Tag Archives: korinji

tassajara

{01 August 2010}

last weekend was an experiment in being off the grid; for my birthday my brother and sister-in-law treated me to a weekend at Tassajara, the san francisco zen center’s monastery in the ventana wilderness. most of the year Tassajara is a closed and working monastery, but they open up to guest season for a few months each summer. as a mountain retreat, they got it right. getting there isn’t easy: the road in to the center of the remote valley is the bumpiest, steepest, toughest 14 miles of dirt road i’ve ever encountered (even having grown up driving around the backwoods of idaho), so it’s not a trip to undertake lightly, and there’s no quick trips back to town once you’re there. the sense of isolation is complete. they have the required amenities (running water, delicious vegetarian food), but not the unnecessary ones (electricity, internet/phone service). this works because: kerosene lanterns are charming, but outhouse stink is not.

staying at Tassajara is the opposite of being on a cruise ship. rather than providing a day full of activities, Tassajara provides a beautiful, open space, in which guests can just slow down for a little while. there isn’t much to do besides hike, read, nap, and bathe in the beautiful bathhouses (fed by natural hotsprings). zen practice is available for those who want to participate, and though i am fascinated by it (my dojo in chicago also served as a zen temple and many of the aikidoka i trained with were also zen students), it also terrifies me. seriously, the thought of sitting sesshin for five days makes me feel panicky. i can’t even get up the nerve to attend a half-hour zazen. it’s an understatement to say that i have trouble with being still. i’m quite aware that this is something i need to come to terms with. just…i’ll get there when i’m ready. until then i creep around the edges, with things like aikido and yoga and hanging around monasteries as a guest.

in spite of the fact that i’m normally an action-packed-adventure vacationer, there really is something profound about a vacation in which there’s nothing to do. i noticed that i walk differently when i’m not in a hurry. (and i’m pretty much always in a hurry). my posture changes, i relax muscles that are normally tensed, my whole gait & posture change. and this transformation was almost immediate. within minutes of arriving, i found my whole body felt different. while hiking i’d catch myself trying to push further, faster – get some cardio exercise, or see what was around the next bend. and then i’d remind myself to try being deliberate in my actions, just to see what it’s like. there’s nothing i have to accomplish with this hike, no time i’m due back. to notice where i walk, what i see, what the path feels like under my feet. i’d grasp that focus for a few moments, then it would slip away again. like all unfamiliar habits, it only comes through practice. a practice i’m not quite ready to undertake, but i know it’s out there. but for the short duration of the vacation, i found that going off the grid was easier than it seemed. its like quitting a job you’ve worked very hard at. quitting seems like it’ll be agonizing, but once you actually pack up your things and leave, it’s easier to detach than you thought it was going to be (is there an echo of a zen lesson in here? yeah yeah, shut up little bird on my shoulder.)

also, i knocked off a 101 in 1001 list item, by the way — skinny dipping in the creek.

{12 May 2009}

it’s still early spring in Wisconsin – the trees are a haze of green but still bare enough that you can see through them to the next ridge and beyond. ferns are just springing up, bright green pushing up between a carpet of grey-brown leaves, uncurling into the sunlight in the weeks before the white birch and maple trees unfurl their canopy of leaves and block the sun from the forest floor. at night i could hear owls calling to one another from opposite sides of the campsite, and when i woke in the morning it was to a cacophony of birdsong, tweets and warbles and three-note trills, bellied by harsh bass caw-caws from a crow.

this is the land that Korinji, the zen/martial arts foundation of which my aikido dojo is a part of, has purchased in order to found a rural zen monastery, meditation retreat and martial arts training center. it’s 17 acres of steeply sloping and wooded ravines in the center of Wisconsin. this past weekend a group of aikidoka and zen students spent the weekend breaking trails, clearing trees from the building site, clearing rocks and debris and tree stumps from what will be the parking lot, and laying out the building foundation. it was backbreaking manual labor, shovels and sledge hammers and chainsaws and machetes, blistered hands in work gloves, muddy boots over wet feet, always the threat of rain but sunlight peeking between passing thunderclouds. that the zendo will be built entirely by the members’ own hands, donated sweat and labor and talent and time, will make it something we all share a pride and sense of ownership in. when i come back to train here in the future, i’ll know: i built that trail. i surveyed the building’s foundation. i stacked fire wood and cleared rocks and brush. we built something with our own hands. in the cerebral world i live in, one in which writing is something i do not with a pen on paper, but with a keyboard and ones and zeros, where even the art i make is constructed mostly by email and spreadsheet and phone calls and meetings, this is something solid, that i can touch, that will last. it will shelter from deep snows in the winter and summer thunderstorms, it is concrete and lasting and real.