Zen Mountain Monastery

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The ride up interstate 87 and NY 24 to 212 evoked long-ago adventures to the villages of Woodstock, Saugerties, and all points west in New York State, including the site of the Woodstock festival at White Lake. 

 

More than twelve years had passed since my last visit to the monastery. I had spent three days at that time in Zen training and Buddhist philosophy.  That was prompted during a visit to the Village of Woodstock film festival a few years prior when I came upon a small sign “to the monastery” on a side street heading north from Tinker Street. It led to a compound where orange-robed men with shaved heads were engaged in some ritual while visitors looked on, clicking cameras. I’ll remember this place.

 

I had practiced various meditation techniques for decades and had found a good one learned in my tai chi classes led by Sifu Steve Ruskin in a Chatham community center. Why did so many of Eastern arts instructors have western names? OurYang short form and martial exercises ended with Chakra breathing exercises followed by a guided mediation.  Both the short form and meditation became a daily practice for years after that. 

   

My first retreat to the Zen Mountain Monastery was an introductory session to Zen meditation and Buddhist liturgy.  I found this opportunity while searching online for information about an upcoming Woodstock film festival. I remembered that the little sign off Tinker Street had piqued my interest in the monastery and felt drawn to this place once again. 

 

My reservation was made and I finally arrived at an old, repurposed Benedictine monastery in mid-November.  

 

“What work can you do?” asked the registrar in the main office. 

 

“ I can do just about anything.”

 

“Any physical limitations?”     

 

“Back issues, so no heavy lifting.”

 

“Snow shoveling is out of the question then?”

 

“Yeah. It wouldn’t be wise for me.”

 

“How about kitchen work? Do you have any chef’s training?”

 

“ No training, but I know my way around a kitchen.”

 

“Good. I’ll put you down for kitchen prep and cleanup.” He tapped away at his keyboard.

 

Welcoming began with words from a staff member who began our tour of the Monastery’s main house where we would live, eat, and attend sessions in a great meditation hall that looked to have once served as a monastic chapel. Thick timber beams, rough-hewn wood doorframes, and claustrophobic stairways hailed from a different era, adding an air of solemn mystery to the place. I followed the staff guide to my assigned dorm room, which I shared with four other visitors. 

 

“Hi, I’m Joe,” I said, tossing my sleeping bag and backpack onto an available bottom bunk. 

 

An affable man about my age introduced himself and shook my hand. 

 

“Hey. I’m Brian, this is Tom. We drove up here together from Baltimore.” 

 

I shook Tom’s hand and learned they had come here together after a local Zen practitioner suggested they attend. We became fast friends in a group of strangers all searching for something. 

 

Residents and long-term students had unusual English/Tibetan names like John Daido Loori Roshi, Abbot of the monastery at that time. So many shaved heads!

 

First Rule we learned was that silence was to be observed at all times except for necessary communication, such as while working, Wake-up was at 4:45 a.m.; lights out at 9:30 p.m. No electronics or phones were allowed to be used on the premises.  Visitors and residents passed each other with a smile and bow of the head. I had to check verbal ‘good morning’s’, ‘thank you’s’, etc. replacing them with a nod and smile. 

 

The pervasive smell of burning wood and frankincense was soothing. It helped calm my spirit. Gongs, bells, and wooden clacker noises signaled beginnings and endings of all activities as well as the day itself. A resident student timekeeper who prowled the hallway clanging an old-style school bell produced the 4:45 a.m. wake-up. 

 

The ensuing chaos in the hallway reminded me of a Mad magazine parody of a Thomas Hood poem “The House Where I was Born” :

 

“I remember, I remember the house where I was born

And the little bathroom down the hall where nineteen raced each ‘morn…”

 

We were advised to shower during the day between sessions. ‘Cat baths’ were a hygienic alternative. I was happy for just toothbrush and pee time before the day began. Men and women slept in separate dorms. It was touching to see morning hugs and smiles among family members reunited in the hallway while in line for the tiny bathrooms. 

 

“There are many variations to the seated Lotus position. Try the most traditional position. Sit forward on your Zafu with legs crossed, feet resting on opposing knees. Listen to your body. Do not ask it to do what it cannot. Adjust your legs to a position that allows you to be still.”  

 

 After a few minutes of restless shifting, the instructor continued. “If you can’t find a position that works, try using a meditation seiza bench,” she said, 

“If that is still a problem, move to a chair. Try to acknowledge and let pass minor discomforts. Fidgeting distracts others, so try to minimize it. After finding a suitable position, mentally count your breaths. Counting will help your mind focus. Keep your finger tips joined in a way that is light enough to allow a sheet of paper to slip through but close enough to prevent it.” What an interesting concept. 

 

“Roll your shoulders back.,” he went on, “Straighten your neck. Tuck your chin back. Your centerline should run straight though you. Think of yourself as a marionette. And always be aware of your breath.”

 

The morning session continued after explanations of form and breathing techniques were made clear. The session ended with students chanting Buddhist scriptures in English, ending sections with the last syllables dropping off in an atonal drone. We are all sentient beings ; May all sentient beings enjoy happiness and the root of happiness...

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It took a few sessions before I could manage to still my mind. I eventually found a sitting position that worked for a thirty-five-minute sit with minimal discomfort. 

 

Daytime hours were filled with solitary activities, such as ink and paper art, archery, and quiet reading. Most of us donated our finished brushed ink papers to the monastery store to be used as wrapping paper for online gift purchases. 

 

During mealtimes, when soft chatter was permitted, monastery residents visited our tables. 

 

A petite bald woman in a dark robe introduced herself with a smile. 

 

“I’m Jody,” she said.

 

“I’m Joe,” I replied, shaking her hand.

 

“I’m Brian.”

 

“I’m Tom”

 

Thus went the introductions around our table, with Jody acknowledging each with a handshake and bow of the head.

 

“Do you live here?” I asked Jody.

 

“Yes, I share a cabin with my partner. We’ve been together here for two years.”

 

“Very nice place you have here. Where are you from, originally?“  I asked.

 

“I’m from New York. And you?”

 

“I’m from Morristown, New Jersey.”

 

“What brought you here?” Jody continued.

 

I explained my first encounter with the place, my tai chi practice and my curiosity about Eastern philosophies. She listened attentively and asked questions about my religious/spiritual background.  

 

“We mingle with visitors in order to determine who among you would be interested in becoming candidates for further instruction,” she said.

 

“Oh. I see. How do you determine that?”

 

Jody just smiled and shifted her attention to Brian, then Tom, then to each remaining person at our table. I pondered the idea of a life here but dismissed it for now.  Life is too complicated.

 

After dinner we ended the day with a final sit that included lengthy participation in Buddhist liturgy. 

 

 My three-day introductory retreat came to conclusion with a final early morning sit followed by a stroll around the grounds with Brian and Tom.  

 

“We’re gonna try and do this again in the spring,” Brian mused. 

 

“For another introductory session?”  

 

“Sure. Once you get the hang of it, you can use these sessions more as mini-retreats. A lot of people do that.” 

 

“Something to think about, I guess.” 

 

We shook hands and walked to the parking lot.

 

During the ride home, I mulled over my weekend. I wasn’t unsettled by the Buddhist liturgy but a bit wary of it nonetheless. I had plenty of experience with similar Catholic liturgy and often lost myself in Latin chants during Mass. A zafu cushion was definitely on my wish list. John Daido Loori Roshi’s Seven Gates added to my book pile

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A few years later…

 

“I can’t move!” 

 

Jan tried to get me to rise after I was sprawled on the floor, having triggered a severe back spasm while manipulating a heavy piece of counter top. She eventually helped me onto the bed and called for an ambulance after the spasm pains became unendurable. A trip to our local ER followed by a week in bed that led to a blood clot in my right leg culminating in a pulmonary embolism and seriously curtailed meditation options. Long , seated lotus positions had now become risky. But, like everything in life, profound events often shape it. The tai chi form became my principal meditation medium in the years that followed. 

 

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A decade later…

 

“I’d like to go back to the monastery,” I mentioned to Jan one morning. “I need a time out.” 

 

“Good idea. I understand.”

Jan had suggested this on numerous occasions since my first visit.

 

Retired from my job, I found free time to [ursue a cacophony of diverse activities: painting, framing paintings, sculpture, part-time non-computer jobs, writing, music, and Jan’s garden projects all vied for my attention.  I was also drinking too much, starting my afternoons with beer and ending my evenings with Chardonnay. I needed to step out of my life and, hopefully, re-center it.  

 

I had frequently thought about the time spent at my last visit to the monastery and promised myself a return trip, especially when stress became unmanageable. I had kept up with the monastery through email updates and visits to their website. A few years ago, I learned of John Daido Loori Roshi’s passing and the passing of a dear elder monk who ran the laundry. Jody and Arnold were still there. Arnold was the new abbot.  

 

Within a few days, reservations were made, deposits sent, and plans around my three-day retreat were put into place. I made arrangements with my part-time employers to cover my absence. I packed my knapsack, kissed Jan goodbye, petted the cats, and set off to Mt. Tremper to reclaim-- something. 

 

My God, this is beautiful!  New York’s early October foliage was a wonderful contrast the bare gray branches of that November I remembered from so long ago! 

 

Once I was off the main highways, Siri brought me through the last couple of miles to the monastery.  The main building looked the same. A new building, where we checked in, wasn’t familiar.

 

“Hi. I’m Millie!” an older woman seated behind a computer screen said with a smile.

 

“I’m Joe.”

 

“Your last name?”

 

“Keyes, K-E-Y-E-S,” I replied.

 

“Okay, here’s your balance. Do you want to leave it on the same card?”

 

“Sure.” 

 

A young man entered the area looking over the newly registered group. 

 

“I’ll give you a tour of the area and direct you to your dormitories.  Have any of you stayed here before?”

 

I was the only one of the seven in our tour group to raise a hand. Our group comprised men and women of diverse ages and ethnicities. Only one woman appeared to be of my age. 

 

“Let’s go to the main building,” our tour guide continued. “You’re welcome to tour the grounds and ask resident guides any questions.” 

 

I was assigned to dorm room 2, the first room we passed in the hallway. We paused as I dumped my knapsack into a lower bunk, then rejoined the group. 

 

I remembered the narrow stairways and cramped spaces and how the pleasant smell of incense permeated every hallway, staircase, and room in the main building. Our guide brought us to an area overlooking the main meditation hall.  Just as I remembered, from over a decade ago.

 

‘This is where you will be meeting for most of your visit here,” he said with a gesture toward the room below. Following a trek up and down narrow stairs and hallways, we ended the tour at the main dining room. 

 

“Look for your room and work assignments and daily schedule of activities on the bulletin board here. Any questions?”     

 

“Yes. Can we get copies of the activity schedule?” I asked.

 

“Uh, I don’t know,” our guide replied. “You can ask at the main desk.“ 

 

Subsequent inquiries about schedule copies resulted in receiving a pen and piece of scrap paper on which I could copy what I needed from the board.  Multiple pens on the shelf beneath the board attested to the presence of other seniors. My age is apparently showing.

 

“I’m Joe” I introduced myself to the men sitting at the table during the first dinner that day.

 

“I’m Eric.”

 

“I’m John.”

 

“Hi, Joe, I’m Jose.”

 

We exchanged pleasantries and continued eating dinner. Except for John, who was about my age, my new companions were several years my junior.  We were soon joined by a resident who introduced himself as ‘Sokan’ and, just like my previous visit where I had met Jody, he explained that he was finding out about new attendees and their interest in Zen. But, on this visit, I began the interrogation. 

 

“Are you a full time resident or a monk?”

 

“I have been a resident/student for five years,” he replied. “Is this your first visit?”

 

“No. I was at an introductory weekend about twelve years ago when John Loori Roshi was still Abbot.” I still didn’t understand how to address people. Was ‘Roshi’ a title? 

 

“What do you think about the monastery now?” 

 

“I see several changes to the Monastery. The dorm room looks more finished.”

 

“ I did a lot of the work on them.” Sokan added proudly.  

 

“Are you a carpenter?” I asked.

 

“I am,” he replied with a smile.

 

“I was a high school teacher and woodworker before entering into monastic life,” he continued.

 

I told him my oldest son. Matt was an AP high school science teacher in San Diego and how he had worked as a electrician working his way through San Diego State University. The veil between venerated mystic and humble student dropped for a bit as he shared high school anecdotes and laughed about his woodworking experiences. 

 

“I have to get ready for tonight’s session. Nice talking with you!”

 

Sokan then exchanged bows of the head with all of us and left.

 

I turned my attention to an Afro-pop music discussion going on among Eric, Jose, and another whom I had not been introduced.

 

“Have you heard Paul Simon’s Rhythm of he Saints album? I loved the Brazilian drums.” I interjected myself into the conversation.

 

“Paul Simon did Afro-pop?” Eric asked incredulously.

 

“Yes. It was after his Graceland LP, you know, with vocals by Ladysmith Black Mambazo .”

 

Eric and Jose glanced at each other. I was curious this music hadn’t resonated with them. Maybe it was just a generational thing?

 

“I’ll have to get into it,” Eric said in a slightly sarcastic tone. It would be the last time that Eric ever spoke to me.

 

That evening, after checking for my assigned spot on the meditation floor, I approached the meditation room. Sokan stepped up and advised me to remove my shoes. Of course! I should  know that! He also reminded me to bow in before entering. Geez! How much else could I screw up?

 

I walked toward my spot in the mediation hall and found a ‘Joseph (K)’ calligraphy card taped to the floor in front of a zabuton mat and zafu cushion.  I struggled a bit in situating myself into a modified Lotus position when a man behind me leaned forward and said, “Joseph?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I am Nudok . You are in my place,” a polite Indian or Mideastern man said softly.

 

“Oh. I am sorry!” I moved to the seating arrangement behind me, and resituated myself. 

  

Jody, from so long ago, began introducing the group to the practice and protocols of Zen meditation.

 

“Find a comfortable position. Move forward on your zafu, crossing your legs into a Lotus position. If a full Lotus is uncomfortable, move your feet under your knees into a half-lotus position.”

 

I had long ago given up the full lotus position, but found it frustrating to be unable to get comfortable with the half-lotus position. Still, I persevered and ignored the discomfort.

 

“When you feel discomfort, acknowledge it and let it pass. Don’t fidget. It distracts those round you.” Jody continued. “Try to keep your eyelids slightly closed and focused forward. You will still be able to see everything in the room. Concentrate on your breath. Count them, 1-2-3…each breath.”

 

After sitting for 25 minutes, we were guided into a ‘walking’ meditation. We started out with very slow, deliberate steps progressing into a fast walk.  The entire group walked in a serpentine pattern up, down, and around our mats. Fifteen minutes later a chime signaled the end of walking meditation. Audible panting attested to the rigor of the exercise.

 

We returned to our zafus, executed several bows, and remained standing as resident students distributed thin hardbound books of Buddhist liturgy. The same students walked each row pointing out which page as we intoned chants in English. While there were few if any references that could be construed as religious, the ritual brought back memories of Catholic Mass.

 

At 9:00 p.m. we left the meditation hall and reconvened in the central dining room where we received instructions about the protocol of silence and nighttime bathroom etiquette.

 

Returning to our dorms, a 9:30 p.m. bell signaled lights out. We were left with our thoughts of the day. I tried to sleep though the stillness our room was punctuated with coughs, snoring, and the shuffling of feet traversing the hallway to and from the bathrooms. I didn’t sleep that night. So many thoughts nagged me. What am I expecting to take away from this visit? Why am I here? Why isn’t it as it was 12 years ago? Why do I feel such negativity about music discussions?  Am I really looking for a spiritual experience, or just some sort of get away? What are my lessons? 

 

The 4:45 a.m. wakeup didn’t came soon enough. I skipped breakfast and wandered the grounds in the chill and mist of the morning air. 

 

I attended the morning sit where Sokan approached and brought me a small stool on which I placed my zafu and got into a more comfortable position for the long, thirty-five minute sit followed by an invigorating walking meditation.

 

Later during breakfast I met Sokan.

 

“I have to leave,” I told him. “My back is out of whack.”  The three sessions had resurrected some ancient lower back issues, but that wasn’t the real reason.   

 

“Why? What’s wrong?

 

I explained my back issues.

 

“Maybe we can take care of it here?” 

 

“No, I need to go back home.”

 

“Will you come back again?”

 

“I’m sure I will.”

 

We shook hands goodbye. I retrieved my gear, got into my car, and started the long drive home. 

 

During the journey back, I revisited my questions. What had I expected? Whatever I found during those first visits wasn’t there now. Expectations are funny like that.  We all move on. We assimilate what was central and important then, and hopefully grow from there. 

 

What are my lessons? Overt acts of kindness stood out: Sokan’s conversation and later attention to my obvious physical challenges; a young woman next to me who helped me straighten my zabuton after my graceless and painful rise from our sit left it askew; and a woman and her husband who, like me, visited the monastery a decade prior and recounted their very lovely experiences then.

 

My own waking to where I was now was a lesson. My fifty-six-year-old self was certainly different from my almost seventy-year-old self. Back then, I was confident, financially secure, a dedicated yoga and Tai Chi practitioner, and always looking for the future—the next thing. My near seventy-year-old self still meditates, looks back fondly, and is still looking for the next thing.