My
hosts at Zen Mountain Monastery told me that Dai Bosatsu was on “the other side
of the mountain.” Both monasteries are in the Catskills—the mountains where Rip
van Winkle fell asleep and woke to find the world, as he had known it, changed.
The scenery along the drive, up and over the mountains, is impressive—gently
rolling hills in bright green, a high altitude reservoir, creeks and streams, a
waterfall that has partially eaten away at the road. An eagle glides alongside
the car for a while, almost at the height of my head.
But
when I arrive here, I feel like I’m in another world altogether.
All
things, of course, are relative. I had thought that the Morgan Bay Zendo in
Maine was isolated, but to get to Dai Bosatsu on Beecher Lake, one travels along
a rough secondary road and then up a gravel road—partially eroded by the persistent
rains. I had thought that Zen Mountain Monastery was large—I described it as “huge.”
But the front gate for Dai Bosatsu is two miles from the main monastery
building. The grounds cover 1400 acres.
The
property is on Beecher Lake. The guest house had been the home of Harriet
Beecher Stowe’s brother. It is pretty much what one would expect a wealthy 19th
century family to build as their the mountain getaway. But then one comes up to
the monastery itself, constructed in traditional Japanese style, and one could
believe one had been transported to Kyoto.
The
formalities are Japanese. Lunch is eaten jihatsu, with three nesting bowls and
chants in Japanese. Western monks with Japanese Dharma names, wearing Japanese
robes, respond with “Hai!” when addressed. There is an altar with incense—and a
lighter—in my room and, as far as I can tell, all the rooms. The walls are
decorated with calligraphy. There has been a Japanese flavor at the other
centers I’ve visited, but nowhere has it been as pervasive as here.
It is
also fair to say that this is the first place I’ve visited where I did not
immediately feel at ease. It is
beautiful. It is entrancing. But that’s part of my problem. It’s exotic. Does the
practice, I wonder, benefit from being exotic?
If I am
not entirely at ease with the structure and forms, it is not at all difficult
to feel at ease with the abbot—Shinge Sherry Chayat Roshi. She comes to our
interview with her dog, Nikita. Throughout the conversation she is relaxed and
informal. She pauses, reflectively,
before answering my questions, and her responses are cogent and articulate. She
interviews well. One of her students tells me that he sees in her someone who genuinely
embodies the Four Vows. The term that comes to my mind is “charming.” She has
an infectious grin.
Her
family situation, when she was a child, had been difficult. Her step-father was
physically abusive, once taping her mouth shut because he felt she was making
too much noise. But she early learned that if she went off on her own and just
sat still, with hands clasped, she could
gain a sense of peace otherwise unattainable. In her eighth grade world studies
class, there was a unit on Zen Buddhism, and she recognized that what she had
been doing was Zen. She had intuitively discovered zazen.
We go
into the zendo at 6:00 for chanting (reciting the lineage back to before
Bodhidharma), two forty-five minute periods of zazen, and kinhin—which winds
its way down inner and outer corridors—followed by a series of prostrations. As
in Morgan Bay, there are no sounds except those of the birds calling. The
building is otherwise absolutely silent—so the han, the bells, and the slightly
tinny gong have a presence that they might not otherwise. The atmosphere is
taut, and it is easy to focus.
Shinge
Roshi refers to Dai Bosatsu as the “gem of North American Zen.” It is the first
Rinzai monastery to be established outside of Japan; officially inaugurated in
the bi-centennial year, 1976, it had actually been in operation for some five
years prior. Aesthetically—regardless of my reservations about the Japanese
accoutrements—it is a marvel. And one is conscious of the spiritual power of
the place. The atmosphere is enveloping.
It is a
gem. But currently there are only seven people in residence, and one of them
will soon be leaving. Sesshin can have as few as fifteen attendees.
The
numbers used to be greater. Part of the
problem is what Shinge refers to as “the troubles”—the revelations of Eido
Shimano’s sexual misconduct. Part of it is the fact that this is not an easy
place to get to; Zen Mountain Monastery, by comparison, is just down the road
from Woodstock (the Woodstock), where
there are a plethora of yoga studios and like-minded people. But I also wonder
if the “foreignness” of the place isn’t a factor.
I find
myself torn. The beauty, the atmosphere, the purity of the teaching, the
intensity of the practice—none of these are things one would want to see
compromised. And yet. . . .
Shinge
Roshi admits that she is still pondering how Japanese or how American the forms
should be; she calls it “her koan”—how best to preserve and pass on the
teaching she had received. And the truth is that there is something terribly
moving in knowing that, morning and evening, people gather in this zendo to
recite these chants, sit zazen, and carry out these formalities.
Cypress Trees in the Garden:
Cypress Trees in the Garden:
Chayat, Shinge Roko Sherry – 69-82,
125, 213, 295
No comments:
Post a Comment