A day at Tassajara for the shuso ceremony is a long day; we left before light on Sunday, as the robins established the morning soundtrack around Zen Center, and returned after dark, delayed by traffic moving slowly on the 101 between Gilroy and San Jose as the sun set languidly over the hills. As in December, we were in Lucy’s car; this time it was Lucy (from China), Anna (from Germany), and myself – at one stage we reflected on how our grandparents and parents had variously experienced the turmoils of the last century.
The hours in the car left their imprint on my body, especially since I drove a Suburban in and out over the road, which had whole new sections of erosion and many new channels carved out by the copious winter rain, making it an even more challenging drive than usual.
It is always worth it though. It was a glorious day – the light was clear in the mountains, and the sun warm. The hillsides were a brighter green than recent years, and the flowers were adding colours in every direction. At the monastery the monks seemed relieved to have survived through some intense challenges: the creek surging, the heat being cut off (the geothermal pumps don’t work in flood conditions), the road being blocked; they were at the end of the winter of training, and about to embark on a summer of receiving guests. I was happy to see several people I have known over the years who I had really not expected to see this time around.
A good crowd of former shusos made it down to see Tim take the seat. About half way through the ceremony, I realised what I needed to say: that English shusos are like buses – you wait ages for one to come along, and then two appear at once (it was great that Siobhan came down for her first appearance as a former shuso). I also mentioned in my congratulations – referring to exchanges from the ceremony – that we had heard the true dharma from Cabarga Creek (which was running healthily beside the zendo), from Calliope and the canyon wren (both of whom had made timely interjections into the proceedings), but we had also heard it from Tim. Even though he claimed not to be a teacher, his teaching was very clear to everyone in the room.
As usual, there was just time to head to the bathhouse before lunch – it had been warm enough in the zendo that I jumped into the creek before going into the indoor plunge. The bottom half dozen stone steps into the creek had been washed away – the heaviest ones just a few feet – and since I never go to Tassajara without wistfully thinking of living there again, I wondered if I could at least add a day or two on to my upcoming visit for my retreats to rebuild the steps, which I have been wanting to do for a year or two anyway…
The creek is looking lovely now, but I can imagine how fierce it must have been in the winter storms.
One of the Tassajara redbuds.
Tim and Ed in the shade of the kaisando.
Monks enjoying the pre-ceremony tea in the sun. Calliope is the little one.