Shunryu Suzuki and Richard Baker

In 2013, a small inheritance allowed me to undertake a pilgrimage to some of the major Zen Centers throughout North America. I had written a book – The Third Step East – about the pioneer figures who brought Zen to this continent, and although they were now all dead, their immediate successors were still living and I would be able to visit them. The result was my fourth book, Cypress Trees in the Garden.

I began my tour in San Francisco on March 21, 2013 and gradually worked my way east across the continent to Halifax, Nova Scotia. The process – which is still on-going – has been a substantial learning experience for me. When I set out, I had little idea of how to conduct an interview; I’ve been told I’ve become good at it, but it wasn’t a skill that came naturally. More significantly, back then I had a naïve concept about the nature of Zen in America. I had thought that the centers I arranged to visit might vary in size but would otherwise be similar to the Montreal Zen Center where I was practicing. As soon as I stepped through the door at the San Francisco Zen Center’s primary site on the corner of Page and Laguna Streets – called City Center – I realized how wrong that assumption was. Elsewhere I have described the difference to be similar to that between a Quaker Meeting House and the Vatican. It’s an exaggerated analogy, but it accurately describes how it felt at the time.

SFZC is huge. City Center is one of three main practice centers along with their mountain retreat at Tassajara and an organic farm, Green Gulch. At one time, they owned many of the residential buildings in the neighborhood. It has become smaller, but it remains the largest and wealthiest Zen community in America.

I had arranged to meet the then current Central Abbot of Zen Center – Steve Stücky – and two of his predecessors, Blanche Hartman (co-abbot from 1996 to 2002) and Mel Weitsman (co-abbot from 1988 to 1997). I arrived early and was told that the abbots and other community members were in the Buddha Hall for the noon chanting service. There were no noon chanting services in Montreal. I wasn’t aware that there are any chanting services held outside sesshin in Montreal.

I was shown a place to wait in the foyer where I could peak into the Buddha Hall and see people doing full body prostrations. There were banners and paintings on the walls depicting Shunryu Suzuki, the founder of SFZC. There are no portraits of his immediate successor, Richard Baker (abbot from 1971 to 1983). Baker and SFZC had parted ways in 1983, and, at the time of my visit thirty years later, the relationship was still strained.

In Cypress Trees in the Garden, I compare Baker’s role at SFZC to that of Saint Paul within Christianity. Shunryu Suzuki was the founder, but it is clear that on his own, SFZC would have remained a much more modest operation. When Baker first came to Zen Center, it had an annual budget of less than $5500, and they had $2,304.24 in the bank. Under his leadership, that grew to more than $4 million. Zen Center real estate holdings were valued at $20 million.

Shunryu Suzuki is a fascinating figure still beloved by those who knew him, and yet his own children, when they came from Japan to visit him, were confounded by the number of loyal students he had amassed in America. They respected their father but had thought of him as little more than a small-town priest of no particular stature. They were surprised to discover that he led two thriving monastic communities in America with numerous students who obviously revered him. Likewise when Suzuki’s American students travelled to Japan they were surprised to find that their beloved teacher was quite an insignificant figure in Japanese Soto circles. Suzuki had been a relatively ordinary figure in Japan, but Zen training can mold individuals of impressive character, which contributed to him becoming an extraordinary figure in America.

Before coming to American in 1959, he had been the resident priest of a rural Soto temple where his duties included conducting funerals and memorial services, carrying out ritual activities, and chanting sutras on behalf of the community. Within the Soto structure, he was an abbot, and students were occasionally sent to him for training. Few, however, had any serious interest in the Buddhadharma; they were simply preparing to take responsibility for family-run temples, as Suzuki himself had done. He came to feel that the Zen tradition had grown stale and was in need of revitalization.

“It’s very clear,” David Chadwick tell me. “He was not a big deal at all in Japan. What made him a big deal here? In America? You know what Taizan Maezumi said? He said, ‘We don’t know why Suzuki Roshi was so successful, but all we know is he was.’”

David is the author of Crooked Cucumber, the standard Suzuki biography. He is also an archivist who maintains the massive cuke.com and shunryusuzuki.com online.

“Maezumi was here in Los Angeles four years before Suzuki came to San Francisco, and he said, ‘I’d been trying to get a Zen group going.’ Other people have been trying to get something going, but there was no real practicing group. Maezumi said it didn’t happen until Suzuki came and all of a sudden it happened around him. We can’t say why. But then it started happening elsewhere. And he said Suzuki Roshi made all this possible. I like his point of view.”

There were a handful of centers operating when Suzuki incorporated SFZC in 1962. In New York there was the First Zen Institute of America in New York established by Alan Watts’ mother-in-law. It offered meditation programs, but its primary focus was translating primary sources into English. And in Hawaii, Robert Aitken and his wife, Anne Hopkins, had established the Diamond Sangha. But while practice centers were scarce, interest in Zen as a concept was high as the result of books by authors like Watts and D. T. Suzuki. (Suzuki is a common Japanese name and Shunryu Suzuki at times called himself the “small Suzuki” in contrast to the “big Suzuki,” the scholar, D. T. Suzuki, who can be credited with first introducing Zen theory to the West.)

There were, however, mission temples. Soto authorities in Japan had established temples in Los Angeles (Zenshuji, 1922) and San Francisco (Sokoji, 1934) for the benefit of Japanese families in California. The priests at these temples came from Japan, and when – at the age of 55 – Shunryu Suzuki had the opportunity to be posted at Sokoji, he accepted it with alacrity. The temples were largely cultural centers, places where Japanese traditions and values were retained and respected. They were not meditation studios. Meditation – as far as the congregations at both Zenshuji and Sokoji were concerned in the 1950s – was something monks, not lay people, did.  

As far as the congregation at Sokoji were concerned, the new priest’s duties would have been much the same as in Japan. However, as David tells me, “Suzuki Roshi landed in the middle of the Alan Watts Zen boom. Another priest at Sokoji took him to a class at Watts’ American Academy of Asian Studies. He meets people there and picks up his first three non-Japanese students there, like the first week.”

The non-Japanese students had read Watts and Jack Kerouac. They came searching for Zen with a capital Z. They wanted meditation and often had romantic ideas about awakening to their True Natures. Awakening wasn’t something Suzuki spoke about, but he came to have so many non-Japanese practitioners that the congregation compelled him to find an alternate location for them. The new building was the former Jewish girls’ residence I visited on the corner of Page and Laguna Streets.

I ask David what Suzuki Roshi was like.

“I’ve interviewed a lot of people,” he tells me, “and I’ve heard what a lot of people have to say. Not everybody was turned on to him as a teacher, but the most common thing to hear people say is, ‘I never met anybody before that really understood me.’ Or they’d say, ‘I never met anybody who was so unjudgmental and so open and so ordinary at the same time and so humble.’ Something happened to him when he came to America. He loved the hippie thing; he loved the Beat thing. He didn’t participate. He didn’t want people getting high when they came, but he saw that people who had experimented with psychedelics had opened up their way-seeking mind to a great extent. And so he appreciated it.”

Richard Baker was one of the young people who came to sit with Suzuki at Sokoji in the early ’60s, and he developed a deep and loyal affection for his teacher. By 1966, Baker had ordained and was on his way to becoming Suzuki’s right-hand-man.

David Chadwick was with Suzuki at Sokoji, before the move to City Center occurred. “I had some time there in its smaller form, then we were gearing up to buy land in the woods down south to build a monastery. And so I got involved in that. And then we heard there’s this place near the land we’re trying to buy called Tassajara Springs, and it’s really cool. So when we go there, it’s actually contiguous with Tassajara Springs, the same land. And we can walk there in about an hour. So that was great. And then at the last minute I hear, oh, we’re buying Tassajara instead of the horse pasture. And that doubles the money. We were raising $25,000 as a down payment on $150,000 then all of a sudden we’re raising $300,000. That didn’t mean much to me, but Zen Center’s whole annual budget, I’ve heard different figures, $8,000 a year, $12,000 is the highest I heard. So everybody got in the action, but Dick Baker’s genius came out and his energy.”

Baker proved to be a gifted organizer and a more than effective fund-raiser. He orchestrated a capital campaign which engaged people like Alan Watts, the beat poet, Allen Gingberg, and the Grateful Dead. “But what really did it,” David says, “was Dick and Suzuki going to the East Coast and meeting very wealthy donors. Chester Carlson who invented Xerox, a great philanthropist, wonderful man.” Carlson had brought Philip Kapleau to Rochester and funded his center there. “There was also Edward Johnson, not really the founder of Fidelity, but what he took over as Fidelity was not at all what Fidelity became. He made it what it became. So we had the CEO of the biggest mutual fund company in the world helping.”

The money was raised, and the Tassajara Zen Mountain Center became the first Buddhist monastery to be established outside of Asia. Although, as David points out, it was unlike any other monastery elsewhere.

“I learned a lot watching Dick Baker relate with Suzuki Roshi. Dick was just relating to him like another person. They were talking about what would work, what would not work, how to run the place and everyday things. And I’d see them disagree on things. Like about women. I didn’t hear this, but Dick told me. There’d never been a monastery with men and women together. But Dick just said, ‘No women, no Tassajara.’ You know? He gave Suzuki Roshi an ultimatum. And families. Dick was responsible for humanizing Tassajara a great deal because Suzuki didn’t know some things. A couple of women who were pregnant very early on had very hard experiences because they thought they should keep practicing and their husbands thought they should practice. A lot of these rigid ideas that Suzuki didn’t want people to have.”

By the end of the 1960s, both Tassajara and City Center were filled to capacity primarily with young people committing themselves to Zen practice. Suzuki had established something monumental, but, in order to ensure it would continue, he needed to identify a successor, needed to give “transmission” to a worthy heir. There is evidence that he had intended to give transmission to several students, all of whom might then have had equal authority. But in the end, only one student – Richard Baker – received transmission.

Part of the difficulty that followed may have been because Suzuki’s students understood transmission differently than he may have. The students had no doubt that their teacher was a fully enlightened and officially transmitted Zen Master although Suzuki had not claimed to be either. For Suzuki – as was common in the Soto tradition – transmission was more a matter of authorizing another to teach. Often it was conferred as a matter of course to ensure that a son inherited his father’s temple; Suzuki, for example, conferred transmission on the son of a friend during a visit to Japan even though the young man had not studied with him. Suzuki’s students, on the other hand, saw transmission as an acknowledgement of achievement, a recognition that the recipient was also now a fully enlightened teacher. When Suzuki’s chosen heir later exhibited what others considered unenlightened behavior, it became problematic.

The reason no other student received transmission was that Suzuki was dying. In March of 1971, he had an operation to remove his gall bladder which a routine biopsy revealed was cancerous.

Suzuki turned Zen Center over to Baker, and, the following November, Baker was installed as the second abbot of the institution. He was 35 years old. Suzuki died just two weeks later, on December 4^th.

“Why did people turn against Baker?” I ask David.

“Well, not everybody did, but a lot of people did. He just got too high. And I’d say too much of a sense of entitlement, and he didn’t have enough peer . . .  I don’t want to say pressure, but you know.”

“Presence?”

“Peer presence, right? He was like on top of an ivory tower, and that’s very, very hard to live with. And he was very young to be in that role. But you know, Suzuki took over his temple at around 30, 32 or something – 32 maybe – and people were saying he was too young. But he was Japanese. They’re just totally duty bound. They don’t get distracted by everything else. Anyway, Dick did a great job in many, many ways. And a lot of people really appreciate what he did. I’m very close with him now. He’s 87. He’s still teaching and giving talks, and we have a nice relationship. His group in Germany, I’m more comfortable there than with any Zen group. It’s great, and he has really good students. Germans, they’re not as neurotic as Americans. They don’t become true believers and fall in line and all that, at least the ones I’ve known. And also, he’s learned, he’s gotten older, and he learned some from his mistakes, but he still has a lot of the basic characteristics that create enemies, and he’s had detractors in Germany, but not on the scale he had in America. In America, everything went up too high.”

I ask about those characteristics that create enemies.

“I call the period of Richard Baker as abbot the imperial period of Zen Center. But let me tell you, I was talking to somebody earlier today. And Blanche Hartman wasn’t allowed to die in City Center because her care was getting too complicated, and they didn’t feel comfortable, and she had wanted to. And the woman I was talking to, who goes way back to Dick’s time, said, ‘That wouldn’t have happened under Richard Baker.’ He was very good about a lot of things. But it’s really dangerous for somebody to become a teacher and not have enough feedback and get higher and higher above other people and have a higher standard of living and have all these perks they don’t have. I think what Baker did overall has had a lot of good effect, a lot of good teachers came out of it. That’s the nature of transmitting practice and wisdom and everything. It’s done by imperfect people doing it imperfectly, and it’s messy. Anyway, he brought it on himself, but that helped Zen Center evolve into its next stage. I don’t know if it’ll survive without an imperial person in charge because he knows how to make things survive. And he’s held that German group together incredibly well. But we’ll see. I mean, it might all dissolve and evolve into other things and not be the groups we’re used to.”

To some extent it doesn’t matter why Baker and SFZC parted ways. What does matter is how it came about. Monasteries are not traditionally democratic institutions either in the East or the West. The Asian precedents were clear about this. If students have difficulty with a teacher or abbot, they go somewhere else. What happened in San Francisco is that the board and membership asserted their right to place restrictions on the abbot’s behaviour, and when the abbot could not accept the restrictions, he resigned. From that point on, American Zen took a distinctly Western step towards democratization.

At the end of my 2013 conversation with Steve Stücky, Blanche Hartman, and Mel Weitsman, I had asked about the relationship between the center and Richard Baker at the time.

“We had a fiftieth anniversary celebration here last year,” Steve told me. “Zen Center was officially organized as an institution in 1962, so in 2012 we had our fiftieth anniversary. I invited him to come. Blanche had invited him here earlier. He came and gave a talk and participated in our ceremonies. I also invited him to come again last fall to visit Tassajara; so we have a pretty good relationship. But it’s also true that his memory of things that happened during the time he was here and his opinion about the ethical aspects of it and other peoples’ points of view are not all in accord. But I feel that we are in a very respectful relationship.”

“Has there been a reconciliation?”

“That may be . . .” He does not finish his thought.

“Premature,” Blanche said after a moment.

“I don’t think we’re not reconciled,” Steve pointed out.

“We’re working in that direction,” Blanche said.

Later, as she waited outside with me for my taxi to arrive, she expressed regret that Zen Center had not been able to reconcile with Baker. “But,” she told me sadly, “he couldn’t admit that he had done anything wrong. But if you really want to know about Zen Center, you need to speak to him.”

Ten years later, David Chadwick tells me, “I gave a talk at Green’s once to Zen Center donors and stuff in 2000, and I started off by making a toast to Richard Baker, I said, ‘Without whom, none of us would be here.’”

Dosho Port tells me that during dokusan with Baker once he told him, “A teacher has to survive being made into an archetype by his students.”

All three of the abbots I spoke to during that first interview are now dead. Steve Stücky died just a few months later from pancreatic cancer that he hadn’t realized he had at the time of our conversation. Blanche Hartman died – not in residence at City Center as she would have chosen – three years later, in 2016. Mel Weitsman died in 2021, at the age of 91.

Since that day in March 2013, I have conducted more than 220 interviews. However, as much as I would like to have heard his side of the story about the San Francisco Zen Center, I have not been able to interview Richard Baker. It is the interview I most regret not being able to do.

Post script: I finally managed to do two interviews with Richard Baker in September and October of 2025. The profile is here.

The Third Step East: 125-44; 9, 20, 86, 90, 102, 105, 107, 152, 167, 168, 169, 201, 217, 220-22, 224, 225, 226, 229, 233

Cypress Trees in the Garden: 16, 25-27, 31, 32, 33, 35, 59, 149, 242, 276, 277, 279, 410

The Story of Zen: 5, 6, 263-69, 266-270, 276-77, 279, 280, 286, 299, 301, 306-07, 309, 312-20, 337, 345, 346, 351-53, 354, 355, 378, 424

Dai Bai Zan Cho Bo Zen Ji, Seattle

The first ancestor (patriarch) of the Chinese Chan tradition was the Brahmin monk, Bodhidharma, who is credited with bringing the teaching to China from India. The opening koan of the Blue Cliff collection describes his meeting with the Emperor Wu, estimated to have taken place around the year 520 CE. After that meeting, Bodhidharma was said to have retired to the recently established Shaolin Monastery located in the Songshan Mountains. The monks there were engaged in translating Buddhist scriptures and spent long hours doing so. As a result they were in poor physical condition, so Bodhidharma taught them a martial version of traditional Indian yoga, which evolved into Kung Fu. The Shaolin Temple is still active and claims to be the birthplace of both Kung Fu and Zen.

The connection between a religious tradition generally considered pacific and martial arts was furthered in Japan where Rinzai Zen became the de facto religion of the Samurai classes. This came about because Rinzai Temples were assigned the responsibility of providing schooling for young males (and it was exclusively males) of the nobility. Because the students were housed in a monastery, they were compelled to take up meditation practice, and one supposes they were not eager to do so until they discovered that it enhanced their swordsmanship, something they were eager to develop.The relationship between Zen and kendo – the art of the sword – is so deep that one third of D. T.Suzuki’s Zen and Japanese Culture focuses on the subject.

The relationship between Asian monks and martial arts became embedded in Western cultural consciousness through films and television programs such as the 1972 series, Kung Fu, which followed the exploits of an exiled Shaolin monk in the American west of the 19^th century.

“Every once in a while, my wife and I think of an old TV show,” Gendo Testa tells me. “You can find any old TV show and go back and watch it, and sometimes it opens up a portal in your being. So we watched the first episode of Kung Fu, and my wife was like, ‘Oh! I can see your soul!’”

Although I interview Gendo shortly after he had been ordained an Osho at the Chobo-ji temple in Seattle, much of our conversation focuses on his engagement in martial arts.

“And I was like, ‘Holy shit! I really took this in!’ So the whole Daoism, the monastery, the martial arts, the integrity, the honor, the hero, the ‘standing up’ was all in there, and I took it all in. I was just a kid watching a TV show, but there was a whole lot going on.”

He was nine years old at the time.

“That was your introduction to both Buddhism and the martial arts?” I ask.

“Yeah, I think they’re sandwiched together and that was the influence of the show. It was about the transformation you see him go through. That potential, the human potential of going through something like that. The relationship between him and his teacher. These are all things I longed for in some way or was attracted to. When I ordained, I was asked to give a short Dharma talk and in it I was aware of a thread and it went all the way back to not only the Kung Fu show, but to memories of my dad taking me to international food festivals. And one in particular was at Brown University, and it also had cultural performances or arts. And the one from Japan had kyudo, Zen archery. Mmm! That was something. The way the man came out. So dignified. His posture. The way he pulled one sleeve down and dropped into seiza so perfectly. The whole thing. And everyone got quiet as he drew that bow. And when he finally released the arrow, something special happened. It was like a ‘What is this?’ moment. I felt something. I felt he had a power and a clarity that I’d never seen in real life, something I’d only seen – I guess – on television. But yeah, I was really into that Kung Fu thing. I remember that even during the commercial breaks, it was winter, and I’d go outside in my bare feet and just try to walk like he did in the snow. But that moment of seeing the Zen archery, that was when I felt like, ‘Okay! That’s it!’”

Although he describes himself as a “bit of a scrapper” as a young person, he didn’t take up serious practice in a dojo – training studio – until he was in his twenties.

“I bounced around a few styles and got pretty proficient at fighting. I had a fighting spirit. Not because I . . . I don’t know.” His voice becomes softer more reflective. “I had a quality that got me into situations. Always standing up for someone else. Even when I was really small, I got my ass kicked a lot for standing up for somebody else even though I wasn’t big enough to defend them or myself. But eventually I got the hang of it.”  In one case as a child, he beat up a local bully so badly that he had to have medical attention. Gendo’s parents were required to cover the bills.

“My dad was upset, but it was unusual behaviour for me. And when I told him about what had happened, he said that ‘You need to get better at knowing when to stop.’ I think that’s why I was always in and out of dojos. I was hopeful that I would find an environment that would help me transform.”

“Transform in what way?” I ask.

He smiles shyly. “What my image of a martial artist was, someone who had come to terms with . . . Well, they’re strong, but they also have gone beyond the need to prove it. I believed the dojo I was looking for was only to make me a better person.” He describes the early martial form he learned as an aggressive blend of shotokan karate, uechi-ryu, and jujitsu. It could be effective, but as he puts, it only provided him with hammers.

He didn’t find the form he was looking for until he was in the 30s.

“I had started a new job, and there was an aikido dojo near the job. And they had an early morning class. I had kids, and Dad’s just got to get up earlier if he’s going to do anything for himself. So that’s what I did. I started the morning classes, and these were the teachers I needed. They were all police officers. Real no nonsense guys. They had all done other martial arts, and they were really good men. And their aikido was very strong and clear. And as soon as I met them, they kind of drew me into their circle because I was very dedicated to my training. And pretty much early on they said, ‘You’ve got to meet Toyoda Shihan. He’s coming out in a few months; we’re hosting him.”

“Shihan” is an honorific used with martial arts instructors suggesting a higher rank or authority than the more common “sensei.” Toyoda Shihan was Fumio Toyoda, a Japanese-born Aikido master whose practice was grounded in Zen. Gendo was assigned to be Toyoda’s attendant for the weekend of the seminar.

“So I had to pick him up at the airport, get him to his hotel, and drive him around for the weekend, and I got to know him. I didn’t have many years with him. He passed away within five years of my meeting him. But I absorbed him a bit. In aikido, you’re looking to harmonize or blend with the attack and lead it to a neutral point so you can take the balance at that point and throw or pin them. And to get skillful at it, you need to learn how to change how you hold your body. So you’re looking for fluidity of movement. You learn the essence of the technique through receiving it. Once your physical abilities are at a level where you can stay connected and ride the wave – so to speak – you’ll eventually get this ingrained feeling of what the techniques are. And so I was terrible at technique mostly because my previous training had been stopping everyone’s attack. So I threw myself headlong into this training, to receive, and I got good at it because I wasn’t afraid to take the falls. I knew these guys weren’t trying to hurt me, but they could throw really powerfully. But aikido’s set up in a way that you’re throwing the person in a way that they can fall safely as long as they’re attuned and as long they don’t try to get in the way of where you’re throwing them. You temper your body that way. And you’re getting up off the floor over and over. It’s a very different way of training your body. So, anyhow, I was good at that. Especially for a beginner. So sensei used me a lot, and I got a little closer to him for that reason. And he was really kind to me. And he was insightful. I knew he looked at me, and he knew what to do with me. I think now I know because I was him in some way. I didn’t know it until he passed away that he was a scrapper too, that he would stand up and fight if necessary. So I think he knew what to do with me. And he’s the one that encouraged me to sit zazen, which I hated.”

“So he was the first Zen Buddhist you met.”

“Yeah. He’s the first Zen Buddhist I met. He emphasized that aikido training was shugyo. Shugyo is intense physical and spiritual training to be used for self-transformation. He would say that if you wanted to really learn his aikido you would have to sit zazen.”

“Which you hated.”

“Oh, yeah! Hated it! Well, I still didn’t have what I’d call a non-negotiable practice, so to speak. I’d get on these kicks and not be able to stick with it. It’s hard to sit by yourself. But I feel like the dojo itself was meditation. Being in the dojo, because of the concentration needed, I didn’t think about anything else. So in some way, just going to the dojo and being in a training environment, you’re there for a couple of hours not thinking about anything else. And then leaving the dojo and slowly your mind comes back. You know? The wheels start spinnin’ again. And so I was aware that the dojo was medicine for me all along. And that, I think, was enough medicine for a long period of time. I needed tempering, and, honestly, it looked like that was a decade of tempering.”

Then his family moved to Connecticut, where he learned about Robert Heiwa Burns.

“He had an aikido dojo. So I went to visit him, and he was a little volatile. A pretty fiery guy. But also very passionate. He had a place called Aiki Farm; it was an organic farm where he grew greens and sprouts. And he took his jukai under Genjo Marinello Roshi. He was also a former Marine and political activist. When I met Heiwa, he was in his 70s. So from my house, I could walk through the woods, cross a road, and there’s the dojo. I started to go there in the mornings. And we would sit zazen. We’d do forty-minute sits, and then we’d do aikido. We were only sitting like four times a week, and eventually I felt I needed to commit to this because I can’t go to bed so early four nights in a row and then not do it the next three. So I asked him, ‘Can we just sit every day? I’ll show up. Don’t worry about anybody else.’  So we started doing that. It was a thing every day for years.

“So Heiwa only had a handful of students, and he had this organic farm, and we’d help him plant. But one summer we didn’t have enough people to harvest everything we planted, so I suggested we do what’s called shochugeiko, which is a summer intensive practice. It used to be held in Chicago in July, but I convinced them to let us host it here on the East Coast so we’d have people to help harvest. So I pitched the idea to Heiwa. He loved it, and a few days later he’s like, ‘You know, I called Genjo Roshi and asked him if he’d come out on the last day, and we’d just sit all day.’ And I thought that sounded like a good idea. Like, ‘All right. We’re going to have a Zen Master come in. It’ll be great.’ Right? It was a terrible idea. By the time Genjo came in, we were in rough shape. The heat! It was a gruelling heat, and we were training hard. This was a hell camp, something you don’t go to unless you’re prepared to go to your edge, unless you’re prepared to fall down from exhaustion. So we ran everybody hard. Then Genjo came in, and I’m pretty sure Heiwa told him, ‘Hey. All business.’  So he came in, and, before the end of the morning, we had done more sitting than we had all week. Sit after sit after sit. I’d never done a zazenkai even. None of us had any experience with that. So it was rough. We didn’t have much form. We chanted the Heart Sutra. We had somebody be tenzo. We had two jisha – people serving tea and cookies – other than that, there was no Dharma talk, there was no sutra chanting; we didn’t know any of the sutras. So it was brutal. And it wasn’t until I drove Genjo Roshi to the airport after it that we really kinda clicked. So that’s how I met him. And then I think we brought him out the next year, but we did a longer sit, and we did it before the camp. A mini-sesshin, Friday to Monday morning. And then the camp started, and we did that for a whole week. And that was better than the opposite way. And by then I’d been sitting very faithfully for a year, and it was easier.

“But I still didn’t have a good experience until two years later. My bodywork sensei was Everett Ogawa, who’s the founder of Integral Bodywork. It’s a form of structural integration. I was training with him, and he was based in Chicago. And at a certain point I had gone through, like, the first level of training. I’d got my certificate that said I had completed the ten-session training. And he was like, ‘I can’t take you further unless you go to sesshin.’ I was like, ‘Uhhhh [sighing]. . . Really?’”

I tell Gendo I don’t know what Integral Bodywork is.

“So Structural Integration is a series of ten different sessions that slowly work the connective tissue in the body. The idea is to bring it into a vertical alignment. So the first session is releasing the breath, the rib cage, and diaphragm, and that frees up a whole lot of vital energy. And that vital energy is gonna want to be grounded so it’s gonna move into your legs. And the second session is releasing the feet, the legs, so that there’s more of a vertical lift through the legs. And since you’ve opened your rib cage, your legs kind of lift everything up. So now you’re more open. And then it just continues. We keep continuing the freedom to move somewhere else. It gets bound up, and we keep helping it get free. Eventually the body gets into a vertical alignment. Like if I stand naturally,” he stands up to demonstrate, “my body weight is more on my heels. There’s a clean line between my ear, my shoulder, my hip, my knee, and my ankle. I didn’t start off that way. But over time you keep looping these sessions, and if you keep doing that, your body keeps opening up.”

“Okay, so why did Everett Ogawa see a connection between that and doing sesshin?”

“He had done many sesshins himself, and he felt that a daily sitting practice and attending sesshin were essential to revealing your life’s purpose. He said the same thing about the bodywork. They both were life altering opportunities to surrender and release. It occurs to me now that if we envision a person sitting perfectly in zazen, that perfect posture is a body that’s in a vertical alignment.”

“So all along, it was your interest in martial arts that was driving your practice,” I say.

“Yeah, but I needed that. I needed the movement, the physicality of it. Also I had a reverence for the aikido dojo. I really liked the etiquette. And I never felt that before in any of the other martial arts I did because they were kind of Americanized. So I felt that my aikido experience was the most pure thing that I had done.”

Eventually Ogawa suggested he attend a sesshin at the Blue Mountain Zendo in Pennsylvania. “He said, ‘I need you to do a week-long sesshin, and then I can train you more. It’s really important. I really want you to do this.’ I said, ‘Okay.’”

“But again,” I point out, “your reason for agreeing is because of the martial arts.”

“Yes. Yes! So I get sent to Pennsylvania. And it’s Ryuun Joriki Baker Osho.” Ryuun Baker had received authorization to teach from Genjo Marinello. It was Gendo’s first experience of a formal sesshin. “They had a small group, but they had the posts covered, and I’d never seen a densu [chant leader] before. I’d never seen anybody hit the han. There were all these new things. I’d never done the meals oryoki. Never done that. And until then I had only done enough sitting to where you really don’t break through. Two day or three days isn’t enough. You just go, ‘The pain has ended. I get to go home now and have a beer.’ So that was the first time I was in a situation where I got past that. And that sesshin was very . . . Productive isn’t the right word. But a lot of things lined up for me.”

Over the next few years, he remained committed to both his Aikido and Zen practices, and then he went through a period of what he calls “great duress.”

“A family crisis involving a beloved person. I was unable to sleep and was filled with dread and worry night after night. Around the tenth day of the crisis, I attended a guided meditation. And during it there was this feeling in the lowest part of my body, deep in my belly. It was like a spinning feeling. Like an uprootedness. Honestly, I really thought I was dying and that whatever my essence was was going to leave. I felt like my insides were rising up. It was peeling away.” He goes onto to describe a dramatic experience of a buildup of energy which felt like it shot up through the top of his head, and he had a sense of “leaving.” “Throughout this entire process, I’m saying goodbye to everybody – everybody who loved me; everyone I loved – and I tell them that I’m sorry, but I’m too tired to stay. You know? I’m too tired to stay. And then it stops, and everything’s super quiet. I mean, no internal dialogue. Nobody in my head talking. Nothing. And the world is super clear. And I get up, and I’m like, ‘I need to get outside.’ And the trees were not ordinary trees. The moonlight was not ordinary moonlight. And I’m captivated, and I’m bristling with energy. This really pure, clean energy.”

The experience had taken place in 2006, but he didn’t speak about it to anyone until he finally attended a sesshin with Genjo Marinello Roshi in 2011 and brought it up in dokusan. “And he just leans forward with kindness and puts his hands on my shoulders, and says, ‘We’re brothers in the Dharma.’ Then he asked, ‘What did you do with your life after that?’ I said, ‘Well, I left my job, and I started a non-profit.’ I told him about my three vows. I didn’t have four. Didn’t know there were four. To no longer make fear-based decisions. To do what my heart says is correct. To be of service to others. Genjo then said that I was already living a life in the Way and that I didn’t necessarily need Zen training, but that it could be just the thing to bring me to great maturity. Those words ‘great maturity’ stuck with me. I remember driving home from that sesshin and blurting out. ‘I am going to do that again!’”

Shortly afterwards, he took jukai because he wanted to commit himself to doing at least two sesshins a year, which in the Chobo-ji system is one of the requirements for jukai. Then Genjo suggested ordination.

“And I go, ‘I don’t know. I don’t feel priestly. I’ve got all sorts of hangups about priesthood.’ But he’s like, ‘Consider it.’ And he asks me to read your books. ’Cause I don’t read Zen. I’m all about the experience, right? So I really don’t have too many Zen books except yours. Your books are the ones that got me to meet the ancestors and go, ‘These guys are a little whacky. I like these guys.’ There was just something there. It just showed me that what I thought Zen was, it wasn’t. I didn’t really know what Zen was. So I needed more time to start doing deeper koan work, ’Cause that’s when you really get to know them. At any rate, Genjo felt that I had the stuff. And that was important to me. I’m a teacher, and sometimes someone comes along, and you’re like, ‘Oh, can I pour this into this vessel?’ And I could feel that from Genjo. And we just had a good connection. And I wanted Genjo in my life. I wanted an older, wiser Dharma brother in my life. I wanted someone to go, ‘Yeah, you’re doing all right.’ Or, ‘Ehhhh, let’s get you back on track . . .’ It was like, ‘What would Genjo do?’ is a big deal for me.”

“There are responsibilities associated with ordination,” I point out.

“Yes. Well, it took me a couple of years to face that.”

“And you have Zen students you work with now?” He does. “So, from your perspective, what is your responsibility to them?”

“Well, because I have so much to teach about awakening the body, that is really important to me.”

“Are all of your Zen students also involved in bodywork?”

“So far, yes. It’s just the way that worked out. Because they met me wanting the bodywork. And I happened to be a monk, and ‘Hey, sitting will help your process.’ So what’s important to me is making sure that they have control of their breathing to the point where it starts to change their physiology. I want them to have a good, clear connection to ground. I want them to be able to sit and generate energy, not be asleep, have their eyes open. Because otherwise you’re just being pulled into an inner landscape. You’re not generating a charge. So to me, that’s what it’s about. If you have control of your breathing, and you have this peripheral vision thing going on, and you’re not going inside your head, your body’s relaxing, you’re in an upright position, you’re going to generate energy. Or, I should say, you’re going get into a flow state. And if you get into a flow state enough, it’s going build a charge, and I believe that’s what leads to kensho. Enough of that charge goes” – he makes a popping sound – “and then – boom! – you have some kind of seeing through. And I think that you keep building up those charges. I really feel that’s where it’s at.”

There is a precision in the way Gendo speaks the Japanese terms associated with both martial arts and Zen, for example the way his stresses the first syllable of “aikido” rather than the second, which is how I frequently hear it pronounced. I ask him how important maintaining the Japanese envelope is for Zen in particular.

“Well, I think we want to maintain the form and not change it.”

“When the Japanese got it from China, and they changed it quite a lot, to suit them,” I argue. “Then we got it from Japan, and a lot of places seem to have kept it pretty Japanese.”

“That’s interesting too. I think I’m reluctant to take anything out of the form. I think it’s all supposed to be there. And there’s an American arrogance, too, where it’s like, ‘Oh, well. We don’t need any of this shit.’ Right? When you haven’t done it long enough to know the shit you’re talking about. You haven’t experienced it deeply enough yet. So at this point, I don’t foresee changing anything because I don’t think I know it well enough. To put it another way we need to be careful of allowing ourselves to create a practice that we find comfortable. My grandfather was known to say that if you’re comfortable you are not growing.”

Deep Streams Zen, Los Angeles, California

“I first encountered something like Buddhism when I was a freshman at CCNY,” Joseph Bobrow tells me. “I took a psychopathology lecture class with this dynamic teacher who was very Freudian but very open-minded, so I decided to take another class from him, a survey course on contemporary psychotherapy treatment. And as one of the reading options there was a book called The First and Last Freedom by Krishnamurti, and I read it, and I just came alive.”

While still a child in the first decade of the 20^th century, Jiddu Krishnamurti had been discovered by members of the Theosophical Society who believed him to be the reincarnation of the Buddha and trained him to be the next World Teacher. By the time he was 34, Krishnamurti denied these claims, although he did continue to teach, drawing crowds around the world. Among his various accomplishments, he co-founded the Happy Valley School in Ojai, California.

Like the majority of the books attributed to Krishnmurti, The First and Last Freedom is edited from talks he gave and discussions with attendees. It emphasized the importance of not identifying with belief systems, whether spiritual or political, but, instead, maintaining an unclouded mind – what he called “choiceless awareness” or what might be considered Mindfulness now – which allows one to perceive things as they are rather than as one is taught or conditioned to believe they are.

Joe tells me, “It was like it was written for me.” As it happened, he hadn’t grown up in a household that held tightly to a religious belief system. “The family religion was that religion was the opiate of the people.”

After CCNY, Joe went to France. “I was a bit of a Francophile. I liked the French language, and I wanted to go to France. So my step-father got me a job in France using my French, which turned out was terrible and not up to speed. So I spent that summer learning more French and met a woman I was very attracted to. I was dead set on having a relationship with her and leaving my home. So I went back to New York and did another semester at City College and arranged things to be able to study in France and get credit for it toward my BA, which I did. I spent three-and-a-half years in France. And when we broke up, I decided to get some therapy, and I couldn’t find someone in Paris for some reason, but I went to England and found someone associated with Ronnie Laing.”

R. D. Laing was a Scottish psychiatrist whose book, The Politics of Experience and The Bird of Paradise, was popular with young psychedelic users in the 1960s. “This therapist was a poet and I think had a spiritual side to him at least at that time. And he told me a Zen story from a D. T. Suzuki book, and I was captivated by it. I think the reason he told it to me was ’cause I had seen a Japanese movie, a Kurosawa movie, and I was struck by how different it was from American movies, and I said I couldn’t put my finger on the difference. I said, ‘Well, it’s just that he has a different sense of time and space.’ And he said, ‘Yeah. Maybe “no time,” “no space.”’ And that was another one of those moments from non-Buddhist therapists who have actually said some very Buddhist things even though none of them have been Buddhists. So that got me going on a walkabout to North Africa before I returned to the States. A month in the desert; a month on the seashore. And in the desert I had some interesting experiences. I didn’t know it at the time but that would lead me to Zen practice, because my next stop was Hawaii where my sister was living. And down the road from where she lived was the Maui Zendo. So I went there and saw this man who was gardening. Asked him what they did here; I’d heard it was a meditation center, and he talked to me about it in an easy-going matter-of-fact way. So I decided to go on Saturday for a sitting, and there he was dressed in all the Buddhist finery and leading the chanting and the walking and so on. And eventually I became his student.”

The gardener was Robert Aitken, recognized by some as the earliest North American Zen “ancestor.”

When I ask Joe when Aitken was like, he tells me a story:

“So I guess this is 1972, and at that time he was writing a series of talks on beginning Zen practice, which would later become Taking the Path of Zen. So he would invite all new residents – people who had moved in – to come to his study. This was a house, and it had like a walkway out in the back, and off of the walkway was Anne’s office – his wife – and his study. And so he’d invite students there, and he’d read them his latest chapter. And I remember the first time that I got there, I was dressed in cut-off jeans and a tank-top, and I had walked from my sister’s place which was about a mile. And this was Hawaii, so it’s hot and moist and so on. And I get in there, and he said, ‘Next time, why don’t you wear pants and a shirt that covers your shoulders and – you know – have the clothes be clean.’ I thought that was a bit of an imposition. So I said, ‘But I thought that all beings by nature are Buddha.’ As if to say, ‘Why do I need to dress up?’ So he thought long and hard – he was kind of green at that time – but what he said stuck with me. He said, ‘Sometimes, disorganized outside, disorganized inside.’ And I thought to myself – later, you know – little did he know just what a chaotic mess it was inside.”

“Why did you stay there? At the zendo?” I ask.

“It was the sense of community. I was kind of a lost boy, having had a father who had left when I was a baby. Yeah, I was looking for – in retrospect – a father and steadying and a practice to help me with my mind, and a path. So it provided all of those things. It was a lay center, which was good, so there wasn’t a dichotomy between priests and laymen. There was a kind of a radical equality. And Bob – as we called him in the day – and his wife, Anne, were like surrogate parents to all of the students. So having a sense of meaning, having the opportunity to work, to edit our newsletter, to cook, to have a kind of a holding environment, what Erik Erikson called a kind of ‘moratorium’ between youth and adulthood was very important. All of it. And practice was difficult. I had injured my hip, so I sat on a bench or a chair and the practice was painful, more painful than it would normally be. But I appreciated dokusan. I appreciated the give-and-take which is very frequent in our tradition. I thought I could duplicate the experience I had had in Morocco, and I’d be sort of ahead of the game. But it didn’t work like that at all. I had had a real experience, but we started from the beginning, and I realized how much I had yet to let go of and growth I had to make. But there was something in the practice itself as well as the setting and the sense of community and it being sort of an occupational therapy center for a number of us, like – what do they call the places when you get out of a hospital? – like a halfway house. It was sort of a halfway house. There was something about the practice – both zazen and koan practice – which I took to. Roshi was also politically very progressive. I don’t know if he was ever a card-carrying communist, but he was a card-carrying anarchist in the true meaning of that word, and that sat well with me. We talked the same language. And he had a little bit of psychological awareness. He knew how wounded he was psychologically. He was maybe the first Zen master to write about Zen and psychotherapy. So he knew it was an up and coming thing. And even though I was not a therapist yet, I had those inclinations, so I think that also made me feel at home.”

I ask about the Morocco experience.

“Well, I was staying in a little town just inside the Sahara Desert, a little oasis town, practising yoga, cooking, doing a little bit of writing. And I liked the nights. The days were hot; the nights were cold, and I’d walk out, walk along the dunes. And here I went to the top of this dune and was sitting there, and the stars in the desert feel like they’re right in your face, and the light was just throbbing. I had an experience of . . . Difficult to put into words. But an experience of gratitude and openness and connectedness with the vastness of the universe – let’s put it that way – with the dunes and the stars and everything included.”

“And your parents – whose religion was that religion was the opiate of the people – how did they react to you getting involved with Buddhists?”

“Well, I didn’t grow up with my biological father and didn’t see him until I met him years later. So he wasn’t critical. But at one point, I went to live at a school nearby the zendo that the zendo was sponsoring and I took over that school. It was an old Mormon church which had been converted. I assumed the reins. And after I met my father in California, he came to stay with me briefly at the school.”

“When you say you took it over, do you mean as a school or a residence?”

“I became the school director. I’d always wanted to start my own school. It wasn’t a Zen school, but it was sponsored by the zendo. It’s actually an interesting story of how I brought the two together in my mind. So my father didn’t say much about it. He’d poke fun at my healthy food habits, but he never directly commented on Buddhism. My mother only minded it because I hadn’t returned to New York after the family reunion that had brought me to Maui. But she visited Maui often, and one time she asked to come up and have lunch. So she had a silent lunch, and this lady who is not open in a Zen kind of way, she later said it was the most relaxing time she had ever spent. She really enjoyed the silence. So she was understanding – let’s put it that way – of my interest in Zen.”

I ask Joe if he worked any teachers other than Robert Aitken.

“Primarily Aitken Roshi, but in the early days Yamada Koun Roshi – who was was Roshi Aitken’s teacher – would come to Maui, and he was a very special teacher. So he was also a teacher of mine. And then after about ten years with Aitken Roshi, I met Thich Nhat Hanh at a workshop at Tassajara – actually accompanying Roshi there – and I spent two long summers in Plum Village before it got crowded and had the benefit of being close to Thich Nhat Hanh, translating some of his work. And I have to say that really impacted me in my practice and in my teaching in a really good way. I did stay in Hawaii and finished formal studies with Aitken Roshi and actually came back to the mainland, gradually began to teach as an apprentice and then – you know – in 1997 received Dharma transmission.”

“What’s the purpose of Zen. What’s its function?”

“Yeah.” He pauses a moment, and then says, “It’s to brush your teeth and change your undies.”

I may have sighed. “It’s hard to get a straight answer to that question. I think I’m gonna stop asking it. A cousin comes to visit you. You’re her favourite cousin, but she’s just a little concerned that you’ve gone off the deep end. And she asks, ‘Joe, what’s this all about?’ You probably don’t tell her it’s about changing her underwear.”

“Well, one thing I could say is – you know – Tibetan Buddhism has become very popular in the West. And when it was overtaking Zen in its popularity, someone asked me why I didn’t study Tibetan Buddhism. I said, ‘I realize now that one of the things that drew me to Zen practice was that I had a very busy mind.’ And so it really is a delight to not be in the grips of a very busy mind. Not to be caught up in thinking.”

“Why would that be a good thing?”

“Feels good. Yeah. Sort of very open to the world, open to nature. Calmer. Less self-absorbed, self-preoccupied. More open to the world and its joys and sorrows. And it allows you to develop a focus through which you can understand existence a bit more directly, more deeply.”

“Is that why people come to you as a teacher, because they have busy minds?”

“A lot of people do.”

“Do they ever come because they’re motivated by a desire for awakening?”

“Not as often as in the old days. We were a unique crop, that Age of Aquarius. I think some people do. And some people come for one reason, and then they get the passion, and then they see what else is possible, and they may want to go deeper. At this iteration, in my teaching in Los Angeles, there are few people who have that motivation like we did back in the day. That was a unique period of time, and I don’t think it’s been duplicated.”

One of the things that motivated me to interview Joe was the Coming Home Project he founded to help veterans, their families and care providers “alleviate the psychological, relational, and spiritual injuries of war.” He tells me the idea first came to him while he was walking along a beach with his mother.

“First of all, 9/11 had a great impact on me. I had a dread that we would go to war. And we would not use it, and use our moral capital from it, in a constructive way. That we would not build true strength, which is found in alliances and is found in collaboration with other countries. And I was afraid that we wouldn’t see it as simply a police operation to find a bad guy and bring him to justice, and, in doing that, enlist a lot of cooperation with other countries who were very well-inclined towards us. We’d just go off to war, and gradually I could see that happening. And a number of us – a number of spiritual teachers – would demonstrate along with the large demonstrations that happened all around the world before we invaded Iraq. And I saw they weren’t doing anything – all these demonstrations – and they wouldn’t do anything because we were dead set on going to war and I felt very frustrated. Grieved and aggrieved. And the other thing that was happening was that the veterans were coming back, and the suicide rate was astronomical; they weren’t getting the help they needed. The families weren’t even addressed at all. And I thought one day – and the first person I told was my mother while we were walking along the beach – I thought one day, ‘Hold it a second! What’s needed is for them to have a place to come, to heal. They need a kind of retreat.’ And I told my mother, ‘I know about retreats.’ First of all, I lived at Plum Village which originally was a retreat, a community for traumatized Vietnamese people led by Thich Nhat Hanh. I’d led many, many sesshin. And I had also done a number of interdisciplinary retreats about psychology and Zen with large numbers of people. So, why not me? And so I developed a retreat format and got to work and got a couple of people to help me, and put some money down of my own. We got a couple of $5000 grants, and we had our first retreat in 2008. About forty people from all around the country. Family members and veterans. And a psychologist who had done some work for the Navy told me, he said, ‘If you ace this, they are going to be banging on your door, and you’re gonna have a problem. You’re gonna have to beat them away. And if you fail it, no one will ever come. Word will get out immediately.’ And we apparently aced it. And by the second or third retreat, we had upwards of a hundred people coming from all around the country. And then we got a grant for almost $2,000,000 so we could do some serious damage. So that’s how it began.”

“Is it a Zen program or a psychological program? Or a combination of the two?”

“What I said was, ‘It’s therapeutic, but it’s not therapy.’ And it has nothing to do with religion, with organized religion. Almost all the people who came to our retreats came because it had nothing to do with organized religion and it wasn’t therapy. They didn’t want to get their heads shrunk. But it was obviously informed by what I learned about safe settings and what makes people feel safe to open up to process their trauma. It was informed by my Zen practice. Not only in that we had wellness practices including meditation, but by my understanding that of the Three Jewels the most neglected and maybe the most powerful one is the sangha. I started out saying ‘unconditional acceptance, unconditional welcome,’ and finally I realized that this is unconditional love that we were providing in a setting which accepted people where they were, no matter what they’d done or countenanced. And included their whole family. They didn’t know that I was a Zen master, that I was a psychoanalyst.”

“Do you still take Zen students?”

“Yes.”

“This is the Deep Streams sangha?”

“Deep Streams Zen Institute.”

“Oh? Why ‘institute’?”

“I called it an institute because beginning in 2000 we got non-profit status, and I wanted to be able to apply for grants for a whole variety of programs. Eventually Coming Home Project. I didn’t know I was going to do Coming Home Project in 2000, but I knew I was going to do a series of interdisciplinary programs on Zen and different elements in psychology. And I did. We did maybe fifteen programs, two of them big retreats on Zen, psychology, what’s called Interpersonal Neurobiology. Stuff like that. I was developing a conversation basically, taking Zen out of the priestly realm and into the cultural commons with other healing traditions. It was a conversation about similarities, differences, and so on. So that’s why I called it an institute in the beginning.”

“Do you still meet in person or are you one of the groups that moved online after the pandemic?”

“We moved online, but we occasionally have in-person retreats and social get-togethers. Sangha get-togethers.”

“Any crossovers? People who come to you as a therapist and do Zen?”

“No crossovers. I’m very clear about that. We start one way, we stay that way. If you want a Zen teacher once you’re in therapy with me, I’ll refer you to a Zen teacher. I think it’s very important to keep them separate. I know there are people who don’t, and I think it leads to problems.”

“What is it that you hope for for the people who come to you to take up Zen?”

“Hope for them? I don’t do too much hoping for my students. I just take them where they are, work with what they present to me, and try to stay true to their motivation. Sometimes I will invite them, through things that I say, to consider things at a deeper level. Some work on koans. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re accessing a deeper level.”

“Yeah, you can learn how to answer them – get the formula right – without really getting anything from them.”

“Unfortunately, that happens too often. I still use koans, I still value koans, but I agree with you. And so it’s a tricky thing. And there are some people who have their own kind of opening without ever using koans. I’ve seen this happen with several students of mine. Where just-sitting, for example, doesn’t become just a technique, but it becomes just-sitting! Just like just-walking. Just like just-swimming. Just like just-dying. And it’s kind of remarkable that they didn’t work with a koan. So I hope they find some measure of peace in this life. I hope they become intimate with something vaster than yet including themselves.”

“So you do have something you hope for them. Let me flip it. What do your students hope from you?”

“I don’t know what they’re hoping from me. I listen to what they’re hoping for from Zen practice.”

“Fair enough. What are they hoping for from Zen practice?”

“It varies. There’s the one lady who hopes for reduction in her medical symptoms. Someone working on chronic anger that makes them sick, that’s threatening their marriage. Some working on overwhelming emotions. Some working on understanding themselves better.”

“And what do they see your role in all this? Are you a priest, a minister; a cheap therapist they don’t have to pay by the hour; a coach?”

“I’m none of those with my Zen students. I’m a Zen teacher, and they learn what that is over time. If somebody wants to become my student – not everybody in the sangha is my student – but if someone wants to become my student, then they need to practice on a regular basis, come to all our retreats, invest in our relationship, and clarify their motivations such that it is to put themselves in accord with the Buddha Way or” – he smiles and chuckles gently – “learn why Bodhidharma came from the west. They need to fulfill those conditions to be a student. And we meet regularly. There are a fair number of other people – I think maybe half the people; sometimes more – who come and they see me as their teacher, hear my talks, attend dokusan. We each learn from the other, our interactions, who we are as people. How I interact with them. How I face challenging issues. How I respond to their questions. So they get a sense of who I am. And how we work together. They seem to get something out of coming around. But the main thing is we’re investing in each other. I’m investing in their spiritual well-being, and they’re investing and trusting me as their teacher. It’s up to me to live up to that trust.”

When our time is drawing to a close, I ask if there were anything he’d like to talk about that we hadn’t covered.

“Only maybe the school that I started in Hawaii as part of my Zen practice. At that time I had already worked with kids for many years. So I started this school with a couple of other zendo residents. And I wondered what would be Zen about it? Because I didn’t want to have it be a Zen school, but I wanted it to be Zen infused, Zen informed. And what I realized then was that there were a few words that all began with ‘C.’ One was ‘creativity.’ Another was ‘compassion’ and ‘consideration.’ And another was ‘courage.’ The courage of your convictions and to have a voice. And I thought we infused that school with those qualities. And the kids loved the school. They just loved it. The other thing that I would do was do Zen-like kinds of things with them. Like, before we’d have lunch, I’d say, ‘Let’s all be as quiet as we can and see how many sounds we can hear, and later we’ll talk about who heard the most.’ And now I’m starting to work with one student on the koan, ‘Who hears the sound? Who is the master hearing that sound?’ Or just, ‘Who hears?’ So I didn’t know that koan at that time – we weren’t using it in our lineage at that time – but the kids loved it. It was the only time of day when there was actually quiet in the room. As you can imagine, a bunch of toddlers and nursery-school aged kids. And so that was a blessing. That was a beautiful time, that school. And it set the stage about how I thought about some of these interdisciplinary educational programs, and some of the healing programs which were interdisciplinary as well.”

“Isn’t that how the Aitkens met, at a Krishnamurti School?”

“It was.”

“Did they have any input into what you were doing?”

“None. But they loved it. They were very supportive of it. And, yeah, Anne was the Assistant Director at Happy Valley School, and Roshi was a teacher, and that’s where they met. And it’s very interesting that Krishnamurti – independent of Roshi – had been my first inspiration along the path.”

Conversations with Genjo Marinello Roshi

In 2015, I had the good fortune to spend a few days at Chobo-ji, the Rinzai Temple in Seattle. Each morning I was there, I joined the community for zazen at 5:30. There were usually about a dozen people in attendance, with perhaps twice as many zabutons. First a ritual cup of tea was shared (salted plum, which must be an acquired taste; I wasn’t there long enough to acquire it), then chants in Japanese, followed by two rounds of 25-minute sitting with a brief stretch break in between. Afterwards the abbot, Genjo Marinello Roshi, still wearing his elegant robes and a snap-brim cap, led the group outside and half-a-block down an alleyway to a local coffee shop. A table was already set up and waiting. Two of the residents from the temple were also in robes, and none of the patrons raised an eyebrow. Clearly Chobo-ji was well integrated into the neighborhood. Because it was Seattle, everyone ordered coffee. “Some people do order tea,” Genjo confided to me, “but we feel sorry for them.”

Genjo Roshi is the second abbot at Chobo-ji. The first – and founding – abbot was Genki Takabayashi, a Japanese-born Rinzai teacher recruited to Seattle by Dr. Glenn Webb in 1978.

“I came to Seattle as a VISTA volunteer and a community organizer, trained, I understand, by the same Jesuit priest who trained Obama,” Genjo tells me. “Anyway, when I came here I looked for a Zen group.” Genjo had studied briefly with Daizen Victoria while a student at UCLA. “And there was only one Zen group in Seattle, and it was the Seattle Zen Center run by Dr. Glenn Webb who had spent a dozen years in Japan studying Japanese woodblock paintings and pictures and had become quite a scholar in that form and had been introduced to Zen because some of the Roshis where he went to go look at the prints said he wouldn’t be able to see them properly unless he meditated. So that’s how Dr. Glenn Webb got into Zen.”

“Did he accept that that was the case later in life? That meditation was necessary in order to appreciate the artwork?

“Actually, I think he did. So, he came back and started the Seattle Zen Center in the early ’70s. I came in 1976, and I did my first sesshin with Hirano Osho-san, the Soto Zen priest who came directly from Eiheiji. That was in the summer of 1977.”

Genjo points out, “It is my understanding that Glenn did receive transmission, but I never saw him dressed in the robes, and he wasn’t really playing the role of a priest or a Roshi; he was more an art history professor who had a Zen group. He was also a tea master. He had more than enough to do as a tea master and an art history professor and a part-time leader of a Zen group, so he was looking for someone to come from Japan that he might recruit to lead the group.”

While studying at Daishu-in in Kyoto, Webb met Takabayashi who had been expelled from his original temple and was at Daishu-in at the sufferance of the abbot, Soko Morinaga. Takabayashi had been an orphan placed in a temple to be raised as a priest. It was not a way of life he would probably have chosen otherwise, and – in a letter to Kobutsu Malone – Webb suggested that Takabayashi may have grown up “somewhat resentful at his fate. Apparently, when he was around 18 his teacher (his adopted father, Gempo Roshi) sent him to the grand priest-training-hall (sodo) of Daitoku-ji.

“As Morinaga put it to me,” Webb wrote, “on those occasions when he could go out on the town, Genki was a womanizer and pub-crawler. He got one woman from the neighborhood pregnant, she refused to abort the child, and Genki refused to marry her, thereby bringing shame to her family and to the temple. So he was kicked out of Daitoku-ji. As a favor to a friend, Morinaga Roshi took him in. But he made Genki’s life hell: when I met him at Daishu-in he was low man on the totem pole, relegated to menial tasks and never allowed to engage in anything important. He showed no remorse for his sexual misconduct, but he seemed determined to go as far in his training as he could. He was a kind of Zen fundamentalist regarding his sitting and his adherence to the tiniest detail of Rinzai Daitoku-ji liturgy.”

As unlikely a candidate as Takabayashi was, Webb invited him to Seattle even though Morinaga was not in favor of the move.

“I was at the airport when Genki Takabayashi arrived in 1978,” Genjo tells me, “and ended up doing sort of a twenty-year apprenticeship with him as his senior student.”

I ask what Genki Roshi was like, and Genjo speaks of him fondly, although he begins by noting that although Takabayashi was a modest man when he first arrived, he quickly came to relish the reverence with which he was treated as a Japanese Zen Master in America.

Elsewhere, Genjo wrote that Takabayashi “taught students how to make every moment a learning, and how to never give up despite inner and outer conditions.”

“How did you personally come be ordained?” I asked.

“The Dalai Lama came and gave a talk at the University of Washington on the Four Noble Truths, and I was sort of blown over by the Dalai Lama and how he handled hecklers who were critical of his association with Tibet and thought that he was somehow a traitor to China. They were protesting on the UW campus, and I just saw him with great aplomb deal with the detractors, and I thought, ‘This guy’s really got something. And I already have a Zen priest here in Seattle.’ So after that talk, I went to Genki Roshi, and I said, ‘All right. Whatever it takes. This is now my path.’ I was at a breaking point with VISTA. I could either go back to school to study public health with my psycho-biology degree, or I was going to take the path of Buddhism. After the Dalai Lama came, I was bowled over enough that I said, ‘All right, I’ll go to Japan. I’ll do whatever’s necessary. I want to become a Zen priest.’”

Genjo was 25 at the time, and Genki insisted that he spend a year demonstrating his sincerity before ordaining him in October of 1980.

As part of Genjo’s training, Genki arranged for him to spend time in Japan.

“So, I went to Japan, at Genki Roshi’s instruction, to Ryutakuji, which is a little temple outside Mishima and was Torei Zenji’s temple, direct Dharma descendent of Hakuin. Hakuin and Torei founded this temple, a little teeny temple where Eido Shimano Roshi trained and where Genki Takabayashi’s Dharma brother, Sochu Suzuki, was the current abbot. So that’s where I got sent, which was in September of 1981. And I stayed there until February of 1982. A very brief period. But a winter in a Zen temple in Japan was to be remembered.”

“Did it differ at all from your expectations?”

“Well, I thought people would want to be training there, and in general people were training there because that was their lot in life. And they couldn’t at all understand that I came there voluntarily to train because no one would do that. That was incomprehensible, truly incomprehensible. So I settled on saying that I had been sent there, and they could understand that. But if I tried to say I wanted to train in Zen, they would just shake their head. ‘No. That can’t be the reason.’ So that was interesting. And then, of course, it was a very martial style. I remember one time sweeping a gravel path outdoors with a whisk – a bamboo broom – and whistling a little, just a little bit, and being told, ‘No! No, you can’t whistle! This is a Zen temple!’ And you couldn’t do anything right. There was a rule that for six months it didn’t matter who told you what to do, when you did it, it was wrong. And if you did it to someone’s satisfaction, someone else would come by and un-do it and say, ‘No. That was wrong. It has to be done this way.’ And whoever was closest to you – because everyone was more senior to you – was correct. So you just had to learn – through sort of an ego-annihilation – that you could not do anything right. So I thought all that was terribly unnecessary and unkind, but I put up with it.”

Genjo smiles easily and often as he speaks. “I came back from Japan very arrogant and thinking that I must be some kind of top shit because I got through this boot camp of Zen and I must know something special. And I had actually had a few breakthroughs there that made Sochu Roshi happy. That’s all. It had gone to my head. I must’ve been a pill when I came back, and people didn’t like me. I was much too, ‘This is the way it has to be done, and there’s no other way to do it. And this is country-bumpkin Zen, and I’m going to straighten this out.’ That didn’t go over very well. Eventually I calmed down.”

Not long after Genjo’s return to Seattle, Genki and Glenn Webb had a falling out.

“It’s hard to say exactly over what. It was sort of like too many cooks in the kitchen. And so they just went their separate ways. There were some hard feelings about that in the group, and the group split. It was sort of a schism. Anyway, it split, and I went with Genki Roshi. But I never lost my association with Dr. Glenn Webb, and I still have it.”

Webb’s group was still called the Seattle Zen Center, while the members who went with Takabayashi formed Dai Bai Zan Cho Bo Zen Ji which translates as “Listening to the Dharma Zen Temple on Great Plum Mountain.”

Takabayashi wanted to complete Genjo’s training, but he himself didn’t have the necessary experience to oversee it.

“Genki Roshi suggested I go train with Sochu Roshi, his ordination brother in Japan. And he wanted me to go back to Japan for the Osho ceremony, and that was being arranged when Sochu Roshi died.” Takabayashi conducted the Osho ceremony instead but then advised Genjo to work with Joshu Sasaki Roshi of Rinzai-ji in Los Angeles.

“I think I did about twelve sesshins at Bodhi Manda, their retreat center in New Mexico. Something like that. And Sasaki Roshi came to Seattle once and did a sesshin with us, and that was a big deal. We were all thrilled. I had already gone down to Bodhi Manda. Genki Roshi had been going down to Bodhi Manda; he has also been going down to Mount Baldy, another retreat center in the San Gabriel Mountains. And Sasaki Roshi wanted Genki Roshi to become the abbot of Rinzai-ji in East Los Angeles, wanted Genki Roshi to move down to LA, and Genki Roshi wanted to bring me as his attendant. So we were all going to be inside the Joshu Sasaki Roshi camp there for a while. And Sasaki Roshi had heard me translate Genki Roshi’s teishos.”

“You’d learned Japanese by now?”

He raises his hand, counselling me to be patient.

“No. I’d learned much more pidgin Japanese. We had what was called Temple Language which was a mix of pidgin English and Japanese. If you were sitting in the audience, you would just think this was gibberish, but Joshu Sasaki understood it perfectly because he had a pretty good command of English and also of course a clear command of Japanese. So he thought, ‘Well, Genjo must know Japanese because of these beautiful translations he’s doing for Genki Roshi.’ Then he said, ‘This is your temple, while I’m here please be the translator for me.’ And I said, ‘But I don’t speak Japanese!’ And he said, ‘What are you talking about?’”

Takabayashi was tempted by Sasaki’s invitation to move to Los Angeles, but then the reality of East LA became daunting.

“Genki Roshi was looking over the center at Rinzai-ji in East LA, and he was hearing gunshots just about all the time. And he was thinking, ‘This is not for me. I’ve got a beautiful family and sangha in Seattle. I’m not moving down to East LA.’ And that’s when the relationship between Joshu Sasaki and Genki Roshi began to crumble because Joshu Sasaki was very insistent that Genki Roshi move and that I move with him, and we were taking too long to make that decision.”

When the relationship with Sasaki dissolved, Genki turned to Eido Shimano Roshi at Dai Bosatsu in the Catskills.

“Genki Roshi went there first after things fell apart with Sasaki Roshi. This was around 1995 or ’94, I think. Genki Roshi knew that his English was not sufficient to take me through the koan studies at the level he wanted me to go through, so he was shopping around for me. That’s why he was going down to Joshu Sasaki Roshi and then he was going to Eido Shimano Roshi because these were two Japanese men he knew of and respected, and he wanted me to do sort of a Zen finishing school. So he was trying to sell me to them, saying, ‘I’ve really got somebody I’m developing here in Seattle, but I can’t take him all the way. I don’t have the authority, nor do I have the English skills. Would you please take my chief disciple and finish him up?’ He was still trying to keep a connection to Japan through the sanctioned teachers here in the United States, so I ended up working with Eido Shimano Roshi for about fifteen years, 1995 to 2010.”

“Did you move to Dai Bosatsu?”

“No. But I spent about ten days twice a year there. Just for sesshin.”

“At the same time continuing in Seattle?”

“Yes. I became an osho in 1990. And then I got installed as the second abbot.”

“And when did you assume full responsibilities as abbot?”

“One day Genki Roshi just announced to the community, ‘Go see Genjo in dokusan.’” He chuckles. “That was as much of a ceremony as I got.” In fact, Genjo was formally installed as abbot on January 10, 1999. And in 2008, he was named a Dharma heir by Eido Roshi in New York.

After his retirement, Genki Takabayashi moved with his wife back to her home state of Montana. He started a small Zen community there, but it didn’t last, and he spent his time – as his biography on the Chobo Ji web site states – doing “the activities he loved best, gardening, pottery, calligraphy, writing and cooking.”

Genki Takabayashi died on February 24th, 2013.

In a memorial posted by the Northwest Dharma Association, Genjo Roshi wrote of him:

Over the course of my long association with him, I learned three profound lessons.

The first thing Genki showed me about the human condition is that it is possible to transcend our likes and dislikes, preferences and opinions.

During the 1980 summer sesshin with him, which was held at Dry Falls State Park outside Coulee City, Washington, the temperatures were in the 90s and the meditation hall was full of mosquitoes and flies. In addition, Mount St. Helens had a secondary eruption, flooding the air with gritty ash.

To say that our meditation periods were hellish was not an understatement. During this retreat, students would twice daily visit Genki Roshi in the dokusan room, where dharma interviews were conducted. It was a small room with little ventilation, and we all concluded some animal had died and was rotting somewhere under the floorboards.

Despite all this, in the meditation hall and dokusan room Genki sat serenely and unmoving in the full lotus position, with a beneficent countenance, seemingly impervious to adversity.

The next year the autumn sesshin was held on the Seattle Zen Center’s newly acquired property at about 5,000 feet, on the crest of a ridge between the small cities of Cle Elum and Ellensburg, Washington.

Snow started falling during the retreat and our newly built meditation hall was still without windows. During one interview period I was waiting in line to visit Genki Roshi, and snow was coming through the vacant window and piling up on the frame of my eyeglasses. When I opened the flap of the outdoor camping tent that was serving as the dokusan room, I could hear the crackle of ice snapping.

In front of me Genki was once again sitting serenely in full lotus, surrounded by icicles hanging from the walls of the tent. When I left the next month to train at Ryutaku-Ji, an affiliate monastery in Japan, these images of Genki Roshi sitting untroubled by conditions and circumstances allowed me to face the uncertainty and trials of such a journey with a measure of equanimity, and I am forever grateful.

The second gift I received from Genki Roshi was the opportunity to soak up his actualization that an “enlightened” life is an “ordinary” life. In everything he approached, he demonstrated that living life fully with “everyday openhearted activity” was paramount.

No matter if it was sitting zazen, cooking, calligraphy, gardening, landscaping, cleaning, pottery, giving teisho, making a bowl of whisked green tea, or writing fiction, Genki was fully present to the activity at hand, operating with joy, unending enthusiasm and energy. He taught us that samu (work meditation) was more important to our training than zazen, sutra recitation or koan study.

The third lesson learned, the hardest to accept and perhaps the most important, is that all of us are fully human. That is to say that though Genki amply demonstrated that we can be and are all vessels of the Dharma, we are also limited, and from time to time stubbornly primitive. There will always be tension between our base instincts and true insight.

When Genki left Japan he abandoned a relationship and a child. He never understood credit or money well, and often found himself in debt. Early on during his time in Seattle we had to warn female participants that there was a good chance he would make a pass at them.

We are all a blend of Buddha and bumpkin; with all the training in the world we will never arrive. In other words, from wherever we are we are always just beginning. I often tell the story of how at least once a year Genki would give a teisho where he would exclaim, “I now just beginning to understand, just now beginning to see.”

Everyone has limitations and shortcomings that arise from wounds in our history. There are three options for dealing with them. One is to do the very difficult work of combusting, digesting, and integrating these wounds. Second is to contain them so that they don’t cause harm to others. Third is to skip over them with spiritual bypassing, which can be easily done, but usually comes back to haunt us. Like most of us, Genki made use of all three.

Genki Roshi proved time and again that he could be an inspirational catalyst for those training with him. He probed and prompted us to investigate and experience the depth of our true nature, a bottomless vastness without form that gives rise to everything. He taught mainly by example how to live fully and passionately, with an attentive caring attitude, beyond any attachment to rank, position, preference, or opinion. He became a surrogate father to me, and I will be forever grateful for his continued presence in my life. May the flower of his inspiration continue to bloom for generations to come.

Cypress Trees in the Garden: 83-97, 111-12, 113, 115, 247-49

The Story of Zen: 5-9, 337, 407-08

Zen Conversations: 102-03; 143

Day Star Zendo – Wrentham, Massachusetts

Cynthia Taberner helped to arrange my 2016 visit to Father Kevin Hunt’s Day Star Zendo in Wrentham, Massachusetts. The day I spent there became the basis of one the chapters of Catholicism and Zen. Kevin – who is a Trappist monk as well as a Zen master – has now retired from teaching. Roshi Cindy, as she is called, is his successor; however, she is preparing to pass that responsibility onto others because she has pancreatic cancer.

“I’m on chemo, but it can stop working at any point. I was misdiagnosed with vasculitis, so the cancer is now in the arteries, and there is no way to survive it. I could be around for a couple of years or in a few months I could take a downturn. So I’m trying to make the new teachers as independent as possible and have the sangha go on because it’s a wonderful group of people. It’s a very eclectic group of people. We have Catholic nuns. We have an Episcopalian priest. We have people who are Jewish; we have people who are agnostic.”

I ask Cindy if she still self-identifies as Catholic.

 “I’m going say I’m Christian. I was raised Catholic. I’ve never been a theologian. I’ve been more into the mystical since I was a kid. So I will have a Catholic mass, but I will ask that some chants be done as well.”

It takes me a moment to realize she is talking about her funeral. Her condition is that severe.

She was raised, she tells me, “one town down from Father Kevin. He was at St. Joseph’s Abbey in Spencer, and I was raised in Leicester. And so I used to go up to the abbey and just sit in their quiet church and contemplate for years before I knew he was there. So it was really interesting that he was there and I was able to meet him later.”

She was drawn to the quiet of the chapel as a refuge because her childhood homelife was “very rocky. My father was an alcoholic. It was in the family. He was very violent. It went from male to male to male to male. So a very rough childhood. So I think I was always a seeker because of that.”

“What were you seeking?”

“I was trying to make sense of it all. Even during my childhood, when they talked about a loving God, I wondered, ‘How could a loving God ever allow this?’ I was always wondering did I do something wrong? Did God hate me? What did I do wrong to deserve this? So you try to seek those answers.”

Eventually she lost her faith.

“There was a time when I did not believe in God at all. I think it was in my late teens, early twenties. I also had a genetic illness. It’s called Ehlers-Danlos syndrome; it’s a connective tissue disorder, a rare kind of genetic illness. So I was getting sicker and sicker and sicker. And between my childhood and then this illness, I thought, ‘There can’t be a God.’ But in 1982, I had a near-death experience, and, when I had that experience, I knew there was a God.

“I had an ectopic pregnancy that ruptured, and I bled out. I can only tell you what I sensed when it was happening to me. And it was such a sense of peace, such a sense of love, like I was wrapped in it; I was part of it. And I didn’t want to come back. I had a year-and-a-half-year-old child, and I remember thinking at the time, ‘She’ll be fine. I want to stay here.’ And when I did come back, I was so depressed that I didn’t stay where I was. And here I had this little baby. Right? So, then it changed me, and it was a gift. It was a gift that I had had that experience.”

She was introduced to meditation when her physician recommended that, in order to prepare to undergo a surgical procedure, she attend the Mindfulness-Based Stress-Reduction Clinic recently established by Jon Kabat-Zinn at the University of Massachusetts. One of the teachers was Elana Rosenbaum. “She was in the Vipassana tradition, and I worked with her every single week and sat and loved it. But then I wanted more, and I heard about this Zen group in the area, and I thought, ‘I’m going to try that.’”

She liked the Zen group, and she thought the teachers were fabulous. “So I was attending both Elana’s group, and I was also doing Zen. But they had a guest teacher there once. And he basically told me I couldn’t do Zen and Christianity at the same time. I asked, ‘Why? I’ve been doing it all this time. Why is that a problem?’ And I walked away from the temple. But then by chance I came upon an inter-religious dialogue on the computer. I don’t know how I found it, but all of a sudden I see Father Kevin Hunt at Spencer Abbey is on it. It’s really bizarre how that happened. So I sent an email and said, ‘Is it possible to speak with Father Hunt?’ And about a week later I got a response, and he said, ‘Yes, you can come up.’ So I went up. And I said, ‘Well, this was said to me, and I’m curious. Can I do both?’ And he said, ‘Well, what’s the problem?’”

The guest teacher who had told her Zen was incompatible with Christianity probably did so because he viewed them as belief systems. For Kevin, Cindy, and others who remain affiliated with non-Buddhist traditions, Zen is almost precisely the opposite of a belief system, it is a technique – an upaya – not a creed.

“That’s exactly it,” Cindy says. “We use it as a technique. But, you know, in all of Zen you get rid of everything. You even get rid of Catholicism or Christianity. You get rid of all the thoughts. You go down to nothing. To no thing, or ‘nothing.’ You get rid of all concepts. You do. But in my experience, in my Zen, we do have that as part of us because we were raised with that consciousness. Right? So I think of it as Christ-Consciousness. Zen is Buddha-Nature which I think of as the same as Christ-Consciousness. As I said, I’m not a theologian; so I don’t look for all the things that can contradict that. I think of it all as being the same.

“I’ll tell you of an experience I had while I was with that first Zen Center. We got up to do kinhin, and for a split second – just a split second – Christ was right beside me, and then he was inside me. So I was thinking nothing – right? – and then this happened. I explained it to the teachers, but they didn’t want to talk about that. And I talked about it to Kevin when I met him. I said, ‘This happened to me. And I don’t quite understand it.’ And I didn’t at the time. And he said, ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake, that just means that Christ is one and the same as you. That’s it. He’s just telling you you’re one and the same.’ And it was like, ‘Oh! That’s right! It’s simply that.’ So it’s easy for me to put the two together. It’s easy for me to think of Zen and Christ-Consciousness and Buddha-Nature as one thing, and that Christ came to us to show us the way, just like Buddha came to us to show us the way. Christ had it in his consciousness already to show us, ‘This is the journey, folks. I want to show you a way.’ I could be wrong. I’m sure a lot of theologians would say, ‘No! No! That’s not true!’ But for me, it was easy to put the two together, and especially having Kevin as a teacher.”

“What is Zen?” I ask her.

“What is Zen? Zen is living in the moment. Living in this moment only. It’s a gift. For me, it’s living as One. You know that passage in the sutras, ‘Not two but one’? So I think of it as, we’re part of the mystery. We’re not separated from the mystery. And by living in the moment, we can see that we’re not separated from the mystery. We’re living that moment fully. Absolutely fully. And that allows us to live with an open heart and an open mind. If we don’t live in the moment, we’re living a dream life. Living a dream life. Living in the moment gives us the opportunity to really know who we are. Of course, you have to get through layers of junk first. I had to get through layers of childhood. Layers of things that happened to me – layers of stuff that were wounding to look at – to get to that wisdom where we’re united to that mystery. So we’re united in this mystery, and I don’t care what you call it. You can call it Christ-consciousness, you can call it universal energy, you can call it Buddha-Nature. I don’t care what you call it. We all share in this. But we have to live in the moment to realize it. That’s Zen to me. It’s not just sitting on the cushion. It’s getting up off that cushion and living each moment fully, fully aware. And saying yes to life, even though you don’t want to. So when this diagnosis came to me, I had to say ‘yes’ even though I didn’t want to. And so it’s not just saying yes to the happy, joyful things. It’s saying yes to everything and being fully present for it all.”

There is a line from the Third Patriarch’s Xinxin Ming which is referenced several times in the koans of The Blue Cliff Record: “The Great Way is without difficulty, it only dislikes picking and choosing.”

“Father Kevin and I have talked about this,” Cindy tells me. “In life we don’t have any control. There’s really no control. We think we’re in control until we know we’re not. And that’s part of that ‘picking and choosing.’ You don’t get to pick and choose what happens in this life. But what we do get to choose is being awake to it. And so we can shut our eyes and close our selves off; close our hearts off – our ‘heart-minds’ I want to say – or we can choose to stay open to whatever’s in this moment. I think that’s what that means. It’s staying open to whatever is there. And whatever is there is not always to our liking,” she adds with a chuckle.

“How does meditation work?” I ask. “If Zen is this receptivity to what’s happening right now, what does plunking oneself down on a cushion have to do with that?”

“And we just breathe. Right? So I call it breathing, letting go of everything. Talk about picking and choosing.” She shakes her head. “No. Just let it all go. All thoughts go away; everything goes away. And then I call it ‘being breathed.’ I always feel like I’m being breathed. Not that I am doing the breathing; I’m being breathed. And eventually even that goes away. And then you get this unity. And I can’t explain it to you. I can’t put it into words. I cannot put it into words. But there you feel whole. That’s where I feel most whole.”

“There are people who find it very difficult,” I point out. “I remember David Rynick in Worcester once telling me that when he started meditating he could only last about two minutes. He’d dutifully set his kitchen timer for two minutes and would just about be jumping out of his skin before it rang.”

Cindy laughs. “I could see that with David. So, to me, meditation is not for everyone. I suggest, sometimes, walking meditation for people. My sister loves nature. Nature, to my sister, is like sitting in zazen. When she goes out into nature, she gets the same sense. So meditation is notfor everyone. It’s not an easy practice. It’s a tough practice. Sometimes you don’t feel like sitting. When I first started sitting, I didn’t like it either. But nothing else was working for me so I needed to continue to sit, and I eventually was very, very, very grateful for it. But it took a lot of practice. And then you get these dry spells where all you’re doing is sitting there and maybe your mind is going crazy and maybe everything is happening, and you feel like, ‘God! I’ve been sitting for years, and this is still happening?’ It takes a lot of discipline. And perhaps some people don’t want it enough, or perhaps some people just can’t do it. And that’s okay. They’ll find their own way. You know, I very rarely go to mass – maybe I shouldn’t admit that – but I very rarely go to mass. But when I do, there’s a sense of comfort there. And I think it’s because in my childhood it’s what gave me some sanity, thinking there was something or someone watching over me. So maybe that’s what I need when I go to church.” She smiles and adds, “And there’s a Catholic priest that I’m friends with who’s into Dorothy Day, and he’s got this whole Dorothy Day center in Worcester, so I don’t go to your normal Catholic church.”

“You found a left-wing radical commie-pinko church,” I say with a laugh.

“You know what? I did. I did, and I love it.”

“What does a Zen teacher teach?”

She chuckles and then says, “Nothing” with a laugh.” (One day I’m going to learn not to ask that question any longer.)

“So it would be a waste of time for me to come to your group, huh?”

“We point the way. So I didn’t really want to be a teacher, by the way. I thought my illness  would get in the way of teaching, and when Father Kevin invited me to be a teacher, I said, ‘I’m not sure I want to be a teacher.’ But he brought me to meet Bernie Glassman Roshi, and Bernie said, ‘Your life is your teaching, Cindy. And you will be a teacher.’ Your life is your teaching. And he was correct. So I think if we are really truthful, it’s our life – it’s the way we live our life – that can be helpful to students. As for the practice of Zen, I can teach you to sit. And then when questions come up, maybe I can help you decipher them. Maybe I can help you decipher. Maybe I can help point the way a little bit. But can I do it for everybody? No. Not at all.”

“What do the students who have formally taken you on as their teacher expect from you?”

“You know, not much. Because I tell them not to expect much. So I’m there for them as experiences happen or as their practice matures and I’m able to help them along, again, just pointing a finger and helping them along, but that’s it. They don’t look to me for answers. In fact, I think they look to me for more questions. When they ask me questions, I usually have a question back for them.”

“Well, that tells me what you do, but it doesn’t tell me what they’re looking for.”

“I think what they’re looking for is what I found. Which is a peace and a joyfulness even within life’s craziness. Elana told me she began meditating after she met a man who was a meditator and felt, ‘I want what he’s got.’ I think they see that. One person in particular is getting older, and he said, ‘I’m having trouble with death. And here I am, I end up with a teacher who has an illness that’s going to kill her.’ Right? So, he’s had questions, and he’s watched me, and he’s said, ‘I don’t know how you have the grace to do what you’re doing.’ I said, ‘I don’t either.’ So I think each student wants something different from me. Sometimes I may disappoint a student because I’m not really giving them the answers. I’m really just pointing the way for them. I can tell them when they’re off-center. When they seem to be going off, I can tell them, ‘No. You need to be here. You need to be grounded. This is where Zen is; it’s grounded.’ So I can’t be everything to all people, but I think the very serious students that I have, they’re looking to me for help on their journey with groundedness, staying on track. And perhaps . . . I don’t know. We get energy from each other. Even online, even on Zoom. We sit each morning, and then we sit every other Saturday, and I believe we get energy from each other. And maybe that’s part of it too. Just that. Sitting with each other. Sangha’s so important. For me it’s always been. I gain strength from the sangha. It gives us strength.

As our conversation wraps up, I ask if there was anything she would have liked to talk about that we hadn’t touched on.

“I don’t think so. I do want to thank Kevin. I couldn’t have had a better teacher. He really helped me. I don’t know what I would have done without him. So I want to say that. I think he’s been one of my biggest graces throughout my life, and so I’m so grateful for him. And I think I want to thank my sangha. They’ve hung together for all these years, and I think we’ve strengthened and helped one another on our journey. So what I feel is gratitude. I don’t know where I am in this journey or when my life will end. I don’t know when the chemo will stop helping. But I’m so grateful for my life. I’m so grateful for this journey. I’m so grateful I found Zen. I don’t know that I could do this illness without my practice. I don’t know that I could do this illness without my sangha. I’m . . . I’m just grateful.”

A little more than a year after I interviewed her for this profile, Roshi Cindy died on October 25, 2024.

Catholicism and Zen: 15-16, 168-80

Everyday Zen in Berkeley, CA

Exciting things were happening elsewhere in the world as I was attending high school in the mid-’60s in LaPorte, Indiana (population 22,000). As the Bob Dylan put it, “There was music in the cafés at night / And revolution in the air.” But most of that passed us by in LaPorte, where the short haircuts and smooth-shaved cheeks of my classmates were indistinguishable from those of Mormon missionaries. There was, however, a coffee house twenty miles east of us – in Porter, Indiana – called Saturday’s Child established by a man named Dave Sander. Porter was so small (population 2000) that we usually identified it with its larger neighbor, Chesterton (population 6000). On weekend evenings, we would drive there to listen to folk music and bad poetry and feel like we were part of something larger.

“You knew Dave Sander!” Alan Block exclaims.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I used to read poetry at Saturday’s Child.”

“How great! You know, you must be the only person that I could possibly come across who would know about Dave Sander and Saturday’s Child. That’s so amazing. It just blew me away. I wrote to my brothers about it, I was so amazed.”

He’s no more amazed than I was at coming across a reference to a Zen teacher in California who grew up in Chesterton.

“You’re older than I am,” I point out, “and there certainly wasn’t any Zen in Northern Indiana when I was a kid. How did you get involved?”

“My younger brother was living in a commune right down the road from Tassajara,” he tells me. “His best friend, David, in maybe ’67 was building a rocket for his sister in his garage in Chicago, and the rocket blew up and killed him. David was my brother Marty’s best friend in high school. He had been accepted into Harvard in the Fall, and he died that summer. And so the whole family moved to California and set up a commune in this area called Cachagua. It was called Water Brothers.”

“The parents as well?” I ask.

“The parents. Five kids. They established a commune. They bought land in Carmel Valley, and a number of David’s friends who were so upset about his death moved with them including my brother. So I came to visit my brother in ’71. And when I was in the commune, we smoked a lot of dope, baked bread, ate peanut butter. Anyway, somebody said, ‘You know, the Buddhists have bought Tassajara. And the Buddhists are so stupid you can go up there and eat their food and take a hot bath in the hot springs and drink their tea, and they don’t say anything.’ So one day we all got stoned and piled into my car, and we went up the road to Tassajara which was 14 miles on a dirt road where you climbed and dropped almost a mile. I mean it was just a breath-taking road. Still is a breath-taking road. Anyway, we went there. And – you know – intellectually, I had no interest, but emotionally something caught me. And so we hung out there a couple of days swimming and drank their tea and ate their food.”

Alan was 28 at the time and a tenured faculty member at a college in New Jersey, but something drew him back to California.

“So I hiked into Tassajara the next year, because I was curious. And I said, I’m just going to camp up creek and come in and eat their food and take a bath. And they said, ‘You can’t do that. The fire danger is too great.’ They said, ‘You have to leave the watershed because it’s too dangerous.’ So I hiked over to the next watershed, did a big circle, came back three days later, and the same guy was sitting in front of the office at Tassajara – Arnie , who later became an assistant to Thich Nhat Hanh – and Arnie said, ‘You oughta come in here and check this out.’ I had nowhere else to go. I couldn’t get out of there. You know? There was no way to get out of Tassajara unless you had a vehicle. So I said, ‘Alright.’ He said, ‘Three days. Minimum.’ So I checked in for three days, and they put me to work. I liked the work. But the first time I sat – like – I kind of came apart. I had been so involved in achievement and degrees and achieving goals that sitting just completely went through me. I became teary. My whole being was just turned over. And I didn’t know it at the time, but I think at that moment in ’72, that was the beginning of my practice. So I spent three days, and I said, ‘Could I stay for three more?’ I stayed for two weeks.

“So two weeks and I had to go back to teaching. I had a contract. So I went back to New Jersey. Taught. And I thought about it all winter, and I sat in New York that winter at various zendos. The Tibetans. Different people. And then I wrote the San Francisco Zen Center a letter and said, ‘I’d like to come back for two months, next year. I have the spring term off. Can I come back for two months?’ They wrote me back. They said, ‘We remember you. You’re a good worker. You can come back. Just follow the schedule.’ Went back for two months in ’73 and decided that was it. I had tenure – a tenured position – so I had to finish my contract. Took me almost three more years. Basically I took a leave of absence from the college, and I came there, and they had changed the rules. Because a number of people had gone to Tassajara in those days, and it was too much for them. So they said, ‘You have to practice in the city for eighteen months before you can apply to go to Tassajara.’ And so I practised in the city for eighteen months, worked in the People’s Bakery and at Green Gulch and then I applied to go back to Tassajara and was accepted. Anyway, I resigned my academic job before my first sesshin because it was clear that it was over. I took a job in the People’s Bakery. I baked bread for months. And that was a great relief. And then I went back in the spring of ’76 to live at Tassajara. I spent almost three years there.”

“You said you’d been achievement oriented. Was that part of the family culture? An emphasis on success?”

“Yeah. My older brother is a professor of philosophy. He just published a very big book called The Border Between Seeing and Thinking. He gave the William James lectures at Harvard several years ago. We’re close, and, in a lot of ways, academia was what I was expected to do. But I was confused, and I felt like Zen gave me my life for the first time.”

“So how did your family react when you gave up tenure?”

“So the night before I went into the monastery, my mother called me and said, ‘Your aunt has convinced me that you’re going to be in the airport singing “Hare Krishna.”’”

We both laugh, but the fact was that there were other peoples’ children wearing saffron robes and chanting “Hare Krishna” in airports.

“‘Are you going to be in an airport singing “Hare Krishna”?’ I said, ‘No. I’m not going to be doing that.’ So she didn’t say, ‘Don’t go.’ She said, ‘I’m going to come there and take a look.’ And she showed up. She showed up a couple of months later, and she loved it.”

He adds, however, “My family, not knowing what I was going to do, bought me a health insurance policy. Because just in case I went crazy, they wanted to be covered.”

“How did you explain it to people?” I ask.

“What I said to people – my friends – what I said is, ‘Something deep in me wants to pursue this.’ And this college – which I taught at for seven years – and, as I said, I had tenure, so I had security there, it wasn’t feeding me. I felt like I was dying. I had enough money, but I felt like I was slaving in some way to someone else’s life and then rewarding myself with trinkets from the money that I made. And at a certain point, my younger brother, Marty, actually confronted me. He said, ‘What are you doing?’ He said, ‘You’re doing something that’s not feeding you. Is that the way you want to live?’ It took me a while to figure it out. No it’s not the way I want to live. I think also, frankly, I was quite depressed in those years. My last years teaching.”

“Why?”

“Part of it was failed relationships, and an inability to establish a solid relationship. In retrospect, in Zen terms, I just couldn’t settle on myself. Just feeling like I was spinning my wheels. I was living someone else’s life. I wasn’t living my life. And I think that I was much more inclined to activity in the world, even though I still read a lot – I still read several books a week, you know – but I think my real love is construction. Buildings.”

I hadn’t seen that coming.

“So I entered Tassajara in ’76, and I stayed almost three years in the monastery, which was incredible. I mean, I figured maybe I’d be there for one season, and I stayed three years. We lost our main buildings in a fire in ’78. Anyway I learned construction. Paul Discoe – who maybe you know of – had been sent to Japan by Suzuki Roshi to learn temple and tea house carpentry. Came back and they were going to build a walled monastery at Tassajara so they could practice there in the summer and still have guests come and make money. The cost had gone crazy. So they abandoned the idea, and Paul ended up building other things for Zen Center. We built a zendo, and then we built Greens Restaurant. So I worked on those. Then I was part of the crew that built a restaurant in Berkeley called Chez Panisse. And then I went off on my own. So I learned construction at Zen Center.”

He continued to practice Zen with Mel Weitsman at the Berkeley Zen Center although he was no longer formally associated with Tassajara or the San Francisco Zen Center. He admits that that decision was partially in response to the situation that arose around Shunryu Suzuki’s successor. “But I would see Mel Weitsman quite regularly. I worked on the Berkeley Zen Center. Did some of the ceiling there. And we did sesshin every year. But then my wife and I had kids and a mortgage and reality was right there at the door, and I needed to make some money, so contracting was very good for me. In the end, I ended up doing more consulting than I did building, but it was very good for me. I made a good living, and it worked out really well.”

He still has fond memories of Tassajara. “They were great times. In the Spring of ’77 Joan Baez came and stayed a month with us. A month of silence. One day in May of ’77, we came out of the zendo in the morning, about 6:30/7:00, and it had snowed. And everything was white. And she was standing in front of the zendo, and she sang ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ a capella as we all came out. Everybody just put on their shoes and just went on their way.”

“Tell me about Mel Weitsman,” I say.

“Mel was a sweetheart. And Mel was always Mel. You know, I have to say I always felt received by Mel. Whenever I would see him, I would just feel like he would take me in. I went to see him shortly before he died, we had a wonderful talk. And the last thing he said to me is, he said, ‘Don’t be a stranger.’ And I just feel so warmly toward him. It’s not so much that he saw all of me; it was more that he accepted all of me.”

Alan also studied with Norman Fischer who, like Weitsman, was abbot of SFZC for a term. And from Norman, Alan received authorization to teach. I ask if that was the same as denbo.

“No. It’s not denbo or denkai. It’s entrustment is what it’s called. Actually this is a good issue for me to talk to you for a moment about. I love Japanese ritual. I think I’ve had some of my greatest moments of realization during ceremonies. I was ino [head of practice] at Everyday Zen for three years. You know, Richard Baker tried, numerous times, to encourage me to be ordained. And I felt like it wasn’t me, to be ordained, too far outside of my life and outside of the life of others. And so I just sort of went my own way. And then in the 2000s, Mel developed this thing called entrustment for people like me who didn’t want to be ordained but were very serious long-term practitioners. And Norman – who later went off to found Everyday Zen – adopted the entrustment form also. It’s now become a much more widespread method. I’m an entrusted teacher.

“I cannot offer jukai. I need a preceptor to do jukai with me. That’s why Mel’s heir, Alan Senauke, and I are going to do jukai together next November at the Berkeley Zen Center. And previously I’ve done it with Norman. Norman has been very generous with me, he helps me prepare the rakusus for my students – you know – the calligraphy for them, the documents. The kechimyakus. But I feel like if Zen is going to be American, even though I have a deep aesthetic appreciation of Japanese ritual and love to participate in it, but this is the United States. We’re in the West. So I feel very strongly like we need our own rituals. That’s the big quandary in my practice right now. How to make that transition. And I don’t have an answer. You know, when Zen went from China to Japan it changed greatly. When it went from India to China it changed greatly. And I think it’s going have to change again, and I don’t really know how that change will occur or what it will look like, but I feel like the change will have to happen if Zen is going to become any more widespread than it is in the West.”

One of the other things that had intrigued me when I first learned about Alan – in addition to learning he’d come from Chesterton – was that his Zen community has no internet presence.

“And your sangha – the one that doesn’t have an internet presence – what’s it called?”

“The Tuesday Sangha. Everyday Zen in Berkeley. I don’t really have a formal name. I have about fifteen students. This will be my fifth jukai. So I have a core of serious people. Long term serious practitioners.”

“Right there in Berkeley, where Alan Senauke is still heading up the Berkeley Zendo. Why did you open up something separate?”

“I’m peripherally in their lineage but not really. My lineage is slightly different. My lineage is through Norman. Mel was Norman’s teacher. Mel was the one who gave Norman denbo, but Norman has his own teaching at Everyday Zen.”

“I don’t know,” I muse. “It seems to me to be the same lineage: Suzuki Roshi, Mel, Norman, you. So what is it that you do that’s different from what Alan Senauke is doing?”

“I would say it’s pretty much the same teaching. I attended Mel’s koan classes at the Berkeley Zendo for years so really the same teaching. When I started I said, ‘I teach meditation, and a Buddhist approach to life.’ So I am very committed to lay practice. I feel aligned with them at the Berkeley Zen Center. We give money. My wife and I support them. But I don’t really practice with that group even though Alan is a friend, and I’m in a study group with Laurie, his wife. And they call on me as a source of information on the buildings. Whatever it is. Recently it was COVID. ‘How do we get the air exchanges we need?’”

“Okay, this core of fifteen serious people who practice with you. Again, no internet presence. They didn’t look you up online. How did they find you?”

“All through personal connections. Through friends and friends of friends. So I teach online.”

“You don’t have a physical place?”

“I did have a physical place until COVID. I rented a place in Berkeley with David Weinstein. I rented space with him until COVID and then we couldn’t afford it anymore. So I’m teaching online, and I now have several students in Seattle. So if I go back, I have to go back hybrid, and I really don’t have the technological prowess to do it.”

“And the people who choose to study with you, why do they choose you rather than going somewhere else?”

“I think because they want a more personal, smaller practice. More face-to-face. Lay practice is different from monastic or residential practice. What Norman has done that I think is so beautiful is he’s taken a lot of people like me who never completed their training because of all the trouble at the San Francisco Zen Center, and he’s gone back and helped them complete their training and become transmitted or become entrusted. Norman has done that with probably a dozen people who practised for years and years very sincerely but fell away. He provided them a space to come back. And a lot of people who come to my group are people who have been practising in different ways for many years but never really found a practice home or had some personal issue or they fell away, and they’ve been doing it for a long time. Some for twenty/thirty years. So I’ve given them an opportunity to sew a rakusu and take the precepts and to receive jukai. To make a commitment to live their lives by intention and not just by habit.”

“And what do they get out of doing this practice for twenty/thirty years? Why bother? Why, today, do people go to Zen Centers?”

“These are people who are mostly in their 60s and 70s and still seeking. Wonderful people.”

“Aging hippies!” We both chuckle.

“That is part of it.” He reflects a moment. “It just gives them some confirmation in the practice they have been doing. I think that they’re people that are reflecting on their lives. And what I’ve tried to do is give them the basics of Buddhism in a rigorous way. I emphasize to them that the Dharma does not have a copyright on truth. I really believe that. And I think what they have been able to do, and what I emphasize to them, is see their life, see their interactions, see their relationships through the lens of the Dharma. Then you will understand things about yourself and how you get along in the world that you didn’t understand before which will allow you to change your behaviours, to get closer to people, to get closer to yourself, and to understand the world in a much bigger way. And that’s really what I emphasize. I feel I’m pretty rigorous about wanting to teach them the basics. I’m not interested in loosey-goosey. I want to teach the basics of Buddhism, and that’s what I try to do.”

“Does one necessarily need to a Buddhist to practice Zen as you understand it?”

“Well, I talk about what Rinzai said, ‘If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.’ And I talk about Krishnamurti in that context, that an identity of loyalty is not an asset. The identity of loyalty, the identity of you’re devoted and committed to the teaching is not an asset. Use the raft as best you can and then leave it behind. But I mean, none of us are at that place. Because one of the things that I really believe is that the Dharma has no ending to the depth that it can go. That you can go further and further. That’s what I try to teach , and I feel like what’s happened in my group is that people have gotten a lot more insight into their lives, and a lot more insight into the problems in their lives, and insight into ‘How do you become intimate with other people? What do we share?’

“And we try different things. At one point, I encouraged my students to stand on the corner in a busy area. Every person that comes by, wish them well. To yourself. You don’t have to say anything. Just every person that comes by, in your heart, wish them well. See what happens. People come back and say, ‘Oh! They smiled at me! I couldn’t believe it!’ I really encourage people to experiment with different ways of being and discover what happens.

“I think what I’m trying to do is give away what was given to me. That’s it right there. It was given to me, and I try to give it away. The bottom line is this practice has allowed me to taste my life in a way that I could never taste my life as an adolescent or as a person in my 20s. And this practice has opened up my world to me in a way that I am so appreciative of. And I’m just trying to give it away. Because that’s the best thing that you can do with it. I think without the Dharma I would be a really unhappy person. I’d probably have a lot of toys and a lot of junk. But, you know, I think I’d be a very unhappy adult. Confused. Deeply confused. Which I was. And – you know – the beauty to me of the Dharma is that it straightens you out – beginning with the Precepts – it straightens you out in a way that’s based on you, not based on someone else’s idea of you. And to me, that’s a really, really beautiful thing. So I really try to give it away.”

A little later, he reminds me, “You know, Dogen said you truly are enlightened, but you don’t know it. And Suzuki Roshi said – something I quote often to my students – the most important thing to be able to enjoy your life and not be fooled by things. That’s sort of my motto. The most important thing is to be able to enjoy your life and not be fooled by things.”

[My conversation with Alan Block took place in June 2023. Hozan Alan Senauke died eighteen months later in December 2024.]

A conversation with Dosho Port

Dainin Katagiri was born in Osaka in 1928. His birth name—Yoshiyuki—means “Good Luck.” He was the last of ten children, and his family believed him to be the reincarnation of an elder sister who had drowned. He apparently shared this belief. Years later, when a student in Minneapolis confessed that he couldn’t accept the idea of reincarnation, Katagiri replied, “Perhaps you will in your next life.” He was surprised when the students thought he was making a joke.

The family were devout Pure Land (Shin) Buddhists who gathered every morning to chant in front of the family shrine before beginning their daily chores. The young Yoshiyuki’s name, however, soon belied him. His mother died when he was fourteen, and two years later he was drafted into the armed forces. 

Like most of his countrymen, Katagiri was devastated by the Japanese surrender. Much of the population – in particular, young people – felt betrayed by leaders who had demanded enormous sacrifices but whose policies had culminated in defeat and occupation. His family’s restaurant business had been destroyed by Allied bombing runs, and they were destitute. Katagiri found work, drawing on his experience as an air force mechanic, but he was depressed and unsure what value or significance his life held.

Everything in Japan changed after the surrender. Some 500 Japanese officers immediately committed ritual suicide following the Emperor’s radio broadcast announcing the end of the war. Hundreds more would be executed as war criminals. American soldiers patrolled the streets and were in control of all national activities. Every major city in the country—except Kyoto which Allied forces had spared because of its religious importance—had been devastated by bombing; the manufacturing industry was in shambles. Poverty was the norm even for families which had been well-off; extreme food shortages would continue for years. 

The only place where things seemed to continue as they had before the war were the Buddhist temples where monks spent their days, as they always had, in meditation and labor, in chanting and performing rituals for the benefit of others. Here there was the illusion of something permanent and stable in a world which—as Buddhism teaches—is characterized by impermanence. Katagiri was drawn to Zen by a yearning for a traditional way of life that would help him find peace and a sense of meaning.

At the age of 18, he sought out his first teacher, Daicho Hayashi, a temple priest in the small fishing village of Mihama, at Taizoin in Fukai Prefecture. Later Katagiri would explain that Hayashi did not so much teach Zen as exemplify it in the way he served the needs of his community not only as a Buddhist priest but as the local soothsayer, community healer, and counselor as well as the presider at Buddhist ceremonies and rites of passage. Katagiri was trained to perform memorial rituals and to chant sutras; he also spent time grooming the grounds and the small cemetery attached to the temple.

In 1946, he received the precepts from Hayashi and was given the Buddhist name Jikai Dainin, Ocean of Compassion, Great Patience.

“Did the name suit him?” I ask Dosho Port, one of Katagiri’s Dharma heirs. I have been working with Dosho since November of 2015, so that puts Katagiri Roshi in my “kechimyaku.” “Did he demonstrate ‘Great Patience’?”

“I think so, sure. I remember when Tenshin Reb Anderson came and gave Katagiri Roshi’s eulogy, he said, ‘And he knew how to shut up.’ And I thought, ‘Well, Reb did know him’ because he really did know how to shut up.”

“What do you mean by that?”   

“I remember Katagiri Roshi saying, ‘When a tin can has only a few stones in it, it makes a lot of noise. But when the can is full,’” – Dosho mimes shaking a can – “‘no noise.’ When the practice is just a little bitty thing dinging around in your can of ego, it makes a lot of noise. So he didn’t have to talk.” 

“One of the first things you told me about him was that he had a ‘world-class frown.’”

Dosho laughs. “Yeah, that’s true. Especially when he was sitting zazen, that was kind of his default expression. Thich Nhat Hanh came once to talk about having a half smile while you’re sitting, and we’re like, ‘Really?’ This was how Katagiri Roshi sat.” Dosho pulls the corners of his mouth down to form an exaggerated frown. “It was also his neutral expression. I mean he could smile and laugh, of course, but his default was just kind of this frown.”

“So how did he come to be in the United States?”

“Well, he didn’t want to do funeral Buddhism. It’s very simple. He could have taken over his teacher’s temple, which was what his teacher wanted, and he was the abbot of his teacher’s temple after he died, but he’d go maybe once every two or three years. He was already in the US when his teacher died. He was in his mid-thirties, and he became the abbot and just continued doing what he was doing here. It was just a small temple, a small town. Beautiful place; looks out on the Japan Sea, quintessential mountain islands out in the bay. But, you know, thirty families in the village or so, and his teacher, my grand-teacher, was basically a hermit. He would sit in the temple, and people would come and ask him questions for, like, daily-life counselling. He was also really into the I Ching and Chinese medicine, so he was kind of the go-to guy if you had a problem in the village, which was the normal role for a priest in a small village. Tomoe Katagiri, Katagiri Roshi’s wife, and their young sons lived with Hiyashi Roshi for a couple of years while Katagiri Roshi was getting established in the US., and she once told me the old teacher would just sit around in the Buddha Hall smoking his pipe all day. Visitors would come by once in a while, but otherwise he would just sit there smoking his pipe.”

“And conduct funeral services.”

“And do funerals and memorial services. And Katagiri Roshi wasn’t interested in doing just that. So after he received Dharma transmission, he got a job with the Soto administrative center – the Sotoshu – in Tokyo, and through his connections there, he learned about an assistant priest position at Zenshuji, the Soto temple in Los Angeles, and he applied for it and got it. That’s when he met Maezumi Roshi; he and Maezumi Roshi were roommates for a while because Maezumi Roshi was another assistant priest there. But Katagiri Roshi wasn’t happy there either, so he ran off to Suzuki Roshi in San Francisco. They had studied with the same teacher in Japan, so they knew each other. So he went up to San Francisco. Then Suzuki Roshi called the bishop in LA and said, ‘This Katagiri guy, I asked him to come. He’s here with me now, and he’s going to stay.’”

“Why did Shunryu Suzuki want to hijack him?”

“He needed help. This would have been about the early ’60s – ’62/’63 – and the hippies had found Suzuki Roshi, essentially, and were starting to come. So he needed help with both the Westerners and with the Japanese temple there which was a thriving temple in San Francisco at the time.” 

“You told me once that Katagiri Roshi wasn’t impressed by hippies.”

“I think that’s true. I think he was horrified actually by some aspects of hippie culture. And probably his ‘great patience’ clicked in there because usually that would not be all that clear. But just the wildness and the confusion of the hippie culture was not something that he thought was a healthy thing.” 

“So how seriously did he take the young people who were showing up the San Francisco Zen Center?”

“Well, he had a way of taking each person seriously, and he had a way seeing people’s capacity or something like that that they themselves might not even be aware of. Like, if the group thought something about a person, he didn’t care. He didn’t care at all. He saw people like he saw them, and it was usually in a positive way. He saw their capacity. So like at Minnesota Zen Center, there’d be people he’d put in positions of responsibility, and a lot of us would be going, ‘Roshi, don’t you know this or that about so-and-so?’ And he’d be going, ‘Oh. Fine.’” Dosho imitates Katagiri’s accent. “‘They can do.’ That was impressive to me, that he saw people in a different way than the group did.” 

“What were his duties when he got to San Francisco?”

“He did everything! ’Cause nobody else knew how to do anything. So he did a lot of the teaching. Suzuki Roshi was sick. He wasn’t actually that old, but he didn’t have a lot of energy, so Katagiri Roshi did a lot of the mainline teaching and showing people how to practice. Yvonne Rand was the secretary of San Francisco Zen Center, and she and Katagiri Roshi had desks opposite each other, and she told me he would be so exhausted that he would fall asleep while he was writing. He would fall asleep while he was walking because he was working so hard. He’d just run into the wall. So he threw himself into it. I think that he felt, especially after he left, that he was kind of unappreciated. Because after Suzuki Roshi died Baker Roshi became abbot. And he and Baker Roshi were such different people. You’d be hard pressed to find two more different people than Dick Baker and Dainin Katagiri.” 

“Did they get along?”

“No. They didn’t get along. I think there was some competition between them. That’s my sense. I don’t know what Baker Roshi would say about that now. But I know from Katagiri Roshi’s side that he felt pushed out. Suzuki Roshi asked him to stay and help Dick Baker, and Katagiri Roshi was like, ‘Yeah. I don’t think so.’ But at that time, he thought that Suzuki Roshi was going to live for a while. So then he left and then, when Suzuki Roshi died, he felt bad about that. Like, he probably could have stayed around and helped some.” 

“So he feels pushed out and decides to go somewhere else, and somehow in all the gin halls in all the towns in all the world, he chooses Minneapolis.”

“Well, there had been a small group of people who had been sitting in Minneapolis, and they had gone to San Francisco some. So he had some connection with those folks. And getting back to the thing about hippies, a story he often told is he was flying from San Francisco to New York with Suzuki Roshi, and they were looking down at this vastness, and he asked Suzuki Roshi, ‘Who’s down there?’ And Suzuki Roshi said, ‘That’s where the real Americans are.’” 

“As opposed to in San Francisco?”

“Right,” Dosho says laughing. “So he was always curious. And his idea of a zendo was a place where plumbers and carpenters and millworkers, housewives and secretaries and teachers like that came rather than these poets and drug addicts and stuff.” He’s still laughing.

“And was that what he found in Minneapolis?” 

“Ehhhh . . . When I first started there, it seemed like all the men were carpenters with Ph. D.s and all the women were social workers. Of course, not everyone. But that was a thing. So . . . yeah, more regular people. But the Midwest was difficult for him because he had also seen the incredible success of the San Francisco Zen Center, and he was surprised that it didn’t take off in that way in Minneapolis. I think he would not have known what to do with it if it had. He wasn’t a slick person that way, organizationally or in terms of that kind of thing. He wasn’t oriented in that way.”

“When did you first meet him?”

“October ’77. I went for zazen instruction one cold, windy evening, and I was the only person who showed up. And one of the things that impressed me was that it did not matter at all to him. He just did his thing. He spent an hour-and-a-half/two hours with me teaching me how to do zazen and kinhin and bowing and things like that. Very patient and kind, and there was something about him that was very striking to me.” 

“What motivated you to come back?”

“I think a combination of desperation and being in his presence. That there was some hope. I’d tried drugs, sex, and rock ’n’ roll. It was fun, but in terms of happiness and the meaning of life, those things don’t go very far. So here was somebody who had a certain kind of poise and joy about him that was palpable.” 

“How long had he been in Minneapolis when you arrived?”

“About five years or something like that.”

“What was the community like? Other than having a lot of Ph. D. carpenters.”

“Well, that was kind of it. A lot of folks lived in the neighborhood around the Zen Center and came over for practice. And as we talk, I think that something that’s often kind of lost in present Zen discourse is that Katagiri Roshi and a lot of the early founders – maybe all of the early founders – really practiced their asses off. He sat sesshin every month; he sat with us all the time; he sat at least several hours a day. He really had a very concentrated practice which drew a certain kind of people. There was a dozen to twenty of us who were throwin’ ourselves into it. And it was great. He gave us a really great training combined with the study aspect which was always important to him. He was kind of a scholar monk which was not uncommon in Soto those days. And so he gave us a thorough education in the Buddhadharma. A great foundation. I don’t know if he appreciated what he was doing, and I don’t know how often others appreciated it either. But my view is that he gave us a really great foundation.” 

“Were you one of the people who moved into the neighborhood?”

“Yeah. Probably a few months later, the woman I was living with and I moved into that neighborhood so we could walk over for zazen all the time.”

“You made that commitment early.”

“I did. I mean, it just clicked. It was like, ‘I’m looking for something, and this is it.’ That was clear to me, actually, when I read Three Pillars of Zen. I didn’t know at first how well what Katagiri was offering would  fit this aspiration that I discovered in Three Pillars of Zen, but I found that it did. But it took some time. His was a very different style in some ways. But, I mean, a lot of zazen is a lot of zazen.”

“There’s a focus in Three Pillars on the imperativeness of kensho,” I point out, “where in the Soto tradition, that wasn’t stressed, was it? In fact, didn’t they say that kensho wasn’t a necessary achievement?”

“Well, Kapleau, of course, was in the Soto tradition.” 

We argue about that for a bit. 

“Well, it’s a complicated thing,” Dosho concedes. “But I would say the spirit and the importance of awakening is present in traditional Soto Zen as well as in Rinzai Zen. The method of the post-Hakuin koan introspection that Harada Daiun found through his work with Dokutan Sosan Roshi and that he brought back into the Soto training, that part is different. But the actual imperative of awakening, of course, I mean it’s Buddhism, so, of course, it’s important. There may be criticism about some focus on kensho being a kind of spiritual fascination, which – I think – was what Katagiri Roshi was critical of. Not the importance of awakening. And he says in Returning to Silence, ‘Of course enlightenment is important for us.’ I’m paraphrasing. ‘And enlightenment must digested through our skin, muscle, marrow.’ That’s just Zen. Right? That’s not Soto or Rinzai Zen. What you’re referring to is the post-Meiji Soto orthodoxy which denies the importance of enlightenment and which is essentially not Buddhism. He didn’t so much buy into that. Not every Soto monk buys into that.”

I ask about the size of the community, and Dosho tells me there were seldom more than thirty official members, only a dozen or so of whom showed up regularly for practice. The numbers must have been disappointing to Katagiri. Then in 1983, Richard Baker resigned as abbot in San Francisco, and Katagiri was asked to return. 

“They needed some temporary help,” Dosho explains, “and he did some things. He led at least one practice period at Tassajara, and, by the way, one of the first things he did when he came back to Tassajara is that Baker Roshi, I guess, had set up a new altar in the new zendo. Katagiri Roshi went in and had them turn the altar around because he thought it was facing the wrong direction. He turned the altar around; that was quite metaphorical. And he led ango at Tassajara, and then he had some kind of temporary teacher/abbot position, but they were reluctant to go back to a Japanese teacher. I think the group at the time was reluctant to do that. So they actually went with Reb [Anderson] as abbot.”

Another factor was that the community retained a fervent loyalty to Shunryu Suzuki Roshi, and while Anderson was in that lineage, Katagiri Roshi was not. Reports from the time suggest that Katagiri Roshi was taken by surprise. He had fully expected to be invited to be abbot. 

“I think that’s true,” Dosho says. “I think he felt – again – kind of pushed out. I think he did want to become abbot of San Francisco Zen Center. I was there in San Francisco during this time for a while. I was president of Minnesota Zen Center, and they brought us out to there to kind of explain to us how they were going to take our teacher. And we tried to work something else out with them where we kind of shared leadership or something. But it was clear to me – I mean, I was a kid; I was 25 or something, 26 – but it was still clear that there were these competing factions. It was hard to tell what was going on. And then Reb wound up being put in the position.

“I think it took Katagiri Roshi a little while to get over the disappointment. And it was hard for him to see how the whole thing in Minnesota could really move forward. And then we started developing this country center. That was also kind of an idealistic step. It was three-and-a-half hours/four hours from Minneapolis. The group had had a choice between a farmhouse in Wisconsin a few minutes away or this plot of undeveloped land in the southeast corner of Minnesota. And – bunch of hippies – they went for the more idealistic choice. And it was very hard to develop and slow. We had to do everything, including build the little footbridge over a creek to get into the area where we could hold sesshin in tents. So everything took a lot of energy. And so I think he kind of floundered in his last years. He wasn’t sure how to go forward. And then he got sick and died.”

“Who was his Number 2 during this time?” I ask.

“Well, for a while, I think I was. But I think whoever you talked to would have a different view on that. It’s an interesting question. It wasn’t like other systems I’ve seen where there was a clear heir apparent. He didn’t nurture the group in that way. I was surprised that he offered Dharma transmission to anybody ’cause I didn’t think he thought any of us were ready for it.” Dosho laughs heartily. “And, you know, I don’t think we were.” 

“It was a fairly large group he ended up offering it to, wasn’t it?”

“Twelve of us. Pretty much everybody that he’d done priest ordination with. Then a few months later he died. And he had said it was up to the group to decide who would be the successor out of this group of twelve. But that was a quagmire because nobody had the respect of the rest of the community in that way. We were all together. Not only the twelve of us that had received Dharma transmission but also the rest of the people in the community. We were totally peers, so there wasn’t a sense that anybody should be the teacher.”

Eventually the community invited another Japanese-born teacher, Shokaku Okumura, to come to Minneapolis. “And he was teacher for – what? – three years? Four years? I can’t remember. But for much of the early ’90s, Shohaku lived in Minneapolis. And then Karen Sunna – one of the twelve – became abbot at that point; she was the first Dharma successor. And that was probably a good thing. To have somebody else in that position for a while first.”

I ask Dosho how Katagiri Roshi differed from some of the later teachers he worked with.

“Well, you know, everybody’s different, so . . . His basic personality style was different. I think I’d say he was quieter and much more willing to be uninvolved and kind of let things unfold.” Dosho smiles fondly at something he remembers. “I mean, he would give instruction, of course, on how to do oryoki, how to do zazen, and stuff like that. But, for example, he asked me to be tenzo at Hokyoji, the place that we were developing, for the first big thing with monks from Japan and all that, and I was into this macrobiotic trip at the time. And I said to the group, ‘Coffee is really bad for you, so I’m not going to use center money to buy coffee.’ I drink coffee now, but at the time I was kind of a zealot. And he didn’t say anything. He didn’t say, ‘No, Dosho. Serve coffee.’ He just let me do it, which, at the time, it didn’t seem so unusual. But it was kind of like the kids were in charge, and he was the kind of parent who just let things go. He just did his thing. He did his practice, which was very intense, and we could look to him or not. Even the decision to buy Hokyoji, he was basically quiet through the whole process, and then at the end of the meeting – before they’re going to vote to buy this property and make this huge commitment with a big balloon payment due in a couple of years – they asked him what he felt, and he said, ‘I’m 60% in favor.’ I mean, what the hell do you do with that? If it was now, I would say, ‘Well, the leader’s gotta be more than 60% sure, so let’s wait. Let’s think about this.’ But that was his style. He didn’t push himself.”

“It was a choice on your part to stay with him,” I suggest. “You did have options.”

“Well, you know, we just had affinity. That’s the truth of it. I could come up with some reasons, but it was just some kind of basic affinity. Part of the reason for our trip to Japan together was – we visited a whole bunch of places – was because he wanted someplace where he could send priests to do Japanese training. So I met a dozen/fifteen teachers, some of the most interesting Soto teachers at the time. And at the end of the trip, I was like, ‘You know? I picked the right guy. I’m good.’ I did want to return to Japan because I wanted to learn that style of practice. But in terms of a teacher, I thought, ‘I don’t have to find another teacher.’ The teachers I met there were really wonderful teachers, but I felt Katagiri Roshi was the teacher for me.”

The Third Step East: 215-30; 136, 212

The Story of Zen:  275-80, 319, 352, 413, 414

Cuke Archives

There are a handful of digital archives I refer to regularly in the composition of these profiles. One of the most useful is cuke.com maintained by David Chadwick. David is the author of Crooked Cucumber, generally accepted as the official biography of Shunryu Suzuki. Cuke.com originated as a supplement to the book, which was published in 1999. In the 24 years since, the site expanded and a second site – shunryusuzuki.com – added. The combined archives are so extensive that David compares them to the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose, California. “It’s a big, giant, sprawling mansion where the woman who owned it thought she’d die if she stopped adding to it. So it’s got stairways to nowhere and it’s got all these rooms. Now it’s like a theme park. Well, Cuke Archives, I’d say, is like a Winchester mansion the size of Los Angeles.” That’s a mite overstated, but the sites do contain a lot of material.

David now lives in Bali. There is an eleven-hour time difference between Bali and Atlantic Canada, where I live. He has just finished dinner when our video chat begins; I’m only on my second cup of coffee of the morning.

“When I was very young, my father was a reader in the Christian Science Church,” he tells me. “And when I was maybe six or something, he quit. And being a reader, that’s like being a minister. He quit because he thought it was too dualistic. He thought it elevated Jesus beyond just being a person who’d awakened. So he got into some New Thought Christian writers like Ernest Holmes, William Walter, and Emmet Fox.”

The New Thought Movement – like Christian Science – holds that illness arises from the mind and can be cured by “right thinking.” It developed at the end of the 19^th century and maintained that Christianity – rightly understood – was the culmination of a succession of wisdom traditions which included the ancient Greeks, Daoism, Vedanta, and Buddhism.

“Very influenced by Emerson, Thoreau, there was obviously Buddhist influence on it,” David says. “Anyway, it was a great way to be raised. In our home, God was not an outside power. It was mind. It was mind only. So I’m very grateful for it.”

His father died when David was eleven, but he left a strong influence on his son. “He was my first teacher. He was a really good guy, really nice guy, very gentle.”

After graduating high school in 1963, David spent some time in Mississippi and Chicago involved with the political causes of the day. He lived and worked with the staff of Students for a Democratic Society and met people like Tom Hayden and Rennie Davis. He admits, however, that he “was just a pest. I was a crazy kid, and they were all like policy wonks.”

Then he spent over a year in Mexico. “I was going to school, but I also smoked a lot of pot, and I really got into walking around town and talking to people. I played guitar in a whore house and really got into Spanish. Then in Acapulco I had my first LSD trip, which was really great. And then some friends of mine from Mexico said, ‘Hey, it’s happening in San Francisco.’ So I made my way out there and for about half a year I was sort of grooving on the hippie scene. I had a few more acid trips, and that really tied into the stuff my father had taught me. And I felt like I needed to meditate. So I found the San Francisco Zen Center, and I just plunged right into it. I loved it.” He was 21 at the time.

“Why did you feel you had to meditate?”

“Because one can see, if one is observing oneself, that the mind is way too busy and way too petty normally. So what you want to do is slow it down.”

“This is something you were aware of when you were twenty-one?”

“Oh yeah. So slow it down. And the thing is you can bust through with acid, and I took acid like with the Psychedelic Experience, very seriously, meditating, fasting, no talking.”

The Psychedelic Experience was a manual composed by Timothy Leary, Ralph Metzner, and Richard Alpert – who later became the Hindu teacher, Baba Ram Dass. It describes what amounted to a sacramental approach to the use of psychedelics loosely based on the Tibetan Buddhist Book of the Dead.

“So I had really profound experiences, but I didn’t do it a lot. I think I had eight trips in all. And that made me think, ‘All right, that’s not going to do it. That’s just like taking a trip there, getting an idea that there’s mind beyond normal mind.’ What I needed was . . . I think I had an image of the wind and time wearing down mountains rather than just blowing them up. And I stumbled on some books on Zen. I wasn’t a big reader, but I found Zen Flesh, Zen Bones and The Zen Teaching of Huang Po translated by John Blofeld, a really great book. I read and re-read Lin Yutang’s translation of the Dao De Jing.”

Shunryu Suzuki was away when David first knocked on the door of the San Francisco Zen Center, so instead he was introduced to Dainin Katagiri, or Katagiri Sensei as he was called. “And I had a discussion with him and said, ‘I think I need a teacher and to meditate with a group,’ which was the perfect thing to say. That’s what they do. That’s the trip, right? And he said, ‘Well, Suzuki Roshi should be your teacher. And he’s in Japan right now, but he’ll be back soon.’ I said, ‘Well, why can’t you be my teacher?’ He said, ‘Well, I could be your teacher, but here he would be your teacher.’”

Katagiri gave him introductory meditation instruction. And eventually Suzuki returned and became David’s teacher, and David decided to commit to the practice for a year. “And I never thought about it again.”

“They won you over?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“For one thing, I wasn’t a true believer. I wasn’t that type. And it wasn’t a true believing place. Nobody tried to convert you although some were encouraging. I got to know some people little by little. I liked them. It was cool. But then I hadn’t been there very long when we hear that we’re going be buying land for a monastery. So I was there at this very exciting time. I had some time there in its smaller form, then we were gearing up to buy land in the woods down south to build a monastery. And so I got involved in that. And then we heard there’s this place near the land we’re trying to buy called Tassajara Springs, and it’s really cool. So when we go there, it’s actually contiguous with Tassajara Springs, the same land. And we can walk there in about an hour. So that was great. And then at the last minute I hear, oh, we’re buying Tassajara now as well. And that doubles the money. We were raising $20,000 as a down payment on $150,000 then all of a sudden we’re raising $300,000. That didn’t mean much to me, but Zen Center’s whole annual budget, I’ve heard different figures, $8,000 a year, $12,000 is the highest I heard. So everybody got in the action, but Dick Baker’s genius came out and his energy.”

Richard Baker was Shunryu Suzuki’s most prominent student and would become his only Dharma heir. He managed a capital campaign which engaged people like Alan Watts, Allen Gingberg, and the Grateful Dead. “But what really did it was Dick and Suzuki going to the East Coast and meeting very wealthy donors. Chester Carlson who invented Xerox, a great philanthropist, wonderful man. He supported a lot of good things. Edward Johnson, not really the founder of Fidelity, but what he took over as Fidelity was not at all what Fidelity became. He made it what it became. So we had the CEO of the biggest investment company in the world helping with the fund.”

I ask David why it was a group of California hippies thought building a monastery was a good idea. To David, it seemed a natural thing to do. “And not all of us had been hippies. I’d called myself a semi-hippie. But Suzuki and his students wanted to have a place where they could practice together and live together and be more focused and not have to go home every day. A place to go for a period of time and have a retreat where it’s not just from five in the morning till nine at night. It’s 24 hours. It’s all the time.”

“And why would people want to do that?” I ask.

“Well, for people who get into meditation that’s pretty much a universal tradition. Now our monastery was not a monastery like any other monastery that had ever been. There were women as well as men, married people, unmarried couples. It was really lay oriented. From the first, there were kids. And Suzuki had never seen anything like that. But he listened to his students and together they put something together, and it worked, and it was great.”

“I’m still not getting the why,” I persist. “What did you think you were going to get from all this effort?”

“Good question. One of the fundamental teachings of Zen from a Soto point of view is not to seek an end, not to seek a goal. That what you are doing is learning how to practice, how to cultivate your self, how to be somebody who awakens and to accept yourself as you are, not to try to be someone else, not to try to be something else. So, the practice of meditation, of living together with others, of working together, these are not unique to Buddhism; they are in Christian monasteries too. Monastics, contemplatives of whatever tradition have a tremendous amount in common. Suzuki especially de-emphasized having any sort of practising with a goal. However, there are two sides to everything. You actually can’t do it without having a goal. So, it’s completely paradoxical, and he’d say if it’s not paradoxical, it’s not true, it’s not Buddhism.”

“Let me put this question this way: Why did you think this was a good use of your time?”

“Oh man, I grooved on it. It was great, I loved it. I loved the meditation; I loved the work. I loved and respected the people I was with. And I didn’t worry about it a lot, I just did it. When you do something and it makes you feel better and it makes you feel like you’re getting to some sort of bigger, wider stage in your life, it’s self-evidently good. And you’re also being encouraged by living with others. You know? Everybody’s getting up at 4.30 to go sit at 5:00. It’s great. A lot of it’s like dancing. If we were a dance company and we were getting together and dancing, people wouldn’t ask, ‘What are you trying to get out of this? What’s your goal? What do you hope to accomplish?’ They’d see that the dance itself was rewarding.”

“And that’s the way you felt?”

“I don’t know how I felt. I just did it. And it was good. I loved it. And one of the purposes of having a period of your life when there’s more focus in a retreat-like way is it can give you discipline. It can dig grooves so that you can continue it in your life. You know, Suzuki said, ‘If you want to learn to concentrate, go to a noisy place. If you want peace of mind, do it in an unpeaceful place.’ It’s easy to do it if you’re in beautiful surroundings. So he said that Tassajara, this is all good, but you can’t live here forever. I mean, some people lived there a long, long time. I was there about seven years.”

David speaks with great fondness of his time with Suzuki and what he calls the old temple – Sokoji – which had been established in San Francisco by Japanese Soto authorities in 1934.

“It had an intimacy and a practice that could never be recreated again. And one thing you learn is to appreciate what you’ve got at the time, because it’s not going to last no matter what it is.” He chuckles. “I know that living in Bali too. So, at Sokoji we would have two sittings in the morning with a walking kinhin in between. So two 40-minute sittings. And of course, for the first one you’re getting there early, you get there ten minutes early so you’re sitting 50 minutes, ten-minutes walking, another 40-minute period. Then we would chant the Heart Sutra in Sino-Japanese three times, a little faster each time. And that was the most dynamic chanting I have ever experienced. Nothing we did in the future ever compared to it. After that, we’d all walk out, and Suzuki Roshi would stand at the door and individually bow at each one of us. And that was great. There was a 5:00 p.m. sitting too. That was it. And we’d have a one-day sesshin once a month, and he’d be able to meet each of us and talk. But he just emphasized daily meditation. He did not emphasize enlightenment. He talked about enlightenment, but he said practice is enlightenment – you know – the practice, learning the practice and doing it. It was great.”

“You said he was your teacher. It’s a curious term in some ways. What did Suzuki Roshi teach you?”

“He’d say, ‘Well, I really don’t have anything to teach you.’ But he taught us. He was a good example.”

“Is a ‘good example’ the same as being a ‘teacher’?”

“People talk about transmission, mind to mind transmission. He’d say there’s nothing to transmit. So what did he teach? He taught, ‘Be yourself.’ He said, ‘All I have to teach is zazen and practice.’ He said, ‘I’d rather not give talks. We don’t really need that. We just meditate together, work together, eat together. That’s enough. You don’t need more than that. You don’t need any teaching.’ But the other side of that, of course, is there was teaching. He gave lots of talks. So Zen is called the way beyond words and letters, but you don’t have any ‘beyond words and letters’ unless you’ve got something to give up, unless you know the words and letters and get beyond them. You don’t get beyond words and letters by not knowing the words and letters and just not learning anything. So yeah, he was very short on teaching, and it bothered some people. They’d go find other teachers that would give them koans and meet them daily.”

“You said you spent seven years at Tassajara. Was that continuous? Did you ever take a break?

“I had breaks. Sure. We were pretty loose. I mean, if you were there for a three-month practice period, you were not supposed to leave the whole ninety days. You could if you had to see a doctor. Or if you had a job that took you to town shopping. Or later when I was the director or the head monk, there’d be meetings in the city.”

“You were the boss?”

“Yeah. That’s not the boss. When I was director Dick Baker was the boss. There was no other boss!” he says with a laugh. “Dick was the abbot after Suzuki died. When Suzuki died, I was the assistant director of Tassajara. We were all so young. Just amazing. So many of us in our twenties.” He chuckles at the memory, but it’s an important point. What strikes me as I look at the old photos of SFZC or Los Angeles or Rochester is how youthful the faces are. One can almost sense that these people were so young and naïve they didn’t understand how improbable the things they were doing and accomplishing were.

“We did a good job. It was an unusual group. We didn’t have experts telling us what to do. We didn’t pay lawyers exorbitant sums. I’d go visit our Tassajara lawyer and give him bread.”

“And at the end of seven years?”

“Well, it wasn’t quite like that. I was there almost all the time the first five years. And in that time I was gone about half a year studying Japanese intensively in Monterey. But when Suzuki died, then Dick Baker asked me to be the work leader in the city, or the board decided or something. He was only back a couple of months himself from Japan. And so I became the work leader in the city for a year. Year after that, ’73, I was work leader at Green Gulch [Zen Center’s organic farm] and Baker’s jisha [attendant]. He called it MJ, Main Jisha. He had three jishas, one at Green Gulch, one in the city, one at Tassajara. And I was the main one who would go with him off to Tassajara or to City Center or if there’s some event or something. And we got along fine. But I also was work leader there at Green Gulch. I don’t know how I did both, but it wasn’t hard. And then the next year, ’74, I went down to be the head monk. And I was there the whole winter, spring, through the whole guest season, five months. And then in the fall, I became the director. And I was director for a year. And he wanted me to stay. He wanted me to stay and be director because he liked the way I did it. And I said, ‘I can’t stay any longer. I got to get out of here.’”

After leaving Tassajara, David held a variety of posts at SFZC. He became the manager of the Green Gulch Green Grocer shop on the corner opposite City Center at Page and Laguna Streets, where Zen Center had moved when they became too large to stay at Sokoji. He also was the host of the center’s vegetarian restaurant, Greens, for a bit. But things were changing.

In 1983 Richard Baker ceased being abbot of the San Francisco Zen Center. Some people maintain he was fired; David tells me that Baker actually resigned because he was unwilling to accept new conditions imposed by the board as a result of his behaviour and leadership style. Reb Anderson, a Dharma heir of Baker, became the new abbot. David remained close to Baker and, in the spring of 1985, moved to Green Gulch Farm where he was a transitional director for year. In 1987, he was on the SFZC board of directors and was instrumental in creating a new multiple abbot system with term limits because of difficulties with the new abbot.

Then, in 1988, his former wife – Daya Goldschlag – moved with their son to Spokane, and David decided to go to Japan for a few years. Katagiri invited him to join him for a while at Shogoji, a Soto Zen training temple in Kyushu. After his time at the temple, David spent another “half a year checking out other practice centres, meeting teachers, visiting Suzuki’s temple and family, seeing friends and friends of friends, and improving my Japanese.”

I ask him how he came to write Crooked Cucumber.

“I had a friend, Michael Katz, who was a very successful literary agent, and he said, ‘Write a book while you’re in Japan.’ I said, ‘I don’t want output there, I want input.’” But in fact he did write letters about what he was experiencing. “And then I’d make copies and send them to friends and family. Michael said, ‘We can make these into a book.’ So he sent me money to buy a laptop and mailed me software including a typing tutor and told me to get to where I could type in the dark. And so I was going to the temple, having sanzen with the abbot, Shodo Harada, doing zazen and teaching English. And I wrote a lot and had many experiences. Michael got me a deal with Penguin and a small advance; that was nice.” The book was entitled Thank You and Ok!: An American Zen Failure in Japan.

“It focused on Katagiri,” he explains, “half about the time I spent with him and other monks at Shogoji and the other half about living with my new wife and going to Sogenji. And it had some about Suzuki, but I started taking all the Suzuki stuff out of it, thinking this should keep the focus on Katagiri. So I had this Suzuki material, and I started collecting more. Michael and I talked about it and thought, well, we should do a book on Suzuki. It just evolved from the one book to the other. It was just something that happened. And then because I wrote the book, I started a website for it, back when websites were just starting. And so I got a nice little short name, cuke.com. And it was just for some material relating to the book. And then people would write things, and I started putting in interviews or something that had to do with the book, and  putting in the Suzuki lectures and just kept doing it, and added shunryusuzuki.com and it just kept growing until the Cuke Archives became like . . . You know the Winchester mansion in San Jose?”

David Chadwick died on February 23, 2026.

Ordinary Mind Zen, Sacramento, CA

A significant number of the Zen teachers I have interviewed in California grew up in New York City. It’s an interesting migration pattern. Bob Rosenbaum was raised in Mount Vernon, which, he tells me, is an extension of the Bronx.

“I was raised Jewish. My parents did not practice religiously in any way, shape, or form, but they were fiercely loyal to the culture of Judaism, and if you’d asked them if they were religious, they probably would have said something like, ‘The thing about being Jewish is you can be religious just by how you live. You don’t have to do all this other stuff.’ But my mother was raised in a family in upstate New York where her father, who had immigrated from Eastern Europe, had been a scholar and a respected community member, and all he was interested in was religion. But when he got out to Binghamton, New York, he didn’t have a way of earning a living. So he earned a living as a ragman, a junkman, a rag picker, and he raised a family of eight or nine children. So they were poor, and there was a lot of antisemitism in the community. And his wife took in boarders to make ends meet. So the bottom line is, in his family, he was regarded as kind of out-of-it with great love and respect but also anger and bitterness. Both he and his wife lived with us when I was young for a number of years. They were dementing at the time, but I remember his wife and he living in separate rooms on different floors of our house, and his wife would spit at him. So, on the one hand there was a lot of love and respect, but, on the other hand, a lot of dismissal and shame for being different.

“So, my parents sent me to Hebrew school, and it was fairly strict, and I would say, ‘Why aren’t we practising any of this at home?’ And they’d say, ‘Well, we’re religious in our hearts.’ And when I became a teenager, I was very conflicted about my Judaism. And one of the reasons I turned to Zen was I would go into a temple, and I would get depressed just by going in. I had to find a way to integrate it and reconcile with spiritual practice. And I should say the Judaism that I was raised in in the temple, the Hebrew school folk, a lot of shame, a lot of post-Holocaust anger, distrust, suspicion, grief. Very dark. This was the 1950s, and the message was, ‘You can try to assimilate, but they’ll never let you. They will never let you.’ So it was a very mixed bag. Zen was very helpful in this regard, to be able to connect to the genuine spiritual thrust within Judaism. For a time I practised Zen along with Judaism. But it just took too much time,” he adds, laughing, “and I couldn’t do it.”

“Did you personally have a sense that they wouldn’t allow you to assimilate?”

“Well, on the one hand I was surrounded by my family’s friends, all of whom were Jewish and went way back. My father grew up in a town, went to the YMHA – the Young Man’s Hebrew Association – and so these were ‘landsman’ they would say. It was almost like a little village. Very Jewish. The town I was in was about 45% Italian, 45% African American, 10% Jewish. I don’t know if schools closed officially on Jewish holidays, but there were enough people that you’d sing Hanukkah songs along with Christmas songs. On the other hand, the next town over, Bronxville, didn’t allow Jews, and my mom worked there, but it was very clear that you couldn’t live there. And as late as 1977, my wife of the time was working for a small Boston Brahmin family-run business, a very wealthy Boston Brahmin family-run business. She was a secretary, and the company Christmas party caused a problem because it was held at a club which didn’t allow Jews. And the fact that my wife was married to a Jew and there was one other woman who was married to a Jew – my wife was not Jewish, the other woman wasn’t Jewish – but it was, ‘What are we gonna do?’ You know? And they had to sneak us in through the back door. So, on the one hand it was a complete sense of belonging, and, on the other hand, it was always a sense of being a little off and out of it. Really, when I lived in India was the first time I ever experienced being Jewish as, ‘Oh, that’s interesting,’ with no layers of stuff around it. Which was very interesting.”

He first encountered Zen in college.

“In freshmen year I took a sort of a comparative religion course, and it was really well taught. And I became interested in Japanese religion from that course. I was interested in anthropology and other cultures. And I was actually studying music, and I happened to run across the music of the Japanese bamboo flute, the shakuhachi. And that was just, ‘Whoa!’ It was just amazing. There’s a 20^th century composer, Arnold Schoenberg, who said, ‘Pitch is colour.’ And if you listen to shakuhachi music, it’s all about how pitch is colour. There’s not much else to it except that pitch is colour. So I heard that, and that interested me. And in the survey course we read Zen Flesh, Zen Bones.”

Zen Flesh, Zen Bones was one of the earliest books on Zen available in the West. It was a collection of stories gathered by Nyogen Senzaki and and translated into English by Paul Reps. Bob was sufficiently intrigued by it to enrol in a course on Japanese religion, and the instructor arranged for Joshu Sasaki Roshi to offer a sesshin at the college. “So I attended the sesshin mostly because I had a crush on one of the women in the course, and I wanted to be in the same room as her for five or six days. And I got hooked. Between shakuhachi and Sasaki Roshi giving a koan. And there was something Sasaki Roshi said towards the end which stayed with me for a good long time. He was speaking through an interpreter. I don’t know how familiar you are with Sasaki Roshi, but he was really” – Bob assumes a fierce facial expression and growls – “‘I am very Zen! You must flare your nostrils when you meditate! You will never become enlightened unless you flare your nostrils!’” It was a pretty good impression, and we both laugh. “So he was certainly a fierce Rinzai Zen teacher. And towards the end of one lecture where he was talking about the absolute and the relative and how you reconcile abundance and lack and all of this other stuff, towards the end he could just see that all these college students are just looking kinda puzzled. He looked at us, and he said,” speaking again in a deep growl, “‘Don’t think of God. Don’t think of Buddha. Just laugh! If you do not laugh, you will become nervous and neurotic.’”

Bob spent his senior year in Japan studying shakuhachi and Zen. A friend in Tokyo introduced him to Omori Sogen, a Rinzai master who also taught martial arts and calligraphy. “So after graduation I lived in Omori Roshi’s little zendo. They were very Rinzai. People would brag about how many koans they had passed, and that felt a little weird to me. And then in very Japanese fashion, they’d have sake parties to send off Omori Roshi on a trip or something, and it was considered, ‘Oh, part of Zen is you go out drinking and then you come back and you just sit and you’re totally there.’ Then my shakuhachi teacher at one point said to me,” speaking with a Japanese accent, “‘Well, Omori Roshi very right-wing.’ And I went, ‘A Zen practitioner can be right-wing?’ He said, ‘Well, yeah. War criminal. Given choice. Go to Zen monastery or go to jail.’ Besides, it was cold in the winter in the zendo, and it was hard, and my shakuhachi teacher invited me to be uchi-deshi in his house.

“Uchi-deshi,” Bob explains, “is when a student – a dedicated student – lives in the teacher’s house. In exchange for lessons, helps out around the house. So I took him up on that, and I was pretty turned-off to Zen at that point although I continued meditating.”

“Because of Omori’s political views?” I ask.

“It was a combination of the bragging about koans, and the general feeling in the zendo was not appealing. I mean, it certainly wasn’t a warm-hearted type of Zen. And meanwhile, I was writing to Sasaki Roshi about staying with the koan that he’d given me, and he just didn’t reply. And at a certain point I just went, ‘Well, Zen is supposed to be outside the scriptures. I’m just not going to read anything about Zen for a while.’ And my Zen was actually my shakuhachi playing.

“Along the way, I fell in love with a woman who was living back in Seattle. And there was a long back-and-forth of, ‘Are you gonna come live with me? Am I gonna go live with you? What’s gonna happen?’ I learned that the only place in America where there was a shakuhachi teacher of the sort that I wanted to study with was in Seattle. And my girl friend was in Seattle. Japan is an amazing place. Beautiful aesthetics. Difficult culture. Beautiful culture to visit, difficult culture to live in if you have to abide by its rules. And the more you’re there, the more you’re expected to conform to the culture. So Seattle sounded kind of interesting. So I went back to Seattle. And – you know – I’m still in my early twenties, trying to figure out, ‘What am I gonna do with my life?’ My original idea was, ‘I’ll learn shakuhachi and make a living from this.’” We both chuckle at that.

“So I spent some trying to figure out, ‘What am I gonna do? And I’d been in psychotherapy because of depression. And I thought, ‘What can I do that’s not going to cause active harm?’ That was my criteria. I wanted to find a job where I could work and at times do music and not do active harm. And there were not that many jobs that satisfied that criteria, but psychotherapy seemed pretty good. So I earned some money and enrolled in a clinical psychology program in Boston.

“So, yeah, I went to Boston. Studied psychology. Had some useful psychological training especially in community clinics, which changed my idea of how psychology can work. And when I did an internship at the Boston VA – which just offered the best pay and whatnot I could find – I lucked into being at a place where the best neuropsychologists in the world were all there at that time, and they introduced me to the idea that the brain actually has some role to play in peoples’ psychology although it’s very different from the way most people think about it. And one of my teaching points that I kind of harp on is the brain is not the mind, and all this stuff about, ‘Oh! You meditate and it changes your brain?’ So? Big deal. You cut your toenails, and it changes the brain. You can sit in a tanning salon and get the same structural brain changes you can get from mindfulness meditation. There’s research on this. And peoples’ idea of what the brain is and how it works is just all wrong, and it’s really a shame. But for good neuroscientists, the brain is dynamic; self is dynamic. Mind and world and body are going like this,” he says, waving his hands and arms about vigorously. “‘Oh, we’ve found the point in the brain that’s the seat of compassion! We’ll meditate, and we’ll grow that part of the brain.’ It doesn’t work that way.”

He returned to the West Coast and was eventually hired by Kaiser Permanente. Things took a radical turn, however, when he received a Fulbright to teach at the National Institute of Mental Health and Neurosciences in India.

“I really like experiencing other cultures. It’s really helpful to see the world through other eyes. So I’m in India, and everything was wonderful. My job didn’t require too much of me but was fascinating. My family was doing well. My kids were flourishing in Indian culture, which is very family centered. Everything was going fine. And I didn’t feel happy. I felt okay . . . but . . . I’m not happy. And what’s it gonna take to feel happy? It took me a while to figure out that happiness is not a feeling, it’s a way of life. And once that became clear, practice became a whole lot more interesting. But I wasn’t there yet.

“So I was in a bookstore in India, and I came across Opening the Hand of Thought.” Opening the Hand of Thought: Foundations of a Zen Buddhist Practice by Kosho Uchiyama has become a contemporary classic in Soto circles. “And I read it, and I went, ‘Huh! Shikan taza. Just sitting.’ Well, at this point I was distrustful of any brand of you name it – school of psychotherapy, school of religion – ’cause I figured I could talk myself into anything and then at a certain point, after talking myself into it, I’d get disillusioned. But I thought, ‘Well, to just sit. That doesn’t sound like I’ll talk myself into anything. Why don’t I try that?’ And so I started doing shikan taza.”

“Without instruction?”

“Without instruction.”

“How did you know if what you were doing was actually shikan taza?”

“I still don’t know whether I’m doing shikan taza.” We both laugh. The fact is that when many of the early Western spiritual explorers went to Japan after the Second War to study Zen, their initial instruction often amounted to little more than, “You sit there.”

“Yeah, that’s it pretty much. You know, I’d gone through a koan and had had what I thought were enlightenment experiences way back when though they never got certified by Sasaki Roshi. But they were, ‘Wow! Oh! Hmm! Hey! That makes sense!’ I knew how to do breath counting and all of that Rinzai style. One of my better meditations when I was still looking around – the most helpful one – was I was hiking one day on the West Coast near my home, and I found a nice rock. A beautiful rock. And I thought, ‘Oh. I think I’ll just sit down and sit with this rock.’ So instead of staring at a candle, I stared at a rock. So I did that for a year. And it’s not exactly shikan taza, but it’s somewhat akin to it. So, anyway, I started doing shikan taza, and then when I got back to the Bay area, I started going to the Berkeley Zen Center ’cause they were doing that kind of thing.”

The abbot at the Berkeley Center was Mel Weitsman, one of the three people in the first interview I conducted for this series of conversations ten years ago.

“And after a few months I went to this sesshin, and I’m in my late 30s. I’ve done yoga for twenty years. I’ve meditated kind of on-and-off for twenty years. I’ve had some kensho-type experiences. I’ve had hallucinogens back in the past. I go to this sesshin; I think, ‘Okay. I know what’s what. I mean, I’m an experienced meditator. My yoga’s going really well; everything’s going really well. I’m gonna go to this sesshin, and this should be really nice. Seven days of just . . .’” He smiles and lets out a long relaxed breath. “‘I can just sit there; I’ll feel great.’ You know? Well, you can guess what happened next. I sit down. Agony. Physical agony. Mental agony. Crying. For no reason that I can figure out. ‘Why am I crying? Why am I so sad? Why am I in so much pain? I don’t know how to do this!’ Seven days worth. Non-stop. Couldn’t figure out what’s going on. So at the end of the sesshin we have a Dharma talk. Each student gets up and asks their question in front of everyone else. And it was my turn, and I got up and said to Mel, ‘I came here. I was feeling pretty good. Sat down. I’ve been in pain. I’ve been in agony. I’ve been crying, and I don’t have any reason for crying. I don’t know why this is. What is this!?’ And Mel looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Nirvana.’ And I knew that he was right.

“In a way, that was the beginning of my Zen practice. I knew he was right. I didn’t understand it at all. But I also had no doubt. ‘Yep. This is nirvana. It doesn’t feel like nirvana!’” He chuckles. “But, you know, one way I sometimes teach people I say, ‘In our practice we don’t say we meditate in order to be enlightened; we meditate because we’re already enlightened. And when we say, “Nirvana is samsara,” we mean it!’ So one way you can meditate is go, ‘Okay. So this is nirvana. This is nirvana. Ha! This is nirvana? Wait a second!’ And what keeps you from experiencing nirvana? What keeps you from experiencing this as nirvana? Just do that, again and again. It’s a pretty good way of meditating actually, but no one takes me up on it.

“Years later, I went back to Japan to teach some psychology. I went to one of the Soto temples. Unannounced, unplanned. I just had a little extra time. And I went to them, and I said, ‘Oh, could I sit with you for a little bit. I’ve been practising in the States.’ And they said to me, ‘Oh, so do you know how to meditate?’ And I said, ‘No. I’ve just been doing it for thirty years.’ And they looked me like, ‘What?’

“There’s a not very well-known interaction with Joshu which I love where someone says to him, ‘What is meditation?’ And Joshu replies, ‘It is not meditation!’ And the student says? ‘What do you mean? Meditation is not meditation? Well, what is it?’ And Joshu looks at him and says, ‘It’s alive.’” Bob pauses for effect then says, “That’s pretty good. So, people are scared to be alive. And they’re scared to die. And basically our practice is, ‘Don’t be scared to live. And don’t be scared to die.’ It’s really very simple.”

There are some standard questions to which I keep returning, especially when the teachers I speak with are psychotherapists, which happens more and more frequently. I have never been in therapy, so I often begin by asking what draws someone to undertake therapy.

“Well, that really depends on the context of what you’re talking about,” Bob explains. “I was working at a medical centre where a lot of people who came to see me came because their doctors said, ‘You have to go see a therapist.’ And they have no interest whatsoever in seeing a therapist, but a doctor said, ‘Do this.’ Some people came because they had heard that psychotherapy had helped with anxiety and depression. Some people came because they get angry. I saw a lot of families, couples. You know, the standard thing. People would come in saying, ‘We don’t know how to communicate with each other.’ That was the standard thing. And some people come because it’s something to do. ‘My friends are going. They say, “Therapy is great!”’ So it really varies a lot depending upon what environment you’re working in.”

“And why do people seek out a Zen center?”

There is a long pause before he answers. “For all the wrong reasons.” I smile. It’s a good answer.

“Fair enough. And what are the wrong reasons that draw people to Zen?”

“Well, people are suffering and feel, ‘Oh, meditation is supposed to help you feel better.’ Right? That’s a pretty common one. Many people come because they are looking for something, and they don’t quite know what they’re looking for, but Buddhism sounds pretty good.”

“The art’s nice.”

“That’s right. The art’s nice.”

“Let me put the question another way then: How is the way you relate to a patient different from the way you relate to a Zen student?”

“So, when a person comes to me as a client – or a patient – they usually have a specific problem in their life. Now if they have sort of a general existential, ‘What’s it all about?’, I will sometimes say to them, ‘Sorry. I’m a therapist, but I’m also a Zen teacher; you’re with the wrong person here.’ I don’t do psychotherapy for existential stuff. I don’t believe in it. The way I approach a psychotherapy client is, ‘Okay. You’ve encountered a bump in your life, and you’re stuck. Let’s find if we can find a way to get you unstuck so that you can get on with your life.’ So, sometimes it’s, ‘I’m so nervous that I can’t leave the house.’ Sometimes it’s, ‘I’m so depressed I can’t relate to people.’ Sometimes it’s, ‘I have this pain which the doctors can’t understand. They say it’s psychological.’ And my job is to help them figure out a way to get past what’s holding them back at this moment.

“With a Zen student, it’s, ‘Ya think things are gonna get better? Why do you want to do this practice?’ Basically I don’t encourage people to practice Zen unless they can’t find anything else to do. I say, ‘Well, if you want to, that’s fine.’ My sister teaches Mindfulness Based Stress Relief, so we’ve had many discussions about the role of meditation in helping people. And the mindfulness people are, ‘Oh, do mindfulness; it will help your life.’ And when people come to me saying they want to practice Zen, I’ll say, ‘Well, that’s fine, but I have to warn you, you might not like it. Because if you practice, you’ll probably wind-up having to change your life and change how you go about living.’ And that’s true.

“I don’t see how you can practice Zen without practising the Precepts. And it turns out that the more enlightened you become, the more you see and feel how pervasive suffering is. The practice is learning to be like Avalokitesvara, hearing the cries of the world, responding to those cries with whatever is needed, but always with a gentle smile. The smile of compassion is the basis for our response to suffering, and our release from suffering.”

“You don’t see how someone can practice Zen without practising the Precepts.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, let’s consider that for a minute. Joshu Sasaki.”

“Yes. Problem!”

“Maybe not so hot on Precept practice.”

“No! No! He thought that enlightenment sort of exempts you. You can do anything. Well, a lot of Zen teachers – maybe every Zen teacher – finds a way of having it fit their personality. The problem is if you’re using the practice to actualize your ego-centred personal stuff – which you can do in very subtle ways – that’s not what it’s about. The practice is to allow oneself to be a vehicle for the Dharma.”

“Which means?”

“This is a Daoist thing, and I was heavily influenced by Daoism, as much as by Zen. It’s to assist the self-becoming of all Being. So every being is constantly becoming itself even though it already is itself. But how do you assist that? How do you harmonize with the needs of this moment, the call of this moment? And in general, the best way of doing that is to do as little as possible and not get in the way of the Way. And we’re constantly getting in the way of ourselves and in the way of other people. And when you stop getting in the way of yourself and getting in the way of other people, the Way manifests itself. The Universe manifests itself. So how to assist with that? Tricky. Tricky.

“So for me, one of the core koans and realizations is Dongshan’s, ‘I am not it; it actually is me.’ You know the story? Dongshan asks his teacher, ‘When you die, what should I tell other people is your teaching?’ And the teacher is silent for a long time, then he says, ‘Just this.’ And Dongshan didn’t understand, which I love about this story. Well, it sounds good, right? Everyone’s going, ‘Just this! Just this!’ But Dongshan didn’t understand. And we don’t understand, and think we have to do something special to access just this. Then later on Dongshan’s walking along, and he walks over a bridge, and he sees his reflection in the stream. And he goes, ‘Oh! I’m not it; it actually is me.’

“Ah! So we are the expression of everything that runs through us. And we think it’s about me! Sorry! People say, ‘Well, I feel this.’ That’s the ultimate wrong statement. All those feelings are who I am at this moment. ‘Oh! The wind is going through the leaves right now outside my window.’ We’re talking to each other. This is who I am. You are who I am; this conversation is who I am. I just think, ‘Oh, there’s a Bob here doing this.’ You know, there’s that ‘I-mind’ I call it, which thinks that that’s what’s going on, but it’s a little piece of it. It’s everything which has ever happened that comes to bear on this life, that’s who you are at this moment. So how does one carry that forward? Well, each moment you try to figure it out as best you can. You know, ‘Whoops! That was a mistake!’ So you went after the mistake. Good! About this moment? So, we harmonize with the flow, the stream. Doesn’t mean that we’ll like it. But you might as well enjoy it.”

“Taking the Precepts – vowing to live by the Precepts – is usually seen as making a commit to live a Buddhist life. Does one need to be Buddhist to practice Zen?”

“Oh, absolutely not. But a lot of people have practised Buddhism for a long time because they found it helpful. Classically it’s about release from suffering. I like to go a little further, personally, and say, ‘Enjoy your life.’ How can you genuinely enjoy your life in a way which can never be impeded?”

“What is it, as a Zen teacher, that you hope for for the people who practice with you?”

He considers the question for a while before replying. “I’m trying not to put this in jargon . . . That you are, were, and will be enlightened together with all beings.”

“And as a psychotherapist, what is it that you hope for your clients?”

“That you find that you can trust yourself.”

“Are there occasions when Zen students also need to discover that they can trust themselves?”

“Trust is the absolute basis in life. But who is this self that you trust? I often say to people, ‘So what can you really trust in when everything else fails you?’ Because everything else will fail you. Where can you really trust? And I’ve been through a period when I had a stroke in the Himalayas and was really face-to-face with dying. For a year after that I went, ‘Okay, I’ve practised meditation; I’ve tried to be a good person and act according to the Precepts. And I still had a stroke, and I’m still gonna die. So how am I gonna live my life?’ And so I could lie and cheat and try and get as much money as possible, but then I realized I wouldn’t be very good at that. So I said, ‘What’s the basis of my life?’

“And frankly Zen . . . It helped me come to this, but the basis is, number one, to acknowledge as best I can the truth of any situation and the truth of what’s happening to me and what’s going on around me knowing that I’m always going to colour it. I’m a very bad liar. And if I’m not living with the truth as best I can, I’m living with a fantasy, so let’s start with the truth. But people often don’t like the truth. It hurts often, and it’s painful, and it’s difficult. And so the second thing that comes up is somehow when nothing else works, when everything’s awful, compassion arises. I don’t know how, but it happens. And compassion is not something in us; the world is compassion. The air is compassion. The Earth is compassion. So I rely on truth; I rely on compassion. And after a while I see this is all too serious. So I need to have humour and laughter. That’s the third basis for me.  So truth, compassion, laughter. And for a while I knew there was something missing, and a friend of mine said, ‘I know you. You like beauty.’ ‘Oh, yeah. Beauty.’ That’s it! Truth, compassion, laughter, and beauty. That’s my life. I rely on those. I can find those at every moment in anything. Zen is simply a way of helping me find those. But that’s me. You have to find – each person has to find – what’s the basis of your life? What can you really rely on?”