This podcast is offered by the San Francisco Zen Center on the web at www.sfzc.org. Our public programs are made possible by donations by people like you. So, good morning, Venerable Ones. Welcome and welcome back. Our lives are made up, our past is made up of memorable experiences, encounters, And that's what's brought us all back here. And so this morning, Sojin, Mel Weissman, and Yvonne are going to offer us their memories, experiences of Suzuki Roshi, what it was that was so memorable that they've never left. Thank you. If you have any doubts about the imperfection of the world and its perfection, coming in immediately and spilling water is a reminder.

[01:20]

Before I begin to describe an experience for me with Suzuki Roshi, I want to bring your attention to the brush that's on the altar. It's here in the forefront. It is the brush that Suzuki Roshi created when he needed to do the calligraphy that is on the cover of Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. At Tassahara, he didn't have a sumi brush with him when he needed to do that calligraphy. So he went behind his cabin and tore off a yucca leaf and pounded it at the end so that it became a brush. And this is what he used for that calligraphy. And when Zuzugiroshi died, Okasan gave

[02:30]

some of his disciples, something of his. And this is what she gave to me, which hangs on the wall in our meditation room up in the Anderson Valley where I now live. And I have another yucca leaf that was not pounded into a brush sitting on the table next to this. to remind me about we're never at a loss for what we need. What I'd like to describe is the experience, the experiences, the stream of experience that I remember having when Suzuki Roshi became ill and during those last months of his life.

[03:32]

I had, as I'd done a number of times, driven Suzuki Roshi and Okasan to Tassajara in the summer of 1971. Is that right? As some of you probably remember, Alan Marlow, he roped Alan Marlow into helping him move a ridiculously large stone from the Tassajara Creek up into the garden he was making. And they didn't get very far. He finally told Alan to go away. And the next thing we knew, he moved the stone. by some means or other, into where he wanted it. And then went to his cabin, quite spent. He did have a thing about stones.

[04:40]

And there was a connection for me between that that time of his moving that impossibly large stone to what it was like being with him as he was dying. He that summer was already sick and was misdiagnosed by his young but not very experienced doctor who thought he had hepatitis because he was quite yellow. I remember after we came back from Tassajara, and he went to Mount Zion, and they did some tests and discovered that he had metastasized gallbladder cancer. When I went to, knocked on the door to the room where he was, went in, he just received his lunch, and he had a big grin on his face, and he mouthed,

[05:55]

cancer, with a big grin on his face. Because he then said, now, Pat at the bed for me to come sit next to him, he said, now we can eat off of the same plate again, like we used to. Because, of course, when they thought he had hepatitis, we had to make separate dishes and quarantine him. I don't know that I'll ever forget the look on his face of such joy that we could eat off of the same fork. So in those from from that day until he passed in December, Okasama and I took turns taking care of him because he was essentially bedridden.

[07:10]

And I can remember during those months, after he was spending more and more time in bed, I'd be sitting on a chair next to his bed, and all of a sudden this arm would come out from under the covers, which was the indication that he'd like me to massage his arm. I'd put the arm back. He'd put his arm back and out would come another arm. And then at some point a leg would come out from under the covers. spoke less and less, but needed to speak less and less. So sometimes I'd help him sit up and rub his back. Sitting with him during those months as he was dying, with the experience of his

[08:26]

total presence with what was happening moment by moment has been a central teaching from him for me. He really showed me what's possible about how to die. Because of course he wasn't focused on dying, he was just focused. At some point the doctor gave him some pain pills because metastasized gallbladder cancer is described as a cancer that is accompanied by quite intense pain. So the doctor brought a bottle of pain pills and at some point Suzuki Roshi took one of them. And about four hours later, he said, Yvonne, get rid of them.

[09:34]

What shall I do with them? Put them in the toilet. He said, I took the pill for the doctor's sake, but I don't like what it did to my mind. So during those months, except shortly before he passed, we sat together. He spoke less and less. At a certain point, he stopped eating. At a certain point, he stopped taking any fluids. And I experienced his deep, calm, spacious mind.

[10:41]

The only thing he blocked was his doctor's request that he take the pain medicine. For me, those days and weeks and months of sitting with him, 12 hours a day or a night, Okasana and I would take turns, was the biggest teaching I've ever received. And of course, what I didn't realize at the time, but what began to happen within a year after he passed, was that people, knowing that I had sat with him while he was dying, asked me if I would keep them company while they were dying. Steve Wontraub will remember our experience with Posha Fisk, who came to practice here, knocked on the door at age 80.

[11:59]

to begin her Zen practice. And she lived, I don't know how the room at the very back of the offices is used now, but that was where she lived because she couldn't go up and down the stairs. And I was at the time secretary of the Zen Center, and I'd go in and say good morning to her. And while we were all sitting downstairs, she would sit in her room, and then when it was time to come here for morning service, she would come and join us. And when I would go to say good morning to her, she would say, good morning, Yvonne. And how are all the little monks and monkuses? And she was quite pleased with the fact that she had put all her worldly possessions into a rather small cedar trunk. She also had carrot red hair, which only at the end of her life did I come to realize was dyed.

[13:15]

And she would, as a few of you may remember, sometimes entertain us in the dining room. She had five fans. And each fan would be appropriate to a different season. And I remember one that was associated with spring. and meant to be used by some gorgeous virginal 16-year-old. Here's Mrs. Fisk at 80-something with the fan. And she used the fans as the vehicle for telling stories. Of course, what I didn't realize was that she was also telling us stories about her preparation for leaving this life. I found out only shortly before she asked that she was not a redhead. She had quite gray hair.

[14:16]

And I also discovered that she was a closet smoker. She had one kimono that she would wear when she went into the closet to smoke. And she did roll your own cigarettes, so there were these little speckles of burns in the kimono. So after the remarkable experience of being with Suzuki Roshi, when she was dying, she didn't want to leave this life and she died quite painfully and in the midst of enormous struggle. And it was with that experience that I reflected on what had happened when Suzuki Roshi was dying. and began to realize how remarkable his passing was.

[15:17]

He did rouse himself towards the end very shortly before he died to call his disciples together and talk about what he had hoped he would live long enough to do in terms of giving dharma transmission to a number of other people and take care of his concern about the leadership for Zen Center, but as he was sad to acknowledge, he'd waited too long. But that was the only regret, although a big one, that I saw arise in him during his time. The gift for me of that experience, that time with him, is that fear of dying did not arise from me.

[16:23]

Although there are continual tests about whether that's still so. I'm old enough so that brushing up against mortality is not unfamiliar, my own and others. But being present with dying and death has become the central part of my practice since that time when Suzuki Roshu was passing. What he taught me, he expressed directly without any need to talk about what was going on. The other memory that I want to describe briefly

[17:44]

came up for me when I was sitting during the Zazen period last night, before all of us were gathered. And what came up for me was when Claude Dahlenberg was the one who found this building being available. And I remember coming over here to look at the building with Suzuki Roshi, and going down to what is now the Zendo, and seeing on the Lily Alley side of the room a painting on the wall of a big party tent and two large dancing elephants. Isn't it remarkable with all of the practice that's happened in that room that the tent and the elephants are still there? Maybe not on the physical wall, but certainly in some of our minds.

[18:54]

I think that in many ways the blooming of Suzuki Roshi's example about how to live and how to practice is quite manifest in our gathering together this weekend. Such a delight in open-heartedness. I'm sure he's gladdened by that. Anyway, I think for the moment that's enough. Thank you. Good morning. Glad you were going for your talk. Through various circumstances and karma, I happen to be sitting on this feed today expressing my understanding of what Suzuki Roshi left or

[20:16]

I wouldn't say gave, but brought out from me. It could be any one of you who practice the Suzuki Roshi, who I could be sitting here, because each one of us has our own experience of Suzuki Roshi, which is very personal to each one. So my talk is very personal to me, and I know that what I say will resonate with all of you who studied with Suzuki Roshi. When I first came to Zen Center in 1964, a friend of mine who had been practicing here a little while, he and I had been smoking grass all night.

[21:18]

And he said, you know, I go to the Zen Zen Zen, there's this little old Zen priest, you know, and we go up at 5 o'clock, 5.45, it was 5.45 then, 5.45 in the morning. And so we just stayed up all night and walked up Fillmore Street and went to Zen. And somebody came up behind me, a very gentle person, and adjusted my posture and then left. And that was my first teaching from Suzuki Rashi, right off the bat, was how does it zazen? And from then on, I knew that this was my practice. I didn't smoke joint anymore. I stopped doing that, and he always corrected my posture.

[22:23]

He was always off the cushion correcting posture all the time. And so one of his basic teachings was about posture, about how to sit up straight. And he never let us get away with anything other than sitting up straight, unless there was nothing he could do with you. I find this happens, especially with the older students, you know. They're very resistant to being corrected. So that's why he felt it was always good to correct people in the beginning so that he wouldn't have to work with them later. So that was the basic teaching, was sit up straight and work on your posture and then pay attention to your breath and let the thoughts come and go. That was it. You know, and everything else came out of that. All of his teaching came out of that because he said, Tazen is your teacher. I'm just a kind of facilitator to help you realize that fact.

[23:30]

So I have many experiences with Sikiroshi at Tassahara and at Sokoji, Page Street, everywhere. Zadzen was very difficult for me. When I first began practicing, it was excruciatingly painful. At that time, it was painful for everybody. It was a very different kind of feeling. When there aren't so many people practicing, or when they're practicing in the beginning, it's very difficult. As more and more people practice and can practice more easily, it's easier for everybody. Somehow it works that way. But in those days, it's very difficult. And he always said, don't move. Don't move. When I first came to Sagoji, we didn't have tatami mats or sabbatons.

[24:33]

We just sat on the floor. And he liked that. How to deal with your pain? How to deal with your pain? It was his biggest teaching. When I say biggest teaching, I mean, you know, each teaching covers everything. So each teaching is the best teaching, is the most fundamental teaching. So how do you deal with your pain? And that's what, like, the first five years was how to deal with the pain and how to get through the barrier of being dominated. by your mind, by your painful mind and painful body. How to be free from that? The essence of dharma is how to find the freedom from suffering. That's what he was teaching us.

[25:36]

Through pain. How to not be dominated. How to be free from suffering within pain. So I remember him saying in the middle of a sushin, don't chicken out. Don't chicken out. So I remember my first sushin, at around noon I ran away and I went down to the marina and I wandered around. I realized there was nothing I could do. I was not outside. Even though I was not in the zendo, I was still in the zendo, until somehow I finished. So I went back, finished the scene.

[26:40]

So all those were big experiences for me. And even though Suzuki Roshi would teach certain things, there were other certain things that were implied in his teaching that were continually appearing. I remember we used to smoke cigarettes. And Bill Kwong and Yoshin Morris, didn't they? And during the breaks, we would go into that little room over there, which used to be the priest's room. Now the lounge. the little lounge and smoke cigarettes and laugh and choke. And he said, you should come down. And then one time he said, I think you should stop smoking. And I did for a while.

[27:41]

It took me a long time. But I finally stopped smoking at Tatsuhara. when I was the director in 1973, I think it was, to stop. I never smoked again. And I never craved another cigarette. I thought, how did that happen? Something about that. Something about... I could never have done that without Kandiki Roshi's background. It was pretty remarkable. There were several things that were turning words for me. One time, Suzuki Roshi came up to me, just out of the blue, and he said, just being alive is enough. And then he turned around and walked away. This is the essence of, you know, this is it.

[28:44]

That's a great koan. He used to give me koans like that. One time someone asked, what is nirvana? And he said, just seeing one thing through to the end. That was another thing that really turned my mind. Because Suzuki Roshi's teaching was just see, when you decide to do something, see it all the way through. That's the essence of practice. I would say, The essence of this practice was it doesn't depend on whether you like it or you don't like it, whether it's good or bad, right or wrong. You see it through all the way to the end. And when you see it through all the way to the end, you see how phenomena arise and fall, the good things and the bad things, but there's a thread of steadiness that runs through everything.

[29:47]

And the joy of practice is that thread that runs through everything, good, bad, indifferent, right, wrong, painful, unpleasurable. That there's something that is constant and steady that's not affected by circumstances. This is our basic understanding. That's why just see it through. not depending on right or wrong or good or bad, pleasurable or painful. And this is his teaching of non-duality, basic teaching of non-duality, not to be caught by ups and downs, right or wrong, good or bad, and to smile, feel with a smile.

[30:54]

As Yvonne said, when Suzuki Roshi said, I have cancer, and he smiled. That was the epitome of his practice. Although he had this cancer, he was not dominated by the cancer. And I remember how difficult Zazim was. And I remember at the end of Sashin, I used to sit in Full Lotus a lot. For 20 years, I sat everything in Full Lotus. But when I first started doing that, at the end of, since the last period of Sashin, I crossed my legs. And then the bell rang. And I thought,

[31:56]

Oh, you know, it was not perfect. And so we used to bow to Suzuki Roshi at Sokoji. When we come out of the Zendo, he would be in his office and we'd pass through his office and bow to him. And we never knew what he was thinking when he bowed to you. That was a great koan for everybody. What's he thinking? And sometimes he'd look past you over your shoulders, sometimes things like that. So I was the last one out at that time, and I said, do you think I should continue practicing? I felt so bad about myself. He said, you mean it's not difficult enough for you? He says, if you can find something more difficult, you should do that. This is how he brought our spirit out.

[33:00]

He brought something out in us that was more than we could bring out in ourselves ordinarily. And I remember him saying, you know, I really can't give you anything but my Zen spirit. The rest is up to you. All I can do is encourage you to find your own way. And that each one of us has to find our own way. Although we depend on our teacher, we don't depend on our teacher. There's a wonderful poem that Suzuki Roshi really liked a lot. which epitomizes his teaching. The Blue Mountain is the parent of the white cloud.

[34:07]

The white cloud is the child of the Blue Mountain. All day long, they depend on each other without being dependent on each other. The Blue Mountain is always the Blue Mountain. White cloud is always the white cloud. So when I became ordained, Zuko Yoshi asked me to be ordained in 1960-something. I was ordained in 69. In 67, he asked me to be ordained. And then he waited two years. And when I was finally ordained, I said, well, what do I do now? He said, I don't know. And then I asked Kadaviri, I said, what do I do now that I'm ordained?

[35:13]

He said, I don't know. Those are the two most wonderful answers to a question I have ever received. To me, that meant you have to find your own way. You have to find out how to do this. I can lead you to water, but you have to drink. So that's been my practice ever since, is to find my own way. I felt that whenever I was with, wherever I was, I was always with my teacher. And so he asked me to, I was living in Berkeley, and he asked me to find a place to do something like that, to open a place for people to practice in Berkeley. And he was in San Francisco, and of course I'd go back and forth, but I always felt that he was here and I was here, but we were always in the same place.

[36:16]

no matter how distant we were from each other. And then we were always practicing together. And I've always felt that way about all the people I've ever practiced with, that we're all practicing together, no matter where we are in space. I remember Suzuki Roshi talking about being in Tassajara, you think that you're not in San Francisco. But when you're in Tassajara, you're also in San Francisco. and just think that they're two different places. So I remember when we were at Tathahara in 1970, the year before he died, and he asked me to be his jisha in the summertime. So he and I

[37:18]

And so a few other people, from time to time, other people would come and work with it. And we were moving rocks, big rocks. Alan Marlow and I and some other people were moving stones out of the creek in order to build the rock wall, which you don't see so much, but it's in the creek outside the Caissando, the big stones. And all of a sudden, we worked on those stones, and that was the most wonderful experience working with him. We'd spend all day lifting a huge stone, putting it in place, and he'd say, well, not quite right. Let me take it out. Reminded me of Miller Raipop building his stone. But it was wonderful because he was so skinny and not really well when, in Okasan, his wife, would come down, and she'd say, oh, he's working too hard, you know, you shouldn't let him work so hard.

[38:25]

It was very hot in the summer, and I would take a washcloth and put it on his head, you know, to keep him cool. But he was working really hard, lifting these stones, and his wife would walk down the path, very kind of your wife, and then would stop working. But he had so much spirit. He had so much intention. And he didn't want to let his students down. He always wanted to be there for his students. He said, if I only had 10 more years, just give me 10 more years. But it wasn't to be. So we had to scramble. when he died and get things together by their own way. He talked about that wonderful koan about Avalokiteshvara having a thousand hands and eyes.

[39:36]

And in that koan, there's a commentary about reaching in the night for your pillow. Where is it? That's the spirit. Just taking one step at a time in the dark. Not really knowing where you're going, but just taking one step at a time in the dark. We think we know where we're going, but each moment appears new. As someone said, what's the most important thing As he said, it's to maintain your beginner's mind. How do we maintain our beginner's mind, moment after moment, not knowing what's next? We think we know what's next. So we set the clock. You know, one o'clock we're going to do this, two o'clock we're going to do that, blah, blah, blah. But, fundamentally, we don't know what's next.

[40:40]

And I asked somebody this question. I read the first announcement of this meeting. It said that Yvonne and I were going to talk about what's the most important thing. And I thought, wow, that's an interesting question. What isn't the most important thing? But then, when I read the second announcement, it said, what's the most important thing that Suzuki Roshi taught you? So I thought, oh, well. Shucks, now I can't open up. But I remember Suzuki Roshi saying, when asked that question, what's the most important thing? The most important thing is to keep asking that question, what's the most important thing? Continually ask that question, what is the most important thing? When I think of what's the most important thing that I learned from Suzuki Roshi, I would say everything. It's all the same.

[41:45]

Everything that's the most important thing that I was taught. Being taught doesn't quite fit what's the most important thing I learned, I would say. Each thing contains all those other things. So whatever we do is the most important thing. I remember when he was sick in his room, upstairs, and one Saturday, people were sweeping outside. He says, I just love to hear the people sweeping. I love to hear the students sweeping the sidewalk outside. They're cleaning their mind. Sweeping their mind. The simplest activities contain it all. So in conclusion, in our newsletter at Berkeley, we have an annual memorial service.

[43:01]

I always have a little something I say. So I'm going to read you what I said last year, last December. I knew I was going to do this, so I said, Once when asked, what is the most important thing, Suzuki Roshi said something like, the most important thing is to keep asking, what is the most important thing? When I think about it, there are a number of fundamental important things. Suzuki Roshi's actions were based on integrity, humility, honesty, commitment, faith, compassion, kindness, centeredness, resolve, generosity. and selflessness and patience. Samadhi, simplicity, prajna, and non-attachment to opinions are anything else. All of his enlightened actions and thoughts came forth from these qualities, to name but a few.

[44:02]

Without trying to do anything special, just being himself in his own calm, undramatic way, he touched all of those qualities in us. which stimulated our own practice. He said that all he had to give us was his Zen spirit. Although it seemed like he was teaching us something, in fact, he was simply encouraging us to find our own way, our own practice. There are several significant turning words that I remember. One time he, for no apparent reason, walked up to me and said, just being alive is enough. Then he turned around and walked away. Another time when asked, what is Nirvana? He said, seeing one thing through to the end. He said many wonderful and significant things to all of his students, which we each treasure, and for me, these are most significant. He pointed to Zazen as our truth teacher, and with wisdom and compassion, let us find our true practice.

[45:08]

I just want to say one more thing. Sometimes I would come to Suzuki Roshi with a problem. I'd say, this is my problem. This is, you know, I'm having trouble with this. And then, instead of giving me an answer, he would talk about, he would give me another problem. And he would say, he laughed. You came to me with your problem, and I've just given you another problem. I'm so sorry. And we both laughed. It's a wonderful way to practice. I wish today that when you give your student another problem, they don't go to somebody else and ask for a good answer.

[46:12]

So, now we will have a question and answer period, but first, stand up. And we'll tell you when to get back down. Thank you for listening to this podcast offered by the San Francisco Zen Center. Our programs are made possible by the donations we receive. Please help us to continue to realize and actualize the practice of giving by offering your financial support. For more information, visit sfcc.org and click Giving. May we fully enjoy the Dharma.

[47:02]

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