In the fall of 2008 when I became a formal Zen student, I took part in a small private ceremony where over tea and light conversation the Daido Roshi gave each student his or her robes and eating bowls, items reminiscent of ancient Buddhist Monks taking vows to follow the way. At this time is is customary for the student to offer a small gift of appreciation to the teacher. What do you give to the man who has everything? It had to be something personal, something with history, with a story.

Starting in the 90’s I began spending my vacations is a little town on the western tip of Jamaica. I often stay in the same small hotel, and I have become friendly with the families, restaurateurs, and shopkeepers in the little neighborhood close to the hotel. In these years I also began to explore eastern philosophy and to practice various forms of meditation. Mornings in Negril became synonymous with deep introspection peppered with ganja and robust coffee while gazing into the void of the great Caribbean Sea.

Several months after beginning to study with Daido Roshi I found myself back in Negril, this time with my Dad. On the first day, my friend Elvis called me over to his stand just outside the hotel’s gate. The first thing he asked was, “How are the brothers doing?” as if they were old friends who’d emigrated to the States a few years earlier. Actually “The Brothers” were a pair of crescent moons carved from planks of pimento wood with beautiful expressive Jamaican faces he’d made for me as a birthday gift for my daughter. Elvis is a gifted artist with the ability to get right to the heart of the matter.

He held up a block of wood, ironwood he told me, and as he held it he began to ask in a mystical sort of way, “What can I show you in this block? What do you see?” Along with being a wonderful carver Elvis was no slouch as a salesman, but I was in a hurry to get back to my Dad so I blurted out, “Have you ever carved a Buddha?” This got him. He looked at me puzzling images through his mind until a light went on, “The fat one, wit ‘im big belly?” “Not exactly,” I replied and began to speak of the type of Buddha I was referring to. He listened with rapt attention and finally replied, “I’ll look on the internet and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

The next evening Dad and I returned from a day of sightseeing and I stopped by to see Elvis who showed me a catalog of some kind containing several Buddha images. As we looked at them he said, ” ‘im like Rasta men in the mountain praying on Jah Rastafari.” He turned the rough-hewn block in his work worn hands, placed the it on the workbench, and crouching down he began to describe the finished sculpture which he could clearly see. I didn’t interfere, he got it, he got it in a way that filled the whole room. I thanked him, and said I’d see him in a few days.

Dad had left for the states, but I still had a few more days in town, and I hadn’t seen Elvis in a week. The next morning I went out to forage the fruit stand for breakfast when I saw Elvis’ smiling face waving me over. The statue was wrapped in some kind of oiled cloth and Elvis was rubbing it furiously as if to whet my appetite. When he unveiled it, I was blown away. The statue was so much cooler than I could have ever imagined. Imagination tethered to experience simply limits possibilities, but in this statue Elvis’ world met mine. I paid the first price he mentioned without a haggle.

I knew that one day I’d donate this treasure to Zen Mountain Monastery, and when the subject of a gift on becoming a student came up, I knew exactly what to do. I was so happy to let go of this unique piece of art that held such strong meaning for me, but with Daidoshi’s illness seeming to be taking hold at the time I went through this process, I never had an opportunity to share what this item actually was.

My next trip to Jamaica was in the Spring of ‘08 and I hoped Elvis and I could collaborate on another unique carving, but several months earlier he’d stepped on a nail and was having serious health issues. Routine health care isn’t routine in a country as poor as Jamaica. Later that year I became a formal Zen student and I gave the Rastaman Buddha to my teacher.

I didn’t return to Jamaica again till September ‘09 where I found Elvis’ carving stand abandoned. I asked around and was heartbroken to hear that my friend had passed away in the same month I offered his work as a gift. He’d lost his foot to the nail, and weakened by tetanus he succumbed to “flu”, probably pneumonia, a month or so later.

I spent a little time sitting in the dilapidated old carving stand sharing beers with Elvis’ brother who was working to sell off what carvings he could. Sadly their weathered state was not appealing to the passing tourists who’d never have the privilege of knowing the sweet man I knew as “Elvis The Carver.”

Preconceptions miss
The road winds
An edge gleams
Family farms and falling leaves
Faded moon beyond golden mountain
Red maple siren across the endless stream
Rushing freely over static stone
Loosened
Tumbling
Polishing
Knowing ageless fearless practice
Bodhisattva

John Daido Loori Roshi 1931-2009

I knew Roshi’s illness had gained ground in recent days, still I was shaken last Friday morning when the dedication of The Heart Sutra was offered to the body of Muge Daido Daiosho.

It was quiet as the service ended. I put on my street clothes, hung my robes in the zendo closet, and walked back into the world. All day my mind was in turmoil. I didn’t know how to react. Should I react in a certain way? Am I supposed to react in a certain way? Is there a Zen way to react?

As the days unfurl I see what others write, I hear what others say, and I wonder where I fit in. Where can my words meet this moment? I see judgments arise that bounce off understandings to form interpretations that may never be fully understood, but here I am.

John Daido Loori, Roshi first entered my consciousness back in 2002 when I read a book called “Waking Up: A week inside a Zen Monastery” by Jack McGuire, and for several years I planned a trip to Zen Mountain Monastery, but I never got there. In 2007 I moved to Brooklyn and began to frequent The Zen Center of New York City, a branch of ZMM. Daido Roshi loomed large my first few months of more serious practice, though I had yet to meet him.

Thanksgiving ‘07 I finally made my way up to the Monastery for the “Introduction to Zen Training Weekend.” I was not prepared for the bigness of what Daido Roshi had created, and I felt I hadn’t given the folks I’d been working with back in Brooklyn their due.

I first met Daido Roshi in a group setting, and I was at once taken by his candor and his gently imposing presence. I don’t know what I expected, but his humor was disarming, his words powerful, yet he held it all effortlessly.

I asked him that weekend, “What does it mean to follow the breath?” He kind of looked me over for a second or two and answered, “Sometimes you’re with the breath; other times you’re not. When you find you’re not with the breath, come back to the breath.”

And that’s what I try to do.

The art practice assignment during this ninety day training period is to take up a passage by Dogen and to explore it using the creative process. Dogen was the founder of Soto Zen in Japan, and one of the most profound thinkers and influential teachers in our lineage.

In the fasicle we were given, Dogen speaks of intimate language:

At the very moment when you do not understand Buddha-dharma, that is a moment of intimate language.

My gut tells me to get out of the way, that this simple quote is just that, simple. Can it be simple?

Not concealing is already present. You should investigate the very moment when nothing is concealed.

This is my first look, my first encounter within this passage, this teaching. Over the next few months I will absorb it, and let it permeate my practice. I’ll come back to it again and again allowing it inform my writing.

Investigate it in detail little by little, hundreds and thousands of times, instead of trying to understand it all at once. Do not think that you understand it right away.

Writing is my chosen medium for art practice though I decided not to pick a specific form, but to just let it go where it will. The writing will be done daily in my journal, pen on paper, tactile and concrete. I’ll post the highlights here every week or so.

It’s like duh… We talk about it all the time, it’s a core tenet, so why are we so rocked by change? OK, maybe I need to get out of the third person. Why am I so rocked by change?

That’s the question. We get used to this or that, the trail clears, widens, and the rut deepens. It may sound apocalyptic but it’s not so dramatic, we do it with everything. Being habitual isn’t the problem, it’s our blind faith in these habits, the non-questioning life.

When a friend and mentor recently made a change, a change to further his practice, a positive change, I felt my clinging to the status quo rear up in my life. Such a simple thing.

I spent several days thinking, “This sucks!” even though I knew intellectually this was a positive move for all involved. “What an asshole I am,” I thought. So conditioned in what I like and what is familiar, it makes one reflect on forests and trees.

It also brings to light just what an expansive journey this life, this questioning life is, and how steep even are the foothills.

Back into the world I find myself selfing
Thinging unreservedly
So I stop

Sitting at my laptop in that coffee chain, connected 
Blackberry, internet, office link, client’s site, dis-connected
So I stop

Why do I feel like I’m wasting time?
Right here in the midst of a whirly-windy work-a-day 
I stop

Take a breath, look around
smile at the old lady sitting next to me
all the time in the world

Everyone seems to know
books overflow my shelves
I keep looking past it
but everyone seems to know

Do it this way
do it that
something tells me it’s not that kind of doing
but what other kind is there?

I never know what to say
people have interest
“you just have to do it”
but it’s not that kind of doing

Sitting
silent inside
my breath
pounding
jackhammer outside
competing

Sitting
jackhammer inside
still
within
please
leave the bell alone

Early Call
skipped sit
mindful work

Remembered in spurts
aware
just connect the wire
she asks a question
full attention
smile
just set the IP

No one notices
I can do this

How petty my sorrows sometime seem. It’s like I’m tethered to a kite string in the hands of a feckless child refusing to let go. All I want is to soar unobstructed, but here I stand unable to break free.

Aloof, aloft, my mind falls to the technical, the collar of my robe, the proper position of my zafu, adequate bowing space, while others prepare for a service. Catching myself I return to the breath.

Ino announces the service with a name, and a loss. “Did I hear her right?” A feeling, a sorrow, almost a pain grips the pit of my existence, my gut, my hara, their oneness apparent. I try not to react, I let it fill me, I tell myself, ”avoid picking and choosing, just breathe, and let it be.”

Incense is offered for our beloved friend, Sensei’s Poem, his wail. Things seem blurry, my face feels wet. Chanting begins. Awkwardly at first, a dharani new to most of us, but it builds. Louder, deeper, united, it fills the room, maybe it “is” the room. Separations wane, all together, right here, right now.

The bell, the bows, Zazen begins.