Tomorrow I start Practice Period. Practice Period is a whole different ball game than the summer apprenticeship season here in the gulch. Whereas, out of necessity, the focus of the summer season here is the production of the farm and garden (as well as the retreats and guests), in Practice Period the focus is, well, the practice. It's led by Reb Anderson, who will give us many a dharma talk (undoubtedly about "pivots" and "pivoting") and a class on the Ox Herding Pictures. Our abbess Fu is also going to give a class on Dogen, the founder of Soto Zen.
I will still be working in the garden, but only 4 hours a day. The rest of my time is going to be largely spent sitting. During the summer I was only required to sit 4 days a week; now I will sit at least one 40-minute period every day (even on our personal days, of which we only get one-and-a-half a week). Every Tuesday we will have a half-day sit, followed by free time. Every work day we get two hours of free time in the afternoon, as well as one hour of required reading time, during which we can only read dharma books.
The bookends of the Practice Period are periods of INTENSE sitting. Tomorrow, to kick it off, we are doing a two-day tangaryo. Tangaryo is sitting all-day (5 am to 9 pm) with the only breaks being meal times (followed by one hour of free time). Tangaryo is supposed to me reminiscent of when monks would first approach a monastery to practice, and they used to have to sit outside of the temple, unperturbed, until they were allowed admittance inside. This was a test to show your dedication. It completely reminds me of Fight Club and people waiting outside of the house on Paper Street until they were allowed entry into Project Mayhem.
At the end of Practice Period we will sit a sesshin. I've already talked about sesshins before, but in case you missed that post, a sesshin is a week of all-day sits. The all-day sits during sesshin are less stringent than during tangaryo, in that you get more breaks and are able to walk around more and stuff, but it's still from 5 in the morning till 9 at night, and you know, is an entire week.
Anyways, this whole thing is supposedly super great, really grounding, really unifying, and I'm curious about it all. I don't really have any expectations, at least ones that I'm conscious of. We'll just see what happens.
I will not be on my computer during Practice Period, so this is going to be my last post until probably at least mid-December. I know I haven't posted in a while, so I'll do a quick catch-up before saying goodbye for now.
Notable occurrences from the past month:
1. I returned to Colorado for the wedding of two of my favorite people, Jordan Breakstone and Dana Shier. It was an absolutely tremendous time, wonderfully full of love and a completely perfect weekend, in my opinion. It was the first time since I moved to Green Gulch that I had been away from the valley for more than 24 hours. As such it was very stimulating at many points, but overall rather heartening and refreshing. I was able to help them out by utilizing my skills at flower arranging that grew and blossomed here (pun intended) to do the arrangements for the wedding. It was quite the homecoming for all of my college friends, known as The Collective (with some notable lovelies missing). The weekend for me was essentially a Collective love-fest, where we were all able to be together and continuously expressing to each other how much we all love each other. I really do love them all, a lot. I'm also just so excited and happy for Jordan and Dana. It is quite the accomplishment to bring together so many people in complete unison and love to celebrate their own love and commitments to each other.
 |
| Extended Collective, with bride and groom front and center. Missing notables: Kati, Nick, Shane, Johanna, Sean and Luke. |
2. On the last Friday of September the farm and garden put on the annual Harvest Dinner and Dance. It was quite the evening. The farm and garden crew collectively made the dinner, primarily using ingredients from the farm/garden, and decorated our usually unassuming pool deck into a rather lovely dance space, complete with twinkle lights, large paper flowers, and real flowers spattered about. The dinner consisted of absolutely delicious beet burgers, yummy herb spreads, roasted potatoes, lovely cole slaw, and baked apples. The dance was a square dance, complete with an official caller. I'll admit that, despite my fervent love of dancing, I was not feeling too excited at the thought of square dancing. However, it was quite perfect--I think that perhaps a community of quiet introverts might need someone telling them how to dance and how to make contact with one another in order for us to be comfortable with doing so. Furthermore, my friend (the community's friend) Travis returned for the weekend, and it was just so great to have him around.
3. On the day following the Harvest Dinner a group of us went up Mount Tam and hung out on the grassy slopes of the sleeping goddess over-looking the sea. On this trip I was particularly struck by the wonder that hanging out with a group of Zen students is. Everybody makes such piquant, understated, apt, completely respectful and loving remarks about our situations. When we arrived to our spot on the hill, comments such as "the grass smells lovely," "look at the way the waves roll out there on the ocean," and "the trees are such a deep color green!" were exchanged before we all sat silently and easily in our spot together for a good while. We also explored forests, went to Stinson Beach for ice cream, and then Mill Valley for burgers on this outing. It was really, simply, wonderful.
4. Reverend angel Kyodo williams came and gave a dharma talk to the Green Gulch community. Reverend angel is an African-American, lesbian, Zen priest. She has written a few highly-acclaimed books about engaged Buddhism, including her most recent, Radical Dharma. She is absolutely inspiring to listen to. She has such clear insight into what it means to live compassionately while still valuing your own struggles and the suffering of the world. One of her main points, and one that is particularly striking to me each time I hear her speak, is that we must be compassionate towards people who are bigoted or oppressive because they are missing out on so much of life and experience through their hatred and closed-off hearts and minds. She presents that idea much more eloquently and inspiringly than I just did, so if you're interested in what she has to say, you should definitely read her books or listen to her talks.
5. A group of us had one last outing to Ryan's grandparents' orchard in Sebastopol. I love Sebastopol--really just Sonoma County in general. It's climate is dry and hot, and far more similar to the climate that I grew up in than the damp and grey climate I currently reside in. The orchard was lovely, of course. We did some more work to prepare the property for Ryan's brother's wedding, which happened on Saturday (congratulations Gabe and Shannon! I know the both of you definitely read the blog and would be remiss if I didn't do a shout-out). It was great to have a weekend away before being in lock-down for two months.
6. The garden manager, Claudia, went to Tassajara (our sister temple) for Practice Period there, leaving the garden without a manager for a while. She prepared us all very thoroughly for her time away, and I'm also curious as to what that's going to be like. Marie and Rebecca are not doing Practice Period, so they'll be able to work full-time, which will help. Juniper and I are still going to work in the garden when we can, and two new Practice Period people will also join our crew. Considering that the garden is already really slowing down on production, I think it will be fine and entirely manageable. We had a lovely last week together (Isabelle is also moving on to work on her career). I love the garden ladies, and I am so grateful to have had them as my work family these past six months.
 |
| The ladies of the garden! |
Some Journal Entries from this Past Month:
1. The Garden at Evening
This dusk is so real and whole--the deep, sheer, tangible obscurity in the light, signaling another transition, another change. The breeze momentarily soaked through me before passing on to carry the bees and dragonflies home. The trees are their own dark silhouettes, the individuality of their limbs and their beings becoming a shadow of an entangled complexity. They are set against the pastel awareness of the reminiscent sky, beckoning thoughts of the past when I was tired, but otherwise happy.
I am happy now, though more completely. I don't know what makes me so sure that the happiness of this moment is more complete than the happinesses of my past. I still feel the cold air, the coming turns, but now I know to stop and look at the stars, to look at the moon and marvel.
The clover is deep and full beneath my feet. The birds are signaling the curtain call and the flowers around me seem more tangible in their beauty in this fading light than when they are radiant in the brightness of day. This beauty is easier for me to understand, to see in myself. It is subdued, quiet, and slyly self-aware.
I see in front of me some wisps of clouds impermanently stained a vibrant pink by the setting sun, outlining and framing the almost imperceptible twinkle of the first star shining for this night, for this place. I know it is possible to both be alone, and not be at all--to only be a reflection of this world slowly pivoting away from our star and towards the light of stars that passed through the ineffable emptiness of vast space to only be momentarily seen and seldom understood.
This tree right before me knows me better than I could ever know it. I don't know why that seems to be the case--perhaps it is a different sort of knowing than the kind I'm accustomed to. Goodnight, tree. I'll try to see you in the morning as I tend to the soil and plants around you, surrounding you. Thank you for being here with me tonight.
2. Sitting in the Dining Room
I'm just going to sit down and write and see what happens.
What exists in this state of stale inspiration? This state of idealizing the potential for artistry and raw emotion? Is my neck too tight? Have I consumed too much sugar? Is my disconnect from my heart making it impossible to think clearly? What is the danger of living too much in your head?
I have discovered what it is like to live complacently in a place that is dedicated to awareness.
I am consistently entirely aware of how young I am--of how my youth begets frustration, sometimes directed at the fact that I am young and not reckless. I always aim to live a life that is conscientious, thoughtful, and measured, but by living in such a way, so much is left out. So much is gained, but still there is so much left out. I do not wish to live with reckless impulsiveness, but sometimes I want to consciously be recklessly impulsive. I sometimes want to give into my frivolous desires, in full acknowledgement of their frivolity and senselessness and ephemerality…just so I can experience it. Just to satisfy my scientific curiosity at how life can be, is going to be.
The light here is dark, even in midday. Right now it could be considered proper evening. So it is, of course, the hues of a day ending. The plants outside the window are dancing under the force of unleashed rainfall, rejoicing in the potential such unbound moisture brings--potential to go to sleep, to rejuvenate, to nourish their short-lived tissues that cling to the surface of this ever-evolving and breathing space rock.
All of the beings here are used to living in a cloud, to navigating our gaze through the passing of mists and fogs along the hidden ridge lines of our encompassing hills. We are used to navigating the clouds surrounding our imperfect senses so that we can rest uneasily and joyously in the knowledge that we know nothing, and soon this will all end.
It is a full moon tonight, but her energy will be hidden behind torrents--but only from us valley folk. The moon herself will always bathe in her own energy as an ever-present, ever-inspiring, ever-lifeless orb; sister to the stars, but only distantly so--only so to the poetic creatures down below her who seek to understand their place among the entirety of everything while it lasts.
Really, it's just as well that I won't have the moon with me tonight--the unbridled and wild energy she inspires in my delicate body when she is at her full-scale voluptuousness sounds frustrating. I am fortunate to have lovely nights filled with hope and tension. I am unlucky that I have the habit of expecting all such similar circumstances to yield similar results.
3. Place
Today it is rainy. It has been so for the past few days, but it is important to notice it today as well. Today is a day of transition. People well-loved by the community are moving away and new faces are joining us (well, new to me). It is overall a rather refreshing experience. Maybe refreshing is not the right word, for it is so positive. There is naturally some sadness in seeing some of my loves leave--but they're not really gone, and I know that.
Today is my last day living in the yurt. Tomorrow I will move into the urban center of Green Gulch--Cloud Hall--and no longer be able to associate with the mountain folk of which I am now a part. This is a transition that I have been waiting for with earnest eagerness. I am convinced that I will have more free-time if I am not having to consistently trek back and forth from the outskirts. Perhaps more pertinently, the yurt is not insulated and it is starting to get cold. At night the cold does not bother me--it is primarily an issue at 4:15 in the morning when I wake up to stumble my way along the dark path to zazen.
My room in Cloud Hall is warm and cozy, and just like the yurt I'll have a skylight and lovely ladies for company. I am ready for this transition, and yet there's always a little trepidation in change, in having to release your former way of living so that you may grow and learn. I am reminded of when I was growing up and my family would move houses. As we were pulling away for the last time from what had been our home, my mom would always look back and say "Bye-bye, happy house!", which my brother and I would then repeat. I always found that small ritual comforting and right--I have always inherently felt that places or things should be treated with respect, especially if they shelter you or care for you or give you comfort and support. I have carried this ritual with me into adulthood (if that is what this is). I said it to my dorm room in college, and to every place that has sheltered me since.
I have been making sure to fully appreciate all that the yurt-living experience can uniquely offer to me, to my experience and my connection to this place, to Green Gulch. In Wendy Johnson's class, "Buddhism and Ecology", she effortlessly and reverentially identifies with and loves the land, her place. As someone who grew up in a small mountain town, I have been instructed and reminded throughout my life to find my place. To orient to where I am. In Colorado, that orientation was done easily through using the enveloping mountains. Here there is potential for it to be done through the hills, the fog, the ocean, the redwood forests, the garden, or the farm. Yet recently I have not been able to connect to this earth, to this land that I now call home.
I have been too trapped in my own ideas of what I am not getting from life. I've been living in a fog of self-involved frustration and in so doing I have disconnected from my place--from my soil, my flowers, my food, my softly rolling clouds, my bright stars, my sunlit dry hills, my body on this Earth. It is a little disheartening to discover that even living a life as a gardener at a Zen center is conducive to a period of dissociation from my surroundings and the planet. Although, because I live as a gardener at a zen center, I do have the fortunate advantage of being someone who is aware of my dissociation. I am also lucky enough to have ready access to wise beings such as Wendy who are able to gently encourage me to lift my head out of my own ass and look around for a moment, at the moment.
So, today I looked around once more. On one of my last hikes from the yurt I stopped for a moment to look at a tree--a tree I've passed many, many times. It is a striking tree, and has impressed me continuously throughout the past six months with its character. It looks old, wise, venerable, crotchety, tired, aged, storied, harried, and magnificent. It is bare of any foliage but is somehow consistently spattered with immense cones. Its branches are all gnarled and broken, and reach out to the sky in a sort of resigned attempt to connect to its environs. One day, maybe a month or so ago, I saw a hawk perched on one of the tree's staggering limbs. I stopped to stare at that glorious bird, and it in turn intently and silently stared at me. We watched each other, the hawk gazing down at me with such an unfiltered awareness of my being that I was quickly unnerved at my nakedness and insignificance to this creature and continued on. Today, as it is a rainy day, the usually dry and grey wood of the tree is drenched deeply so that it has become very dark--almost black. The pale green lichen that delicately and stubbornly stretches along its bark is in striking contrast to that wet wood.
As I continued up the hill towards Green Gulch proper, I reflected on how the hill used to feel like a small panic attack every time I climbed it. It becomes unassumingly steep rather quickly, so if a person is not used to that small hike, it becomes a ready lens for how apparently out of shape you are. Now, I can stride up that hill with ease, thanking that quick slope for toning my glutes and thighs on our daily walks.
Cresting the slope I am greeted by a row of pines decorated with holes made by persistent woodpeckers. The pines have dropped a fair amount of their needles onto the road. The needles of the trees today are quite unlike the needles of the earlier months--as opposed to a rich green they are now a vibrant orange, and they have recently been dropping with such voracity that the road appears to be an orange carpet; only the occasional muddy pothole gives its true nature away.
I think about how aware my body is of the moon and the stars; how living out here in the yurt has provided me with the opportunity to navigate many times solely by moonlight or--if it's a new moon or cloudy--to navigate by all of my senses barring sight. Living out here has enabled me to become familiar with a family of deer, as well as the sounds of cavorting great-horned owls as I fall asleep. It has enabled me to live in a tangible paradise, where on Fridays I could get off of work from the garden, walk a hundred feet, pick a few plums--either of the wild or domesticated "elephant heart" varieties--and play ukulele, draw pictures, or write letters on my porch until the supper bell rings. What kind of life is that? How can I be so fortunate?
This transition is good, and feels right in my bones. I am excited to live life more fully in the community, with my community. I am remembering how thankful I am for this place and again being amazed that such a place exists, and I can call it my home. Green Gulch is by no means perfect, but it also definitely isn't not perfect, either.
So, for now, I am ready to say hello to my place in Cloud Hall…and bye-bye happy yurt.
No comments:
Post a Comment