Him what knows, won’t tell ye.
Him who’ll tell ye, don’t rightly know.
The Hillbilly’s Tao
When I tell people I’m a Zen Buddhist the conversation usually goes something like this:
Wait. What?
I’m a Zen Buddhist.
You? You’re a Zen Buddhist?
Yes.
You are? Mr. Angry Pants? Mr. Be-Careful-of-Daddy’s-Martini? Mr. Picks-a-Fight-with-You-‘Cuz-He-Likes-You?… You’re a Zen Buddhist?
Yes.
Really?
Yes. Really. I mean, ask yourself, who needs it more? Do you really want to imagine what I’d be like if I hadn’t been meditating on a daily basis for the last 21 years?
Thankfully, these conversations do not happen very often. The first rule of Zen Club is you do not talk about Zen Club. Plus, seriously, I find it awkward and somewhat humiliating to discuss Zen in a culture that uses the word to promote everything from skin moisturizer to coffee blends to sex lube. Barnes and Noble contains a whole section devoted to Zen in every one of its superstores, but I can count on one hand clapping the people I know, outside of my temple, who have ever seriously practiced. I suppose it’s easier to sit and read a book than it is to just sit. Wait. I don’t suppose; I know. But hard or not, just sitting’s how the magic happens.
I usually practice zazen, or “seated meditation” by myself, at home or on my special bench overlooking Elliott Bay near my work or down by Green Lake on the weekends. However the community of practice, or “sangha”, is one of the three wheels that make the Buddhist tricycle go. So I understand it is my responsibility as well as my inordinate blessing to practice with a temple as often as I can. That’s where Dai Bai Zan – Cho Bo Zen Ji comes in.
I first starting going to Dai Bai Zan – Cho Bo Zen Ji (translated as “The Listening to the Dharma Zen Temple on Great Plum Mountain”) back in 1991. (You can check out the temple’s website here.) My good friend and collaborator in the Seattle theatre scene, John Sylvain, turned me on to the place. Back then the temple was a tiny living room in the International District behind the Wonder Bread Factory. The rest of the house was where the abbot Genki Takabayashi lived. I remember being so intimidated the first couple times I went to beginner’s night that I had to steel myself to open the front door of the small house that had nothing but a wooden sign painted with the words “Clear Quiet Clean” to identify it as a zendo. Could I really sit still for twenty-five minutes without moving or making a noise, then get up, stretch for half a minute, then do it again for almost half-an-hour?
A wizened little Japanese man, like some embarrassingly trite Hollywood stereotype of a Zen master, the abbot Genki Roshi, would sit next to the huge bell, stiller than stone. Most weeks, Genjo Marinello, the American-born vice-abbot would sit next to him and lead the question-and-answer period afterwards; but one night it was just me and Genki. It was like sitting with a ghost. I struggled with, and eventually let go of, my irrational fears that the old man would forget I was there and fall asleep or just decide to go all hardcore Zen on me and sit for three hours without a break. As I breathed, I calmed down. The two meditation periods passed like fleeting dreams. Genki Osho served tea. Bowed. And then left me there alone. In that moment I began to understand what all the hype over Zen was about… nothing. Absolutely nothing. Absolutely gorgeous, clear and life-affirming.
Genki Roshi had little English and never spoke at “Introduction to Zen” nights, though he often served the tea. (If you’ve never been served tea by a genuine Zen master, well, all I can say is, you’re missing nothing– the huge, beautiful, inner-eye-opening nothing that I mention above.) However, at longer half-day and week-long retreats the Roshi would give a commentary on some selection from the Buddhist canon. Genki would sit like a monument for an interminable moment before speaking, then squinch up his face and growl softly:
Booodhaaah?… Booodhaaah?… No Boodhah… No BOODHAH!… YOU da Booddhah!… No Shinking. [No thinking]. Shtraytuh cuhhting. [Straight cutting].
YOU da Booddhah!… You da BOODHAH!“
Genjo sitting beside him, would then translate. “Genki Roshi asks you to consider Mumon’s commentary on the 33rd Case, Baso’s ‘No Mind, No Buddha’….” It wasn’t uncommon for Genjo to take ten minutes “translating” something Genki said in 30 seconds.
After a year or two the temple lost the lease on the little house in the I. D., and was forced to take up residence in the back room of an Aikido dojo on Aurora Avenue up around 76th Street North of Greenlake. This was a strange and difficult transitionary period in my life as well. I was going through a divorce, living hand-to mouth on temp jobs in a comfortable enough but tiny studio on Capitol Hill: alone, no phone, no TV, no social life, no car. About all I could count on was, if zazen was scheduled for an evening, and if I made the hour-long two-transfer bus trek to the temple, someone—maybe just one someone– Genjo or Genki or some other ranking member of the temple—would be there to just sit with me.
I usually keep my mouth shut during Q & A sessions, but one night, when it was just me and Genjo, and I had endured both sits with a big sore heart and tears rolling down my face, I asked if he had any advice on how to get through really, really hard times. His answer was simple. Maintain the practice, and remember to have compassion: compassion for others of course, but first and foremost, compassion for myself. He told me to sit, and listen to my pain; witness it; notice that with each breath, somehow, I was getting through it.
Five years later Genjo Osho officiated at my wedding to the most inside-and-out beautiful woman I have ever met. Shortly thereafter, Heather and I moved to New York City, but I never sought out a temple there. I guess I was too afraid of the Yuppie Zen factor that plagues big rich cities like New York and San Francisco. When our first baby boy came into the world, we decided to move back to Seattle, where I resumed attending Dai Bai Zan – Cho Bo Zen Ji, back in its own house again on Capitol Hill.
This past Fall, the temple relocated to a larger building on Beacon Hill at 1733 S. Horton St., just five blocks of the Beacon Hill Light Rail station. In January, I finally had the honor and pleasure of sitting zazen in these new digs. Then in February I attended a “mini-sesshin”. (A mini-sesshin is a half-day meditation retreat. A full sesshin can last a week or more.)
Contrary to what Amazon would have you believe, the best introduction to Zen practice is not downloading the latest book to your Kindle, but rather practicing zazen itself. Dai Bai Zan – Cho Bo Zen Ji offers an excellent and extremely accessible introduction to seated meditation at the Tuesday night “Introduction to Zen” which begins promptly at 7:30 pm. (Allow yourself at least ten minutes extra: the last thing you want to do is barge in late on a zazen session.)
If you are as intimated as I was 21 years ago, then contact me and I’ll go with you. That’s what sangha’s all about.
