This podcast is offered by the San Francisco Zen Center on the web at www.sfcc.org. Our public programs are made possible by donations from people like you. Good evening. I'm so happy to greet all of you tonight and to see your faces on the screen. I'd like to start by thanking the Tonto for inviting me to take this seat tonight and share some words with you. And I'd like to thank my teachers, Ed Sadezan and Linda Ruth Kutz. They are my North Stars. They enable me and have taught me and supported me for quite a while.

[01:02]

So without them, I wouldn't be sitting here tonight, for sure. In addition to many other things, they have shared a lot of Suzuki Roshi's teachings. I'd like to start with one of his. And to mention what I'm... intend to talk about tonight. I want to talk about making the transition, about entering the marketplace and how we cross over. In 1971, Suzuki Roshi said, our goal is to practice with the mountain and with the river and with trees and with stones. with everything in the world and in the universe. And to find ourselves in this big cosmos, in this big world, we should intuitively know which way to go.

[02:11]

Now in this time of transition, some things are appearing and others are disappearing. How can we bring forward what we've learned this last year. In the media, in articles, and in commentaries, I hear about new restaurants that have reopened, theaters that are performing, where I can go with or without a mask. But my focus, and what I'd like to emphasize tonight, is what appeared in shelter in place. For me, it was quiet time, reconsidering how much and where to work, seclusion and time alone, living with a fear of dying by a pandemic that affects everyone, being masked, a covering of my expression, of my face, of my smile.

[03:20]

What will you and I take into the marketplace. In this time of transition, there are many ways that Buddhist practice supports such a notion, and I'd like to talk about five of those tonight. There are many more, but I think that's what will fit into the Wednesday night program. The first are the writings, the liturgy, references that are made in the things we read about Buddhism. Some of those references are crossing over, waiting on the shore, taking the boat across, and yet this is not a linear notion. There is no arrival, but a kind of return. The second is sitting zazen. We remove our shoes and enter barefoot, taking a singular seat among others.

[04:24]

walking through the gaitan, a kind of lobby or waiting place for visitors or late arrivals. Sometimes it's pleasant and appropriate to sit in the gaitan. It feels good to sit in the perimeter of the zendo. I often do that just to keep company with the people who do arrive late or for whatever reason have some compromises about how they sit. whether it's their posture or their stillness. And there's a coming and going in the Gaitan that isn't quite the same in Zendo. The third way our practice supports transition is the notion of remaining silent in the midst of company. Eyes downcast, bowing but not touching. A fourth is abiding on the engawa.

[05:32]

The engawa is an architectural design for transition, a pause opportunity to move from one sensibility to another. Engawas are often proportioned so that one can sit on the edge and observe the garden, neither completely open or completely enclosed, a roofed transition zone. Literally, this is a wide wooden platform that wraps around the zendo. And gawa, n means edge, and gawa, ga, means side. In Buddhism, it offers a spontaneous place for encounters, connections, bonds, and relationships. place to connect and relate with the outside world, with the marketplace.

[06:33]

At both Green Gulch Farm and Tassahara, the Engawa is used in many ways. Here we can sit and look at the garden, ring the temple instruments, wait for the Roshi to arrive, take in the afternoon sun, watch the rain while staying dry. Wait if we are late. This last year, metaphorically, I sat in the Zendo, and now I arrive on the Ngawa, anticipating the marketplace. I remember I have a story about the Ngawa when I was staying at Tassajara. It was in the middle of winter. We were all on the Ngawa in our robes. barefoot, waiting for the Roshi to appear. It took a long time, maybe 20, 30 minutes.

[07:38]

I remember my feet were burning cold. I felt my impatience. Where is she? Why is it taking so long? And I noticed the stillness and the quiet of my Dharma sisters and brothers as we waited together. It was not comfortable. And yet, it's a memory that is so dear to my heart and reminds me of the notion of pausing and waiting, even though my feet were complaining. Now in this moment, where is the transition place? Where is that space? How do we go from being barefoot and isolated to walking in the marketplace? As we move from shelter in place and isolation to being with everyone in the marketplace, it's a good time to think about what is appearing and disappearing.

[08:45]

What are we struggling with? I struggle with feeling shy, feeling awkward. I'm not sure. Should I still be wearing a mask? I have a discomfort around others. I'm thinking about the shifting from silence to companionship. Last week, my neighborhood raccoon offered me a koan. Early in the morning, I heard a thumping in my garden. I rolled over. Later, I went outside, and I saw wet tracks on my deck, very delicate and placed. They led from the birdbath to the garden path. This had not happened before. I was struck by the footprints.

[09:49]

Nature and wildness in my urban garden. so simply placed, knowing where she was going. And within the hour, they had disappeared. Something had arrived, made a small commotion, left a trace, and disappeared. These footprints appeared, then disappeared. What footprints did we make this last year? What traces in our path are the traces in our path as clear as the raccoons? And fifth, in particular, our Buddhist sources are available and support us in transition in the 10 Oxford drawings. These drawings have helped me think about this transition.

[10:52]

especially the tenth one. Many of you may know these drawings and the poems. They're from the 11th century in China, and in them there is a lot appearing and a lot disappearing. The origin of the ox herd metaphor is traced to an injunction delivered to the assembly by the Buddha the night of his nirvana. In the Testament Sutra, it is written that he said, Monks, once you're able to keep the precepts, you should prevent your five senses from indulging in the five desires. Be like the herd boy with his staff in hand who watches over his ox and keeps it from running through grain fields. are many versions of the Oxford drawings and the way they've been illustrated, they're not all as clear as the raccoon's footprints.

[12:14]

There's lots of ways to depict and lots of ways to translate. I offer tonight two translations. The first is by Lewis Hyde, who is a cultural critic and author. You might know his more famous book, The Gift, which talks about giving and receiving and is quite profound. It was recommended to me years ago by my beloved teacher, Jordan Thorne. Hyde has made a brand new radical version, just published, of the Oxford drawings with the painter Max Gimblett. And he calls the book, The Disappearing Ox, a modern version of a classic Buddhist tale. This tenth drawing, he labels, entering the marketplace with gift-giving hands.

[13:25]

And here is his translation. Barefoot, bare-chested, he walks into town. Dusty. Spattered with mud, how broadly he grins. He has no need of magic powers. The withered trees again come into flower. And the drawing that goes along with this translation by Gimlet is two empty circles. The commentary he includes says... He has closed the cabin gate behind him. Not even Dharma teachers notice as he walks by. He has left behind all the apparatus of spiritual life. He follows the path before him, not trying to match the footprints left by the ancient masters. He carries a gourd into town and comes home leaning on an old stick.

[14:32]

When the fishmongers and tavern drinkers see him, they wake up. The second translation I'd like to offer tonight is by Red Pine. Red Pine is a translator of Chinese texts and an author of many books. His version is titled, Pu Ming's Oxroding Pictures and Verses. He inscribed in the front of my book, quote, for Marsha, just in case ox tracks show up in your garden. The poems and the woodblock prints are by Puming. No one knows for sure who he was or when he wrote these verses and made the prints. But he might have been the same person as the 14th century monk. noted for his paintings of bamboos.

[15:35]

Red Pine titles this tenth drawing and verse as both gone. And this is how he phrases it. Of ox and boy, there's no trace. Moonlight holds a world of space. Around who asks what this means, wildflowers, and sweet grass grow. And the drawing for his translation is an empty circle. Thinking about the Oxford drawings and this 10th episode, I discovered this general description, which I'd like to share with you. The picture shows a ragged, pot-bellied man walking barefoot, bearing a sack full of goodies. This last stage represents freedom, wisdom, and compassion.

[16:41]

We are not encumbered by appearances. We adapt freely to high and low places. We find spirituality everywhere. Meditation and realization do not make us passive but active. We are deeply connected to the world. We feel it's suffering and we want to respond and help. Our bag is full of joy, compassion, understanding, loving kindness, wisdom, and skillful means. We naturally give to others and try to offer what is beneficial. We listen deeply. We observe unobtrusively and respond appropriately. When we give, we do not expect anything.

[17:44]

We are not superior to others when we help them. On the contrary, helping them is like helping ourselves, and we are grateful they give us that opportunity. When we love, It is with total acceptance. We do not help only people we like and who are easy to be with, but also people who are difficult and grumpy. However, we do not force our ideas, our opinions, what works for us, on others. And we do not take it all so seriously. This last year, my book, Clean Slate, Images from Dogen's Garden, was published.

[18:46]

In it, there are pictures of plants Dogen would have seen in Japan in the 13th century, perhaps sitting on an engawa, looking out at the garden. I used the motif of a clean slate. board when I was photographing so that the viewer could have an opportunity to really look and appreciate the specimen. Without cutting it from the garden, I offered a moment to ponder and pause, to see what was appearing, to sit on the ngawa and gaze. Now, after a year of the pandemic, Clean Slade has another meaning for me. After a year of being isolated, it resonates differently. Now it is much more about what disappeared. In a book on remembering, I found this commentary by John Cage talking about his empty studio.

[19:56]

Said John Cage to the painter Philip Guston, When you start working, everybody is in your studio. The past, your friends, enemies, the art world, and above all, your own ideas. All are there. But as you continue painting, they start leaving, one by one. And you are left completely alone. Then, if you're lucky, Even you leave. Now the way I depicted the blossoms seems more like Cage's studio. Nothing to bump into. What happens when you are alone? The slate board erases preferences. I forget the self.

[20:59]

This last year, sitting alone on my cushion, The isolation brought a certain kind of clarity. I bumped into my own habits. Being alone this last year, what came up for you? How will you keep some of it? What will you remember? And what will you forget about this year? How will you carry it? Like the old ragged man? walking barefoot with a sack of goodies? Surely this tenth drawing and poem is about innocent mind, openness, and being receptive. In an article this last week in a magazine, Alan Gopnik described this last year. He said, Outdoors became indoors.

[22:01]

And indoors became outdoors. Going back to what Suzuki Roshi said, I read again. Our goal is to practice with the mountain and with the river and with trees and with stones, with everything in the world and in the universe. and to find ourselves in this big cosmos. In this big world, we should intuitively know which way to go. Perhaps the transition is easier with a cup of tea or sitting in the morning light. Find the ngawa and make your crossing. Thank you very much.

[23:26]

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