Reflections of a Tumbleweed

Thanksgiving in a Zen monastery...

11/27/2017

It's been four years since my last Thanksgiving at Tassajara, the Zen Buddhist monastery sequestered in the Ventana Wilderness in Carmel Valley, the last time I had nut loaf instead of turkey for our national holiday. In all, I spent four Thanksgiving days at Tassajara - 2004, 2005, 2006, and 2013 - and each one was very different from the others.

Photo by Hamish John Appleby

The fall of 2004 was what was called my tangaryo practice period. Simply put, it was my first practice period, and I stayed in Tassajara from late September 2004 through early April 2005 without ever leaving. My teacher suggested it; it was common practice in Tassajara's early days, but I was the only person during that time period who never left. Thanksgiving wasn't quite the halfway point, but it was a much-needed break in the schedule.

Part of the 14-mile dirt road into Tassajara, photo by Shundo Haye

The wake-up bell rings at 3:50 am, and by 4:20 am you are in your seat in the zendo. Breakfast occurs at your seat in the zendo somewhere around 6:30 am, and you keep going till about 9:30 pm. You follow the schedule for four days, then get a personal day (you wake up one hour later, and are free after breakfast until late afternoon). By the time Thanksgiving rolls around, the concept of a holiday seems foreign, and in truth, everyone pitches in to help make the feast happen.

That first Thanksgiving I started a tradition that I continued every Thanksgiving I spent at Tassajara - I left dinner early and went down to the bathhouse to enjoy the hot plunge, usually in complete solitude for at least part of the time. The indoor plunge has sliding glass doors, so you can be inside and out at the same time, and it overlooks the creek and is overlooked by the mountains.

To get to Tassajara you have to drive or be driven up and down a 14-mile dirt road, a trip which takes approximately an hour and 15 minutes, unless your driver is driving too fast. The road starts at 1500 feet above sea level, goes up for about 8 miles to the ridge, 5000 feet above sea level. You go along the ridge for about 3 miles, then begin the descent - 3500 feet down to the valley (1500 feet above sea level), the drop occurs in approximately 4 miles, which makes it pretty steep in places. No guardrail, one lane in a lot of spots, and innumerable switchbacks and hairpin turns. You really have to want to be there.

Men's bathhouse and outdoor plunge, photo by Shundo Haye

Thanksgiving 2005 I was on the kitchen crew, and in the middle of a drama about when, where, and whether I was going to be ordained as a Zen Buddhist priest (I was, in January 2006). I was what they call the fukuten in the kitchen. The fukuten is what you might call the kitchen manager. I supervised the crew, made sure the food got out on time, and occasionally did some cooking myself. I had been on the crew in the spring practice period, and during the summer guest season I'd been a guest cook, so I knew the kitchen well. I had turned 50 in October, in some ways was as happy as I'd ever been. However, the drama around ordination and the drama in the kitchen made it a stressful time. This was easily one of my most difficult practice periods, and that was one Thanksgiving that I barely ate before bolting to the bathhouse.

Tassajara Creek, photo by Valerie Boquet

In 2006, I was back in the kitchen as fukuten. I'd been asked to take it on again, and I agreed, because the tenzo, or head cook, was one of my closest friends. We had great fun, and it had its difficult moments as well. One of those difficult moments occurred on Thanksgiving.

Being fukuten puts you in the middle between the tenzo and the crew, and sometimes the tenzo will undercut your authority by stepping in and being the buddy. With some it can be intentional, with my friend I knew that wasn't the case, but it hurt just the same. I was still struggling with how to be a priest, how to do my job, and how to create boundaries and stand up for myself. Once again, the bathhouse was a source of enormous comfort and solace.

It was to be seven years before my next Thanksgiving at Tassajara. In the interim, I'd left San Francisco Zen Center to get a Master of Divinity degree at Naropa University, and spent a few years with my dad while my mother was dying of Alzheimer's. I returned to City Center (the San Francisco practice center connected with Tassajara) as tenzo, and went to Tassajara in May of 2013. I was still there for Thanksgiving, not in the kitchen, and actually sat down and ate the whole Thanksgiving dinner. I did, however, still make it to the bathhouse for my traditional Thanksgiving pilgrimage.

Outside of the bathhouse, one of my favorite things about the schedule was study time. I loved work period, when the schedule was easier and folks came in for a month to help build and maintain the property.

I cooked in the kitchen when it was 105 degrees Farenheit, and froze in the zendo when it went down to 18 F. I danced with the abbot in the zendo to the music of Zen monks humming Cole Porter's Let's Face the Music and Dance. I wept in despair when I realized becoming a priest didn't mean I got to become someone else.

"Main Street" in Tassajara - the dirt path that winds through the property, wide enough for a truck (barely)

Early morning moon on the drive out of Tassajara

I can't say I miss it. I do miss the deep connections that can develop with friends and teachers. And oh, I miss the hot plunge with the mist rising off the hot water, the chill of the air on my shoulders, and the unfathomable beauty of the mountains looming over me.

The hours of zazen I sat are a part of my body and will never leave me, any more than the symphony of the wildlife parked on the road on a summer night will ever really disappear.

The Thanksgivings I spent at Tassajara showed me things about myself I would never have learned otherwise. With deep gratitude to those who have lived, worked, and loved at Tassajara throughout the years...

Doc

We don't always know how it ends...

11/21/2017

Thanksgiving week brings back memories of family gatherings, being out of school with lots of time to read, and thoughts of gratitude. It also brings back memories of the Canadian Thanksgivings I spent with my Canadian “family” the Rooneys.

I use the quotes, because I’m not related to the Rooneys (and they are not related to the Pittsburgh Steeler Rooneys), yet I found myself treated as a member of the family in a way that I’d never before experienced. When I first met them, the girls were toddlers who called me the Timbit lady (I always brought a box of Tim Horton Timbits with me). Now they are grown women with kids of their own, and it’s been quite a few years since I’ve seen them.

Brenda and Robert Rooney

Brenda Rooney worked at the Stratford Festival in PR/Marketing, and we met when her boss asked her to take me to the green room for coffee. I’d written a research paper for law school on the three Stratfords, and continued to visit with some of the folks I’d met during the process. Brenda’s husband, Robert, was an actor as well as a directing intern at the Festival, they had two daughters, and Robert’s brother Andrew lived with them as the girls’ caretaker.

When Brenda invited me to their house to visit, I had no idea it was to open the door to one of the most significant relationships of my life – not only my friendship with Brenda, but also my relationship with every member of the family. I arrived, that first time, to find that Brenda wasn’t even there. Instead, Andrew let me in and assured me she’d show up eventually. He gave me a cup of tea, and I met Rebecca and Caitlin. Sure enough, Brenda did appear sometime in the next half hour, and it was chaotic as both girls wanted to share things with their mother, and Andrew had news of his own to pass on.

I never did meet Robert that day, though I met Tottenham Hotspurs, their cat. The chaos meant that I blended into the woodwork, something that appealed to me at that point in my life. I enjoyed it, and eventually did get some time to talk with Brenda. Over the years, when I stayed with them for several days, I would sometimes go to bed down in the basement (in Oakville) and wake in the morning to find one or more additional guests sleeping on the sofas in the living room. Their generosity made everyone feel welcome - it was open house for many of us, and I felt incredibly lucky.

A Rooney family holiday

From Stratford, to Oakville, to Quebec, I went wherever the Rooneys lived, and from the start, developed an individual relationship with each member of the family. At one point in Oakville, Andrew was working, and Brenda and Robert were putting together a CD launch to support voter education in South Africa, so they were working non-stop. I took a week’s vacation and went up to drive the kids to school stuff, cook the meals, and even do the laundry, so they could focus completely on their work.

Brenda and Robert were the most politically active people I’d ever met. I did a few things in high school and college, but they opened my eyes to the world and what one or two people could do to make a difference. They were involved in the Arts Against Apartheid movement in Canada. Robert directed the big benefit/fundraiser concerts in Toronto, and Brenda did the PR for them. I happened to be with Brenda when we saw the film of Nelson Mandela walking out of prison. She wept, and I wanted to, but felt I hadn’t earned that right. The CD I mentioned earlier raised more than million dollars for voter education for the first election in South Africa in which the black population could vote.

PHOTO by ANDREA CARDIN, THE OTTAWA CITIZEN (CANWEST NEWS SERVICES)

I could do an entire series of blogs on the work Brenda and Robert have done. That would miss the point that their work wasn’t only on the big stage, it was on the ground, one-on-one with people like me that they met. They changed my life, because once I saw them at work, I could never again shrug and say, what can I do?

In the great series West Wing, Leo says at one point, “We don’t always know how it ends!” I don’t know if Brenda and Robert ever thought about the effect they were having on me, and where the effect might trickle down, and who it might also affect. They just did what they did.

Robert, sadly, died in January 2016. Brenda continues with her work and her family. Their impact continues in me, and through me to all of you who read this. None of us knows what impact our lives and our writing will have on the world. We can only live and write and love and breathe, and know that everything we do matters. Thanks to all of you for what you give in your lives and in your writing.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Doc

It's a 'Burgh thing...

11/14/2017

Back in mid-June, I packed my car and drove cross-country from Pacific Grove, California to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I was born and raised in Pittsburgh, and spent much of my adult life in Pittsburgh as well. At one point, someone asked what made me come back, with the emphasis on "made" - it was clear that person thought I would naturally prefer to be in California.

Dan Rooney

My friend seemed shocked when I indicated that it was my idea to return to Pittsburgh, and that I was happy to be home. I enjoyed the humidity, the rain, the clouds, and my dad's spaghetti and meatballs.

What I didn't say was that, although I'd had the thought that I might move back off and on for a long time, it was when Dan Rooney died in April, 2017, that I knew it was time to go home. I remember sitting there, watching live stream of his funeral on my computer, and experiencing a strong feeling that I should be there.

Strange, in a way, since I only met Mr. Rooney once, and that, briefly. I was at Steeler's training camp in Latrobe, dropping off some jerseys and footballs to be signed for the Boys & Girls Clubs of Western Pennsylvania. Mr. Rooney was there when I dropped them off, and came over to chat with me. There is an unfortunate tendency for me to insert my foot into my mouth at moments like this, and sure enough, I managed to say something that was embarrassingly inaccurate.

Mr. Rooney gently corrected me, yet never made me feel stupid or wrong. In fact, he treated me as a friend he'd known for years, and with a kindness and compassion I've never forgotten. When I later read his autobiography, it was clear that his sense of humanity and humility was an everyday affair for him. It didn't prevent him from being an excellent businessman, but it is likely one of the things that made his peers value his opinion, his players revere him, and caused President Obama to name him ambassador to Ireland.

Dan Rooney and President Obama

View from the back porch

Once I returned to Pittsburgh, I found myself spending most of my free time in the summer on the screened in porch off the kitchen. When my parents had it originally built, it had a beautiful view into the wooded area behind the house, but at that time (20+ years ago) the trees were young and short. Now, it is like being in a treehouse, with occasional visits by the local extended family of wild turkeys.

Turkey convention at the corner of our property

As the weather gets colder, including last weekend when it got down to 19 degrees Farenheit, winter is unmistakably on its way. Do I miss the ocean? You bet. And I have no regrets. I'm home. I'm where I want to be, doing what I want to do - write, run workshops, and starting in February, teaching a weekly version of Gary's curriculum here in Pittsburgh. Thanks, Mr. Rooney - for your service, your kindness, your inspiration...

The first of six Lombardi trophies for the Steelers - picture taken on my first visit to Heinz Field

A stroll down memory lane...

11/7/2017

In the past week I learned about the death of Janet Chapman, who came to her first Writers Retreat Workshop the year after Gary died. My niece, Anna, came to visit my dad and I while she attended a wedding nearby. I spent all of Saturday (and a little bit of Friday) watching the first Breeder's Cup weekend held at Del Mar Race Track (built by Bing Crosby and friends). My sister-in-law, Hope (Anna's mom) had a book reading and signing for her third Christian romance novel, which was held at our new local bookstore. And in the wider world, there was another senseless shooting, today is election day, kids went trick-or-treating for Halloween, retired mare Songbird sold for $9.5 million at the Fasig-Tipton November sales, and more men were accused of sexual harassment in Hollywood.

There was one thing in all of that which had a powerful, visceral impact, and that took me back many years. It was the moment I walked into the bookstore for Hope's reading, and was overwhelmed by the smell of books.

If you've ever read Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses, you know that smell is perhaps the most evocative of the senses. The smell of those books took me back to Perry-Highland Library, where I proudly carried card J694, and spent hours in a library no larger than most people's living rooms.

Songbird, and my favorite jockey, Mike Smith

I could walk to the library from our house on Homer Avenue, and often did. Those were the years when a first-grader could safely go out for hours with friends, even sometimes alone, and a parent didn't need to worry. Well, except for the time I got caught in a thunderstorm and tried to shelter under a huge pine tree with some boys. The woman who lived in the house with the tree invited us inside, knowing how dangerous it was, and I said yes. The boys ran home.

Lad of Sunnybank

I often took the long way to the library. That meant I could pass by the house where Lad, the collie lived, and visit with him if he happened to be outside. I was certain that this Lad was the reincarnation of Lad of Sunnybank, whose exploits I devoured in the books of Albert Payson Terhune, books which I discovered at Perry-Highland Library.

The other special thing about going the long way was the house on the corner, across from the small cemetery. It was a tiny house, or seemed to be. It was hidden in among a veritable forest of trees, bushes, and flowers on a quarter acre lot, and to my youthful eyes, it was mysterious and magical.

My heart aches with grief over some of the events of the past weeks. And when my heart aches, I turn to books for solace. This morning I was browsing USA Today online and ran across an article on Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends, on display in the New York Public Library. It was the first time I'd seen the originals, and as the writer of the article said, they looked loved.

It isn't that books can change or take away our grief or sadness. They might provide a brief escape, but we do always finish the story. It's more that they bring us into contact with others. The writer, who understood us without ever knowing us. The characters, who felt so much as we did. And other readers, who find a similar joy in discovering the same beauty.

So when I walked in that bookstore and smelled the books, I was back in the library of my childhood with Lad and Black Beauty. I was back on the street, peering into the jungle of mystery on the corner across from the cemetery, imagining what was inside the green branches.

Winnie-the-Pooh, Eeyore, Kanga, Piglet and Tigger all live at the New York Public Library. (Photo: Courtesy of New York Public Library/Jonathan Blanc)