‘I remember the first time I sat Zazen. It was at Sokoji, the old Jewish temple on Bush Street. Gordon and I walked into the zendo—it must have been after zazen had started. We just stood there, not sure what to do. Suzuki Roshi got up from his zafu, brought us out to the balcony area, and gave us zazen instruction. It was pretty short…
Zazen made sense to me from that first period. Suzuki Roshi created a zazen environment that was very powerful. And that’s what I wanted. I wasn’t particularly interested in lectures in the beginning. I just loved zazen…
One of the things that I particularly appreciated about zazen when I first got there was that there was absolutely no point to it. It had no worldly benefit. There were Japanese priests and American students. There was nothing visible to gain from sitting or not sitting. Later there was a hierarchy and there were American priests and you could “advance” if you were “a good student” but at the beginning it wasn’t like that. It was just zazen…
So that was in 1968. Gordon and I had gotten to Tassajara, at least for a few weeks as guest students in the summer, and we had moved into one of the Bush Street houses across from Sokoji in the fall, but then Gordon decided he wanted to study Sensory Awareness with Charlotte Selver. He decided to go to Monhegan Island in Maine where Charlotte led a summer long session and then on to NYC to continue studying with her. I went with him. It wasn’t until the fall of 1970 that I found my way back to Zen Center, separated from Gordon, and moved into “The City Center,” the newly acquired building on Page Street. So getting to Zen Center was a long, slow, messy process. When I moved into Page Street it was really the beginning for me. I no longer had other commitments that took precedence. I wasn’t waiting to get back to anything or trying to move forward to anything.
It was an extraordinary time. Suzuki Roshi and Katagiri Roshi were both there. We knew Suzuki Roshi was sick, but he was so very present—in the Zendo and around the building. Sometimes he would eat in the dining room with us, sitting at one of the tables, staying after the clappers, after the end of the silent meal, to answer questions. (I loved how he answered these—often off the wall—informal questions. I remember one person asking a question that somehow made me feel embarrassed for her—I don’t remember why—but Suzuki Roshi took it completely seriously and gave an answer I remember thinking was wonderful.) He led several sesshins during that time. It was during one of those sesshins I came to realize I wanted to make practice my way of life. During dokusan—the only dokusan I ever had with Suzuki Roshi—I told him how I felt. He started talking to me about shaving my head, putting on robes and going to Japan. I’d heard a little from Joyce Browning about her time in Japan, and I didn’t think I would do well at all there. And it didn’t make sense to me to think about leaving when I had only just arrived. I told him I didn’t know myself well enough to deal with trying to practice in Japan. He didn’t say anything more about Japan, he just started talking about breathing.
When I got to Tassajara in the fall of 1971, I just wanted to sit. My hope was still very much the same hope I had felt when I first read the Tassajara Brochure: somehow, if I could just slow down enough, become quiet enough, I would find a way to live that felt more wholehearted and authentic. I was Anja for Katagiri Roshi during the Spring Practice Period after Suzuki Roshi died, and I felt myself begin to settle. Katagiri Roshi had a wonderful phrase “to settle the self on the self.” The following fall, I was asked to be treasurer—but only on the condition that I would agree to stay at Tassajara as treasurer for a full year. I was thrilled. Treasurer was a quiet, focused job and it didn’t conflict with the zendo schedule. It was exactly what I wanted…
I think one needs the strength of aloneness in order to fully meet a teacher.’ (from Cuke.com)
Shundo David Haye - Zen Priest 
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