Way."    For the pdf version of the full dharma talk, please click here and scroll down to "Which Ever Way."